Short Fiction · A Transaction In Hearts (11/12)

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The drive from Mrs. Manhattan’s to the rectory was always a short one, but on this occasion it was brief indeed. The noise of the wheels brought to Gonfallon the echo of Miss Raritan’s song; and as in a constant resummons of the same refrain it beset and pursued him, forcing him whether he willed it or not into a lunatic duo with the vehicle in which he sat, a disorganized lamppost caught and detained the obsession, and he fell to wondering whether electricity was preferable to gas.

Then at once the query departed of itself. Jones was standing opposite, relating less to him than to an audience behind his back some endless story of nothing at all. And that story, to which five minutes before he had accorded only the show of interest which civility exacts, suddenly became poignant and fraught with interest.

At Mrs. Manhattan’s, in the earliest surprise at the unexpected, he had attributed Claire’s collapse to fatigue, to the heat of the room and the strain of her stays; but now, in fumbling about for the logic of Jones’s anecdote, he recalled the novelist’s significant forgetfulness of his hero’s name, the manner in which he had talked at the occupants of the sofa recurred to him, he remembered the epithet which Yarde had blurted out, and at once a panorama unrolled. He had not been the auditor of a pointless tale; he had assisted at the fabulization of a masquerade; but the clock had struck, the dominos had fallen, the masks were raised.

In a confusion of visions he saw Claire dismissing her suitor like a lackey, the interview between Bucholz and himself, interrupted by her and indubitably overheard; he divined the conflict within her, the rememoration of Yarde’s offer, the knowledge of her father’s guilt. Then one after another he comprehended the first incitement, the inward revolt, the renewed assault, the rebellion in her of all that was best, the martyrdom that ensued, the self-crucifixion, the tension of nerves, the defeat that was a victory, the agony over the wording of the note, the despatch of the message, the comedy played for Ruth, the suffocation hid with a smile, the anguish of the preparation, the dread, perhaps the hope, of detention, the horror of the unlighted stairs, the tragedy of the cab that waited there, the agony of her thoughts as she was driven away, her hysterical entrance into Yarde’s apartment, and then, to the man she loathed, her offer in payment of her father’s shame. No, it was more than noble; it was Greek.

Of her possible contempt of him, Gonfallon gave no thought. And as his fancy veered from Claire to Yarde it was with a little undercurrent of applause. Truly he had misjudged the man, not much perhaps, but still misjudgment there had been. He could have throttled him on that afternoon when he had heard him, in anger at his rejection, make that offer which he had coupled with the insulting assurance that the walls of his rooms were dumb. Yes, he could have throttled him then with delight. And yet, when Claire, in her haste to rescue her father, had in her helplessness knocked at his door, he had been better than his word: assistance had been accorded unexactingly, and so soon as rendered, immediately he had let her go. However the episode might be viewed, in this respect at least Yarde’s conduct had in it a dash of the talon rouge. No wonder Claire’s attitude had changed: it were ungracious of her had it not. But there the matter should rest. Claire should be under no further obligation to smile at this subtler Lovelace. The money he would find means of repaying. As for Jones, he could be hushed with a word.

The cab had stopped, but it needed a movement from his companion to remind him that the journey was done. He got out, aided her to alight, and unlatched the door. As yet, neither had spoken. On entering the house Claire made directly for the stairs.

“Don’t go up yet; I want a word with you,” he muttered, and glanced at the banisters above.

“What is it?” She halted and turned. The cheeks were still pale, and the white fur of her wrap increased the pallor of her face.

He put his hat and coat aside, and, raising the curtain of the sitting-room, motioned her to enter.

For a second she hesitated and looked at him inquisitorially, the brow contracted; then, gathering a fold of her frock, she obeyed the gesture, and, entering the room, she stood, her wrap drawn about her, her head thrown back, one foot beating a measure impatiently on the floor.

