The Pace That Kills: A Chronicle
"Forgotten? Do you suppose Thorold forgets? Do you suppose any man could forget a thing like that – a sister's death, a mother's insanity? No, you did not think it was forgotten. What you thought was this: you thought that my nephew would hesitate to speak; and indeed even to me for ten years he has kept silent. But now – there, you need not fear a criminal charge. It was that you feared once, I understand, and it was on that account you went abroad. At this date, of course, no proof is possible; and, even were it otherwise, a charge would not be brought. Linen of that kind is better washed at home."
"Mr. Dunellen, if you could know! It is the regret of my life."
"That I can believe; but I believe also that our natures never vary. We may mould and shape them to our uses, but beneath the surface they remain unchanged. I say this parenthetically. In regard to this incident there are in one particular certain excuses you might allege – youth for instance, inexperience, common attraction, love even. If you did, I could enter into them. I have been young myself, and I have no wish to imply that through the temptations of youth I passed unscathed. The man who asserts he has reminds me of the horseman who declares he has never been thrown. Nor because your victim happened to be my niece am I actuated by retrospective indignation. I am too old for that; and, moreover, the incident is too stale. No: my reason for forbidding my daughter to receive you, as I have done, is this: the man that can seduce a girl, and then, to conceal the effect, permit her to be butchered by a quack, especially when he could have protected her by marriage – that man, Mr. Mistrial, I tell you very plainly, is a scoundrel, and being a scoundrel will never be anything else." And as Honest Paul made this assertion he stood up and nodded affirmatively at his guest.
"You are very hard, Mr. Dunellen."
"I may be, but so is justice."
"If I could tell you all. It was so sudden, so unpremeditated even, at the first idea of a possibility of a catastrophe I lost my head."
"It was your honor you lost."
"Yes, and for years I have tried to recover it."
"That I am glad to learn, and I hope you have succeeded; but – "
"And will you not aid me?"
"In my sight you can never appear an honest man."
At this reproach, Roland, who had sat like Abjection, one hand supporting his head, his eyes lowered and his body bent, sprang to his feet.
"There are several forms of honesty," he exclaimed, "and frankness I believe is counted among them. That you evidently possess. Let me emulate you in it. I intend that your daughter shall be my wife. If you don't care to come to the wedding your presence can be dispensed with." And without any show of anger, but with an inclination of the head that was insolent in its deference, he picked up his hat and left the room.
Presently he found himself in the street. "Who is ever as stupid as a wise man?" he queried, and laughed a little to himself – "unless" – and he fell to wondering whether Dunellen could have told his daughter all. On the corner a cab was loitering; he hailed and entered it. A little later he was ringing at the door of Honest Paul's abode.
Yes, Miss Dunellen was at home. And as the servant drew the portière to the drawing-room aside, Roland was visited by that emotion the gambler knows who waits the turning of a card. Another second, and the expression of the girl's face would tell him what the future held. The drawing-room, however, happened to be untenanted, and as he paced its spacious splendors he still wondered was she or was she not informed. In a corner was a landscape signed Courbet – a green ravine shut down by bluest sky. The coloring was so true, it jarred. In another was a statue – a cloaked and hooded figure of Death supporting a naked girl. As he contemplated it, he heard the tinkle of the portière rings. It was she, he knew; he turned, and at once his heart gave an exultant throb; in her eyes was an invitation; he put his arms about her, and for a moment held her so.
She does not know, he told himself, and to her he murmured, "I have come to say good-bye."
"Wait, Roland." She led him to a seat. "Wait; I spoke to father last night; he has some objection – "
"I told you I was poor – "
"It is that, I suppose; he did not say – "
"He will never consent, unless – "
"There, Roland. I know him best." She closed her eyes, and as he gazed at her it seemed to him she had done so to shut some memory out. "It is money with him always; you do not know – " And between her parted lips she drew a breath he heard. "Last night he told me I must never see you again. Hitherto his will has ruled: it is my turn to-day."
