A month before, Kitty had received her divorce from her husband, Jochan, naming his kind mistress as corespondent. (Jochan promptly married his lady the next day, in spite of some unkind remarks from the judge who had granted the divorce to Kitty.) Kitty had received a large divorce settlement, which, combined with her own fortune and her canny investments in munitions, was very comforting to her. The time had come for her to assault the “virginal” battlements of Francis’ bachelorhood. She was convinced not only that he had much affection for her as an ally and a clever woman who could advance him, but that he was weak and vulnerable. Moreover, she had long ago guessed that he loved money, and she had a quantity of it, and she, very artfully, had mentioned this on numerous occasions to him, and he had shown a sincere and gratifying interest. He had advised her on investments and she had expressed her gratitude effusively and with admiration for his astuteness. They saw each other regularly when he came to New York. At his earnest request she had supervised the household in the city when Ellen was away on Long Island, and she had followed all his instructions, with overt docility, which pleased him.
She was more sprightly than in earlier years, in spite of her age, though the effort frequently exhausted her. No gray appeared in her hair; it was expertly dyed. She was increasingly chic and fashionable, if quite gaunt by now. Her big teeth flashed constantly. She had spoken eloquently at bond rallies, in the company of Congressman Porter. She knew that Francis was admiring her more and more, especially since she informed him that his political prospects “were only just revealing themselves. There is nothing you cannot accomplish, dear Francis.” That he regarded her only as an audience, and a useful person, and not as a woman, she did not believe for an instant. (She had been very active in the work for Votes for Women, to Francis’ approval. She did not suspect that under that approval lay a subconscious aversion to women, and a cold dislike for them. Nor could she guess that there were certain episodes in his life with his male masters which would have horrified her, and that the only woman he had ever desired was Ellen Porter.)
Two days before the Armistice Francis had occasion to return to New York and Kitty invited him to dinner in the brownstone house which was now hers alone. She had discovered that Francis did not care for gourmet food, nor did he particularly like meat any longer. In fact, he was almost a vegetarian except for an occasional breakfast of bacon and eggs. “Plain food,” he would say severely, “wholesome food, is the best. There is no room in America any longer for Diamond Jim Bradys and their ilk, nor for Lillian Russells. Profligacy!” Kitty would laugh in herself while she eagerly agreed with him, and forced her outraged cook to prepare dinners of stewed or boiled vegetables laced sparingly with butter and cream, and rice puddings, and meatless soups. Francis would deign to partake—as he called it—of “a little sip of light wine, the sweet variety.” He constantly accused Americans of “eating entirely too much. The money could be used for the Poor.” Kitty had no illusions about the man she was determined to marry.
The dinner was, as usual, horrendous, but Kitty pretended to enjoy it while she listened attentively to Francis’ pejorative remarks against “America’s threatened intervention in Russia, at a time when the Russian people have finally, after centuries of oppression, freed themselves from tyranny.” He also denounced the “bourgeois mentality in the United States.” Kitty sipped at the detestable wine and nodded gravely. Then came a pause in the conversation. She leaned towards Francis and said, with a serious face, “I never asked you before, dear Francis, but why did such a personable, handsome, and suitable man like yourself never marry?”
He preened, then studied his pudding, which was filled with raisins. “Frankly, Kitty, I have always been so busy, working for my country—”
“I know, I know,” she murmured with sympathy. “But you must think of yourself, too. Self-sacrifice is commendable—but a man must live also.”
Francis suddenly thought of Ellen and his long lean face colored and Kitty saw this with delight. He avoided her eyes. “Kitty, I have been considering marriage for some time. For several years, in fact.”