Gonfallon glanced again at the banisters and let the curtain fall. “Claire,” he began, “there is but one explanation of what occurred this evening. The fault, perhaps, is partly mine. I had intended on my return from Bronx to take immediate action in regard to your father, but you forestalled me. You forestalled me, moreover, in a manner which⁠—which⁠—well, of which the least said the better. Fortunately, matters are not as bad as they might be. You have been exceedingly imprudent, and I have been remiss. As for that young man, his mere presence is sufficient to tarnish a dawn. From your own demeanor, from things which Ruth has let fall, I understand that he is as objectionable to you as he is to me. The obligation which he has placed us all under must of course be cancelled, and to that I will attend; but hereafter it is impossible for you to see him again. You agree with me, do you not?”

In and about the girl’s mobile lips a sneer hovered like a bee on a rose. Leisurely she undid her cloak. “Not in the least,” she answered.

“But you know I dislike him; you know⁠—”

“And why should you?” Her head, which had been thrown back, she now held a trifle to one side. “And why should you? Has he ever done you a kindness?” She paused a second, and added, “You dislike my father too, don’t you?”

The thrust was keen and venomous as the tooth of a rat. But on her mouth the sneer was so quickly effaced by a smile that one might have thought that in her heart a bird had suddenly burst into song.

At the change in her expression Gonfallon forgot to heed the taunt. “He is unprincipled, Claire⁠—”

“Ah! He is unprincipled, is he? And what of it? You have no principles of your own to boast of. No, Chris, you have none.”

She pointed at him. On the end of her finger were all sorts of pretty gestures, and in her face, to which some trace of color had returned, was the mimic of a child saying, Fi! “You must find a better reason than that.”

At the movement of her hand the wrap fell from her. She was bare of neck and of arm. Her frock was after that English model which gives some freedom to the limbs yet keeps the waist well girt. It was colorless yet scintillant, and in it, with the white of the fur at her feet, it needed little imagination to fancy her a statue of Injustice vacating its niche.

The slender finger still extended seemed to pierce him like a gibe. “You must find a better reason than that,” she repeated; “you must, indeed.” Her smile had bubbled into a ripple, her eyes laughed, and she flushed.

Gonfallon’s breath came faster. He had been staring at her. “It is because I love you, Claire,” he whispered. And in a moment he caught her to him and pressed her lips of silk to his. At their emollient touch his anger evaporated as utterly as had it never been. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “it is because you are more than all the world to me.”

He gazed into her deep eyes’ depth. Instead of an answering gleam, there was in them an apathy, stagnant and unmoved. “Sweetheart,” he repeated, and as he did so the eyes into which he gazed dilated as at some sudden dread. From behind him came a smothered cry. His arms fell again to his side, and he wheeled about. In the doorway Ruth stood, her face barred by a shadow. Claire stooped for her cloak, and Gonfallon bit his lip.

Ruth advanced to where they stood. Her face now they could see had on it the stamp of unvanquishable pain, seared in, immutable and already cold. She glanced from one to the other.

“Claire,” she said, and as she spoke her words fell from her very swiftly, unseparated by intervals, as though in speech relief might be⁠—“Claire, our mother died when you were born. The first thought I ever had was of your good. The earliest effort I ever made I made for you. I tried to be not a sister alone, I tried to replace the mother you had lost. I have failed.”

Claire made as though to speak, but already Ruth had turned to Gonfallon.

“Christopher, the first dream of my girlhood belonged to you. The only thoughts I did not give to Claire were those I gave to you. You took so many, Christopher! I gave you my whole heart; I thought you gave me yours. I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” cried Claire; “you are stark, staring mad, that is what is the matter with you, Mrs. Gonfallon.”

“I am sure,” Gonfallon hazarded, “I don’t see⁠—”

“I did,” said his wife. The monosyllables fell like a sentence.

“Well, Ruth,” Claire broke in, “if you object to Chris kissing me on an occasion like this⁠—”

“Like this? What occasion can it be?”

“Why, Chris was congratulating me on my engagement. Don’t you think you are absurd?”

A light as from some new dawn seemed to break in Ruth’s eyes. She turned to Claire again.

“I am engaged to Trement Yarde,” the girl added.

Gonfallon felt the blood mount to his temples. “It is a lie,” he told himself. “Or if by chance she is telling the truth, then⁠—”

“He asked me again tonight,” Claire continued. “It was the fourth time; I was afraid he might not ask again⁠—”

“Is this true, Christopher?” Ruth’s voice was almost joyous.