With this there came a splendor to her he had never marked before; she looked defiant, and resolute as well. There was strength in her face, and beauty too.
"He is unjust," she added. "It was my duty to tell him, and there my duty ends. I am not a school-girl. I know my mind; better, perhaps, than he knows his own. I have obeyed him always. It is easy to obey, but now I will act for myself."
"He will never give his consent," Roland repeated.
"He may keep it, then."
Within her something seemed to rankle; and as Roland, mindful of the slightest change in her expression, detected this, he wondered what it could portend.
"Sweetheart," he ventured, "I have these two arms; they are all in all for you."
At this Justine awoke at once. "If I did not know it – feel it; if I were not sure of it, do you think I would speak to you as I do? No, Roland. I have something of my own; when we are married, believe me, his consent will come at once."
"It is not his consent I want – you know that; it is yours."
"You have it, Roland; I gave it you among the pines."
"Where is your hat, then? Let us go."
He caught her to him again, then suffered her to leave the room. And as the portière which he had drawn that she might pass fell back into its former folds, for a moment he stood perplexed. Somewhere a screw was loose, he could have sworn. But where? Could it be that Honest Paul was supporting a separate establishment? or did Justine think he wished to mate her to some plutocrat of his choice? The first supposition was manifestly absurd; the second troubled him so little that he turned and occupied himself with the naked girl swooning in the arms of Death.
"I am ready, Roland." It was Justine, bonneted and veiled, buttoning her glove.
"I have a cab," he answered, and followed her to the door.
VII
When Roland and Justine re-entered the drawing-room that afternoon they found Mr. Dunellen there. With him was Guy Thorold.
During the infant days of photography family groups were so much in vogue that anyone with an old album in reach can find them there in plenty. They are faded, no doubt; the cut of the garments is absurd; even the faces seem to have that antique look which is peculiar to the miniatures of people dead and departed: yet the impression they convey is admirably exalting. That gentleman in the wonderful coat must have been magnificent in every sphere of life: his mere pose, his attitude, is convincing as a memoir. And that lady in the camel's-hair shawl – how bewitchingly lovable she surely was! There is her daughter, who might be her niece, so prettily does she seem inclined to behave; and there is the son, a trifle effaced perhaps, yet with the makings of a man manifest even in that effacement. Oh, good people! let us hope you were really as amiable as you look: the picture is all we have of you; even your names are forgot; and truly it were discomforting to have the impression you convey disturbed in its slightest suggestion. We love you best as you are; we prefer you so. I, for one, will have none of that cynicism which hints that had a snap camera caught you unprepared the charm would disappear.
Yet now, in the present instance, as Mr. Dunellen and his nephew stood facing Roland and Justine, a photographer who had happened there could have taken a family group which would in no manner have resembled those which our albums hold.
"I told you last night," Mr. Dunellen was shrieking, "that I forbade you to see that man."
And Justine, raising her veil, answered, "He was not my husband then."
"Husband!" The old man stared at his daughter, his face distorted and livid with rage. "If you – "
But whatever threat he may have intended to make, Thorold interrupted.
"He is married already," he cried; "he is no more your husband than I."
At this announcement Mr. Dunellen let an arm he had outstretched fall to his side; he turned to Thorold, and Justine looked wonderingly in Roland's face.
"What does he mean?" she asked.
Roland shrugged his shoulders, "God knows," he answered. "He must be screwed."
"You are married," Thorold called out. "You needn't attempt to deny it here."
"I don't in the least: this lady has just done me the honor to become my wife."
"But you have another – you told me so yourself."
Roland, who had been really perplexed, could not now conceal a smile. He remembered that he had indeed told Thorold he was married, but he had done so merely as an easy way of diverting the suspicions which that gentleman displayed.
Justine, still looking at him, caught the smile.
"Why don't you speak?" she asked.
"What is there to say?" he answered. "It is false as an obituary."
"Then tell him so."
But for that there was no time. Mr. Dunellen, trained in procedure, had already questioned Thorold, and found that save Mistrial's word he had nothing to grapple on.