She regarded him with elation and cocked her head coquettishly. “And who, may I inquire, is the fortunate lady?” Her eyes gleamed on him. He suddenly looked at her, and saw her drily dark and ravaged little face, the deep lines about her smiling mouth, her coy expression, her tilted head, her wet exposed teeth, and he understood at once and was immediately horrified and filled with revulsion. His cheeks became stained with scarlet. He pushed aside his pudding. He wanted to flee. Good God, he thought. What made her think for a moment that I would consider her, or any other woman, except Ellen? I never gave her any encouragement. I never noticed before how really ugly she is; a black twig, in spite of her stylish clothes and her jewels. If she were to touch me now I would scream!
He said in a tight, half-choked voice, “I don’t know how fortunate the lady would be—that is, if I have even considered any particular woman, which I have—” He paused, abruptly. This woman had been his ally, had obeyed his every suggestion regarding Ellen and her children. She had much influence over Ellen, he had observed, and over Christian and Gabrielle She would make a formidable enemy; he was quite aware of her vindictive and cruel nature. So, he considered, his thoughts flying confusedly but warily. He coughed, as she waited and leaned towards him, her huge teeth glittering under the electric chandelier. He tried to smile, shyly.
“I don’t know,” he repeated, “how fortunate the lady would be.”
“No particular lady?” she asked with archness.
He began to sweat lightly. He knew he could no longer delay in approaching Ellen, no matter his dread that she would refuse him. So he smiled again. “You will be the first to know, Kitty, the very first. I promise you that—in the eventuality—”
What a stick, she thought. But a rich stick, and a powerful one. “You are too modest,” she said. “Any woman would be honored by your proposal.”
Though he was a politician he had never learned the art of dissembling. He was not capable of deception, except as concerned himself, nor had he ever been consciously a hypocrite. He believed his own words; he would have perished for his convictions of his superiority, and what was best for the People. He was too much of a fanatic, too convinced of his own truth, to lie or deliberately deceive. In that lay his terribleness and his danger to his country.
“You are too kind, Kitty,” he muttered, and the scarlet stain on his cheeks deepened. Her elation grew; she saw how he tried to avoid looking directly at her. He was sweating quite visibly now. “Kith,” he said again, “I give you my word: You will be the very first to know.”
She studied him, the two sharp lines between her eyes drawing together. “I should be very hurt, dear Francis, if you did not tell meat once. You know how fond I am of you; you have no better friend.”
She burst into a volley of gay forced laughter, high and shrill. “A June wedding, perhaps?”
“Oh, no,” he said with sudden vehemence, “much sooner, I hope—if the lady is willing. But she may not be willing.”
Ah, Kitty thought, relieved. He just needs a little encouragement, a little nudge. “Ask her!” she cried.
“I will, I will,” he answered. He was more frightened than he had ever been before in his life. He began to tremble, and Kitty almost hugged herself.
“When will you ask her, you naughty boy?”
“In a day or two—when I have the courage.”
“There is no time like the present.”
In this he fervently agreed with her. He compelled himself to meet her eyes as she said, “Do I know the lady?”
“Oh, very well, very well indeed! None knows her better than you, Kitty, none better.”
There’s no one else, she said to herself. He never has courted a woman in his life, neither here nor in Washington. I’d know immediately. He drew out his watch and his hand shook slightly. “You must excuse me, Kitty. I—I have some telegrams to send tonight, som
e speech I must finish.”
She saw his intense nervousness and lightly bounded to her feet. She led him to the hall and assisted him with his coat. He repressed a shudder when she touched him, flirtingly, on the arm and peered up into his face. He felt profaned by her proximity. He found himself breathing with difficulty. A sooty November rain was falling and the wind was keen and nimble. He plunged into the night without another word. Kitty watched him go, exultant. I have him, she thought. But not in my bed, if I can help it. I doubt, though, that I’d encounter that contretemps.