“It is true,” he answered, and ground his nails into his flesh.

“But you don’t love him!” And already Ruth’s arm had wound itself about her sister’s waist.

Claire nodded eagerly. “Oh, but I do, though⁠—lots and lots⁠—corner lots.”

“Claire, dear,” expostulated Ruth, “you said you hated him.”

“H’m, perhaps. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

Ruth turned again from her sister to her husband. “Chris, Claire has forgiven me: will not you?”

Gonfallon answered nothing. He tried to give his face some suitable expression, and evidently he succeeded, for Ruth, with the dawn still in her eyes, led her sister away.

When they had gone, Gonfallon dropped on a chair and mopped his forehead. “Hatred, indeed!” he muttered. “It is I that hate.” It was monstrous, he told himself, that she should treat him as she had. From a delight she had changed into a reproach. The desire which she had inspired, and against which he had struggled with all the feebleness of his strength, the hope unformulated yet sentient which she had evoked and against whose luminousness he had hid his eyes, these things had passed, the one into a mockery, the other into a taunt. The innocence which she exhaled, the guilelessness which she displayed, that savor and fragrance of youth which in alluring him despite himself had made him forget his office and his vows, was an acquired, a premeditated trick. Everything about her, even to the serpentine movement of her neck, was the understudy of a lie. And it was such an one as she that had the power to stir his pulse and leave him for hours after to dally with the protocols and uselessness of regret! It was she who had brought him visions of larger life, of new horizons and fresher creeds; it was she with whom he had seen himself straying beyond the conventional, far out of reach of the matter-of-fact to that ultimate meadow where the flowers distil the reason of love! And this was she! Full surely then he had been bereft.

He raised his hand to his head and let his head fall back. He was tired, outwearied by the emotions of the night, and for a little while he toyed absently with a handkerchief, rumpling it into a ball and moulding it with forefinger and with thumb. “I am no longer a lover,” he mused, “I am a judge.” His eyelids drooped, he sank yet farther in the chair, and sighed. “Of heart,” he continued, “she has none. Beneath her stays is some flesh on a stone.”

A little longer he rested, then, slowly, with the hesitant air of one perplexed, he rose from his seat, the handkerchief still rumpled in his hold. “She is an adder!” he exclaimed, and, throwing the bit of cambric from him, he repeated, in yet louder tone, “An adder⁠—that I will fang.”

The next moment, without conscious effort on his part, he found himself at her door. Should he knock? he wondered. But no; the time for ceremony was gone. With a wrench at the knob and a blow at the panel he entered in. Claire was before the mirror. She had removed her frock, but her arms and neck were no longer bare: she had some loose wrapper on, and in it all trace of the mannishness which she affected disappeared. At the sudden noise she started and turned. Gonfallon was livid. As she stared at him he gazed at her, and in that gaze he put something that was like a knee pressed on a breast.

“Wanton!” he hissed.

The girl’s hands fluttered like falling leaves. “Christopher,” she cried, “what are you doing here?”

“Wait; you shall see.”

He made towards her, and as he approached the girl drew back.

“Christopher,” she moaned, “you frighten me.”

“Is it my face that frightens? Could you see my heart!”

And still the girl retreated. Her back now was against the wall, her eyes agonized with fear. With a bound he was upon her, and, catching her wrist in his hand, he threw her on the floor. Vainly she struggled; the grip on her wrist was a vice.

“What are you going to do?” she gasped.

And Gonfallon, still holding her down, turned his head towards the table and across the room as though seeking for something of which he had immediate need.

“I do not know,” he answered; “but say your prayers.”

“Help!” she cried, her voice soaring to its uttermost tension. “Help!”

And as Gonfallon placed his hand over her mouth to hush the cry, the crouching form faded from before him. He felt an undefinable sensation of discomfort. In his ears was the roar of water displaced. With an effort he looked about him. He was still in the chair in which he had dropped asleep, and through rifts of returning consciousness he heard a loving voice: “Chris, are you not coming up? See, it is after one.”

It was Ruth, bending over him, entreating him to rise.