"Leave the house, sir," he shouted, and pointed to the door.
"When he goes, father, I go too."
"Then go." And raising his arms above his head as though to invoke the testimony of heaven, he bawled at her, "I disown you."
"There's Christian forbearance," muttered Mistrial; and he might have asserted as much, but Justine had lowered her veil.
"Come," she said.
And as she and her husband passed from the room the old man roared impotently "I disinherit you – you are no longer my child."
"Didn't you tell me he had been used to having his own way?" Roland asked, as he put Justine in the cab; and without waiting for an answer he told the driver to go to the Brunswick, and took a seat at her side.
In certain crises the beauty of an old adage asserts itself even to the stupidest. Roland had taken the bull by the horns and got tossed for his pains; yet even while he was in the air he kept assuring himself that he would land on his feet. The next morning the memory of the old man's anger affected him not at all. Passion, he knew, burns itself out, and its threats subside into ashes. The relentless parent was a spectacle with which the stage had made him so familiar that he needed no prompter's book to tell him that when the curtain fell it would be on a tableau of awaited forgiveness. And even though Mr. Dunellen and the traditional father might differ, yet on the subject of wills and bequests he understood that the legislature had in its wisdom prevented a testator from devising more than one-half his property to the detriment of kith and of kin. If things came to the worst Justine would get five million instead of ten; and five million, though not elastic enough, as Jones had said, to entertain with, still represented an income that sufficed for the necessaries of life. On that score his mind was at rest. Moreover, it was manifestly impossible for Justine's father to live forever: there was an odor of fresh earth about him which to his own keen nostrils long since had betokened the grave; and if meanwhile he chose to keep the purse-strings drawn, Justine had enough from her mother's estate to last till the strings were loosed.
Rents are high in New York, and to those bred in certain of its manors there is a choice between urban palaces and suburban flats. But Paris is less fastidious. In that lovely city a thousand-franc note need not be spent in a day; and in Italy the possibilities of the lira are great.
In view of these things, Roland and his wife one week later took ship and sailed for France.
PART II
I
To those that have suffered certain things there are forms of entertainment which neither amuse nor bore, but which pain. And this evening, as Justine sat in the stalls, the play which was being given, and which, as plays go, was endurable enough, caused her no pleasure, no weariness even, only a longing to get away and be alone. Now and then a shudder visited her, her hand tightened on her fan, and at times she would close her eyes, dull her hearing, and try to fancy that her girlhood was recovered, that she was free again, that she was dead, that her husband was – anything imaginable in fact, save the knowledge that she was there, side-by-side with him, and that presently they would return together to the hideousness of their uptown flat.
She had been married now a little more than two years, and during the latter portion of that time life had held for her that precise dose of misery which is just insufficient to produce uncertainties of thought in a mind naturally exalted. There had indeed been moments in which the possibility of insanity had presented itself, and there had been moments also in which she would have welcomed that possibility as a grateful release: but those moments had passed, the possibility with them; and this evening as she sat in the stalls her outward appearance was much such as it had been two years before. But within, where her heart had been, was a cemetery.
Among our friends and acquaintances there are always those who to our knowledge have tombstones of their own. But there are others that evolve a world – one that glows, subsides, and dies away unknown to any save themselves. The solitudes of space appall; the solitudes of the heart can be as endless as they. In those which Justine concealed, a universe had had its being and its subsidence; a universe with gem-like hopes for stars – one in which the sun had been so eager its rays had made her blind. There had been comets gorgeous and tangential as aspirations ever are; there had been the colorless ether of which dreams are made; and for cosmic matter there was love. But now it was all dispersed; there was nothing left, one altar merely – the petrefaction of a prayer erected long since in the depths of her distress, and which for conscience' sake now and then she tended still.