Driven by his fear of Kitty Wilder, Francis visited Ellen unexpectedly on Armistice night, while New York frolicked and danced deliriously in the streets and sang, “It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go—,” and “Over there, over there—!” and, with open tears, “Smile the while you bid me sad adieu, when the clouds roll by I’ll come to you—” and various other popular war songs. Impromptu brass bands appeared out of nowhere. Confetti blew in blizzards. Strangers embraced, kissed each other, laughed in each other’s eyes. Every street and alley echoed with songs, shouts, bursts of hysterical mirth, and hurrying feet. Soldiers were hugged, swirled into dancing. Streetcars clanged in happy chorus, automobiles roared, shopwindows lighted up, children yelled. Newspapers were snatched from clamoring newsboys who caught a rain of coins thrown exuberantly into the air. Saloons glared with electric light and their doors swung and the bars were crowded to the doors. Throngs filled the sidewalks, overflowed before traffic. Restaurants almost burst with endless lines of celebrants. Police, on horseback, could not restrain the people and they did not try overmuch, though they blew their whistles valiantly.
“I am so happy the war is over, Francis,” said Ellen as they sat before the fire in the library and sipped sherry before dinner. “I was so afraid, thinking of Christian—if the war were to last a few years longer. When I think of the poor boys in my house on Long Island—well, I would think of my own son. I am so happy it is over.”
But the real war has just begun, Francis thought, the war for the liberation of mankind all over the world. But he nodded soberly at Ellen. She sat near him in a simple black velvet gown, and though she was still thin she now possessed an air of quiet composure and maturity. She looked up at the portrait of Jeremy over the fireplace and sighed. “It would be such a happy night for Jeremy,” she said, and if her large blue eyes filled with pain and grief her smile was gentle. She had not cut her hair in the new fashion; it was braided and heaped over her head and it caught threads of fire from the spluttering coals in the grate. The old purity, the old immaculate serenity, had returned to her translucent face. She played with the pearls at her throat, and forgot Francis. She sighed again, and her lovely rounded breasts pressed against the shimmering velvet over it. Francis could not look away from her. Ellen, Ellen, he said in himself.
The clock in the hall struck eight notes. Dinner would soon be served. “I suppose they will give the children a holiday tomorrow,” said Ellen. “Christian from Groton, Gabrielle from her day school. I think I will take them for lunch at Delmonico’s. A very special treat.”
It is now or never, thought Francis, trembling. He leaned towards Ellen urgently. “Have you ever thought, Ellen, that your children need a man’s guidance and counseling and solicitude?”
She glanced at him quickly, puzzled, then smiled. “They have you, dear Francis,” she said.
“But I have no real position of authority, Ellen.”
“They adore you, you know that. As for myself, I wouldn’t know what to do without you—and Charles. You and Charles—you are like fathers to my children, even though Christian, that bad boy, often complains of Charles.” She laughed a little and shook her head.
“Perhaps he has reason to complain,” said Francis, with meaning. Ellen was surprised.
“Oh, no, not really, Francis. Besides, Christian has you, too. The boy almost worships you, and so does Gabrielle. They are fortunate.”
“They might not always have me, Ellen.” His hands were shaking and he had to clench them. “I may marry—and leave New York.”
Ellen uttered an amazed cry. “You are thinking of marrying, Francis?”
“Yes. I am. After all, I am not young any longer. I want a family of my own.”
Ellen was intrigued. “Is it someone I know?” She had never thought of Francis marrying and leaving, and she had a faint sensation of loss and regret.
“Yes, Ellen. You know—her.”
She waited. She saw how tense he had become; she saw the drops on his forehead; she saw that his hands were clenched together.
He said, “Again, Ellen, you must think of your children, and a father’s strength behind them, to admonish, to inform, to guide. They impress me as somewhat unruly at times—a little bold, especially Gabrielle. You are too lenient with them—and they need authority. A man’s authority.” He caught his breath, while she stared at him innocently. “Ellen, have you ever thought of marrying again?”
She was freshly amazed. “But I am married!” she exclaimed.
“What?” A thundering confusion came to him, an icy throb of horror. “You are married?”
“Yes, of course. To Jeremy. I am his wife.”
The dreadful hammering of his heart slowly subsided; he moved his neck against his stiff white collar. “Ellen, my dear. You are Jeremy’s widow. You have no husband.”
The apricot color, fainter than in her youth, faded from Ellen’s cheeks and lips. She averted her head, and was silent.
“And your children have no father, and they desperately need one. Surely you can see that for yourself. You are too timid, too—inexperienced—too submissive, to be a force in their lives. This is very bad for them. Forget yourself for a moment, and think of the welfare of your children. They are at a very vulnerable age, and have no father to protect them even from themselves. You must marry again, Ellen.”
She shuddered and dropped her head. “How could I do that, loving Jeremy?” she whispered.
“He is dead, Ellen, dead. He can no longer help you, and your children. Think of how worried he would be now—about Christian, who is almost a man, and Gabrielle, who is approaching womanhood. They have only a mother, who is not strict enough, I am afraid, and is too unworldly. This is a new age, Ellen, and it will become hectic very soon. Your children need protection. How can you deny them a father?”
The old sick guilt washed over Ellen, the old shrinking, and he saw this. Her face was very white and taut and her lips had dried. He went on, relentlessly, “You must give this immediate thought, Ellen. Your children must come first, and not any lingering sentimentality concerning a dead husband and father. You must face the truth, Ellen, and the sooner the better. Christian is almost out of control as it is; I sometimes have to rebuke him sternly. As for Gabrielle—does she listen to you?”
Ellen’s head began to move from side to side, in deep pain.
“A new father would control Christian, a new father would give Gabrielle a steadfast governing. With affection, of course, and a personal influence. Fatherless children are always in danger. Christian and Gabrielle are in particular danger, for they are rich and have been denied nothing, and do not have, I fear, much in the way of principles and ideals. You are not strong enough to give them these, Ellen. You never were. They are very spirited, and often rebellious. Let me be honest with you, Ellen. They have no particular respect for you. Don’t you see how dangerous this is for them? They must respect somebody. Charles Godfrey? He has a family of his own; he has no authority over your children, except to deny them undue extravagances.”
Ellen said in a weak voice, “My children—they would not like me to marry again.” She was pleading with him, and now she turned to him and he saw the stark fear and irresolution on her face. “And how could I marry again, remembering Jeremy?”
“There you are, Ellen! Thinking only of yourself, as your poor aunt used to accuse you, with some justification. One must not be selfish in this world,
Ellen. One must think of others occasionally, something, alas, which you do not do often.”
“I think of my children all the time! I live for them!”
He shook his head. “No, you do not, Ellen. If you did, only once, you would recognize the truth of what I have told you. You would see yourself as a sentimental soft woman, who believes her children are still little children, and not adolescents in desperate need of a father’s guidance, protection and care and authority. They are in peril, Ellen, desperate peril. It is almost too late as it is. I can see that for myself. I worry about them constantly.” (He actually believed this.)
He went on as she began to wring her hands together in her lap. “I have known you since you were very young, Ellen, even a little younger than Gabrielle. I know your yielding character, your inability to control your own feelings, your—again I must say it—your selfishness, your preoccupation only with your own desires and impulses. You forgot your poor aunt readily enough, and she died alone and in sorrow. Then, as now, you put yourself first. Don’t you think it is time to consider others, and especially your children?”
When she did not answer and only displayed cringing and self-reproach, he leaned even closer to her and took her hand. It was cold, but the very touch of it thrilled him unbearably. She did not shrink from him; she let her hand remain flaccidly in his. There were tears in her eyes.
“Ellen? You have been listening to me, I who have a profound regard for you, more than anyone else has? There are times I am desperate—”
She said, with faintness, “But who would marry me? I know no unattached men.”
He let a deep stillness come between them. His love had its own wisdom. When she looked at him slowly and imploringly she saw the fervor on his face, the flash of light behind his spectacles.
“You have me, Ellen,” he said, and his voice quivered. “You have me, who has always loved you. Ellen, will you marry me, and give your children a father, one who shares their own blood?”