And now, as the play at which she assisted unrolled before her unseeing eyes, one by one scenes from another drama rose unsummoned in its stead. First was the meeting with Mistrial at Tuxedo, then the episode at Aiken, the marriage that followed, and the banishment that ensued: a banishment, parenthetically, which at the time being she was powerless to understand. Her father's anger had indeed weighed on her; but it was not wholly that – she was too much in love to let it be more than a shadow on her delight; nor was it because of unfamiliar lands: it was that little by little, through incidents originally misunderstood and then more completely grasped, the discovery, avoided yet ever returning, came to her, stayed with her, and made her its own – that the man whom she had loved and the man whom she had married were separate and distinct.
The psychologist of woman has yet to appear, and if he keep us waiting may it not be because every woman he analyzes has a sister who differs from her? The moment he formulates a rule it is over-weighted by exceptions. Woman often varies, the old song says; but not alone in her affections does she do so: she varies in temperament as well. And, after all, is it not the temperament that makes or mars a life? Justine, in discovering that the man she married and the man whom she loved were separate and distinct, instead of being disgusted with herself and with him, as you, madam, might have been, tried her utmost to forget the lover and love the husband that had come in his place. In this effort she had pride for an aid. The humiliation which the knowledge of self-deception brings is great, but when that knowledge becomes common property the humiliation is increased. The world – not the world that ought to be, but the world as it is – is more apt to smile than condole. There may be much joy in heaven over the sinner that repents: on earth the joy is at his downfall. And according to the canons we have made for ourselves, Justine, in listening to the dictates of her heart instead of to those of her father, had sinned, so grievously even that that father had bid her begone from his sight. She was aware of this, and in consequence felt it needful to hold her head the higher. And so for a while she made pride serve as fig-leaf to her nakedness. If abashed at heart, at least the world should be uninformed of that abashment.
This effort on her part Mistrial hindered to the best of his ability. Whether or not he loved her, whether save himself he was capable of loving anyone, who shall say? Men too are difficult to decipher. There were hours when after some écart he would come to her so penitent, so pleasant to the eye, and seemingly so afflicted at his own misconduct, that Justine found the strength – or the weakness, was it? – to forgive and to forget anew.
During this period they lived not sumptuously, perhaps, but in that large and liberal fashion which requires a ponderable rent-roll to support; and at that time, however Mistrial comported himself elsewhere, in her presence he had the decency to seem considerate, and affectionate as well. But meanwhile, through constant demands, the value of the letter of credit into which he had converted the better part of her mother's estate became impaired. Retrenchment was necessary, and that is never a pleasant thing. The man that passes out of poverty into wealth finds the passage so easy, so Lethean even, that he is apt to forget what poverty was; but when, as sometimes happens, he is obliged to retrace his steps, he walks bare of foot through a path of thorns. To count gold, instead of strewing it, is irritating to anyone not a sage, and Mistrial, who was not a sage, was irritated; and having, a wife within beck and call he vented that irritation on her.
It was at this time that Justine began to feel the full force of the banishment. That her husband was, and in all probability would continue to be, unfaithful to her, was a matter which she ended by accepting with a degree of good sense which is more common than is generally supposed. At first she had been indeed indignant, and when in that indignation her anger developed into a heat that was white and sentiable, Mistrial experienced no remorse whatever, only a desire to applaud. He liked the force and splendor of her arraignment; it took him out of himself; it made him feel that he was appreciated – feared even; that a word from him, and a tempest was loosened or enchained.
But what is there to which we cannot accustom ourselves? Justine ended, not by a full understanding of the fact that man is naturally polygamous; but little by little, through channels undiscerned even by herself, the idea came to her that, if the man she loved could find pleasure in the society of other women, it was because she was less attractive than they. It was this that brought her patience, the more readily even in that, at her first paroxysm, Mistrial, a trifle alarmed lest she might leave him, had caught her in his arms, and sworn in a whisper breathed in her ear, that of all the world he loved her best.
Madam, you who do the present writer the honor to read this page are convinced, he is sure, that your husband would rather his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth than break the vow which bound you to him. But you, madam, have married a man faithful and tried. You know very well with what dismay he tells you of Robinson's scandalous conduct, and you know also how he pities Robinson's poor little wife; yet when, in your sorrow at what that poor little woman has to put up with, you are tempted to go and condole with her, pause, madam – Mrs. Robinson may be equally tempted to condole with You.
There are – in Brooklyn, in Boston, and in other recondite regions – a number of clever people who have been brought up with the idea that Divorce was instituted for just such a thing as this. Yet in one hundred cases out of a hundred-and-one a woman who appeals to the law never does so because her husband has broken a certain commandment. If his derelictions are confined to that particular offence she may bewail, and we all bewail with her; but if she wants the sympathy of judge, of jury, and of newspaper-public too, she must be prepared to allege other grievances. She must show that her husband is unkind, that he is sarcastic, that he is given to big words and short sentences; in brief, that he has developed traits which render life in common no longer to be endured.
It was traits of this description that Mistrial unexpectedly developed, and it was during their development that the sense of banishment visited Justine. She was unable to make further transference of her affections; the lover had disappeared; the husband she had tried to love in his place had gone as well. For sole companion she had a man who had worn a mask and dropped it; where he had been considerate, he was selfish; when he spoke, it was to find fault; now that he could no longer throw her money out of the windows, he threw his amiability in its stead. By day he was taciturn, insultingly dumb; at night he was drunk.
Mistrial had served his novitiate where the pochard is rare. It is we that drink, and with us the English, the Slavs, and Teutons; but in the East and among the Latins sobriety is less a matter of habit than of instinct. And in lands where man prefers to keep his head clear, Mistrial, at that age, which is one of the most impressionable of all, had seen no reason to lose his own. But presently the small irritations of enforced economy affected his manners, and his habits as well. He took to absinthe in the morning, and, as he happened to be in France, he drank at night that brutal brandy they give you there. Not continuously, it is true. There were days when the man for whom Justine had forsaken her home returned so completely she could almost fancy he had never gone. Then, without a word of warning, at the very moment when Faith was gaining fresh foothold, the tragi-comedy would be renewed; he was off again, no one knew whither, returning only when the candle had been utterly consumed.
Such things are enough to affect any woman's patience, and Justine's became wholly warped. It was unaccountable to her that he could treat her as he did. She watched the gradual transformation of the perfect lover into the perfect beast with a species of sorrow – a dual sorrow in whose component parts there was pity for herself and for him as well.
The idea that he had married her uniquely because of her father's wealth, that he was impatient to get it, and that when he got it he would squander all he could on other women, occurred to her only in the remotest ways, and then only through some expression which, in his exasperation of the diminishing bank account and the unreasonable time which it took her father to forgive her, fell from him now and then by chance. For Mistrial had indeed counted on that forgiveness. He had even counted on receiving it by cable, of finding that it had preceded and awaited them before their ship reached France. And when, to use an idiom of that land, it made itself expected, he was confident that the longer it delayed the completer it would be. At the utmost he had not dreamed that the old man would detain it more than a few months; but when twenty-four went by, and not only no forgiveness was manifest, but through his own improvidence the funds ran low, – so low, in fact, that unless forgiveness were presently forthcoming they would be in straits indeed, – he dictated a letter, penitent and humble, one in which impending poverty stood out as clearly as though it had been engraved, and which it revolted her to send. Its inspiration, however, must have been patent to Mr. Dunellen, for that gentlemen's reply, expressed in the third person, was to the effect that if his daughter returned to him he would provide for her as he had always done, but in no other circumstances could he assist.
Had Justine been anyone but herself she might have acted on the invitation: but the tone of it hurt her; she was annoyed at having permitted herself to send the letter Mistrial had dictated, and to which this was the reply. Her pride was up – all the more surely because she knew her father had been right; and there is just this about pride – as a matter of penitence it forces us to suffer those consequences of our own wrongdoing which through a simple confession it were easy to escape. To Justine such confession was impossible. She had left her father in the full certainty that he was wrong, and when she found he was not, death to her were preferable to any admission of the grievousness of her own mistake.
