Hudson River Bracketed · Book IV · Chapter 19 (2/2)

Instead of answering he said: “Can I borrow some of these, do you think? I’ve got to buckle down to work at once. I see they’re classed by subjects; ah, here’s philosophy.⁠ ⁠…” Half annoyed, half amused at being treated like a librarian (an assistant librarian, she ironically corrected herself) she asked him if philosophy were what he was studying, and he said, yes, chiefly; that and Italian⁠—so as to be able to read Dante.

“Dante?” she exclaimed. “We lived in Italy a good deal when I was a child. Perhaps I could help you with Dante.”

His face lit up. “Oh, could you? Say, could I come round evenings, three or four times a week, and read him with you after supper?”

A little taken aback she said she was not sure she could be free as often as that in the evening. They went out a good deal, she and her husband, she explained⁠—to the theatre, to concerts⁠ ⁠… in a big place like New York there were always so many things to do in the evening. She forbore to mention that frequent dining-out was among them. Couldn’t he, she suggested, come in the early afternoon instead⁠—she was often free till four. But he shook his head, obviously disappointed. “No, I couldn’t do that. I’ve got to stick to my own writing in the daytime.”

Ah, to be sure⁠—his own writing! That was what he’d come about, she supposed, to see her husband? Her husband unluckily was away on business. He had expected Mr. Weston at the office the morning of the day before; she believed Mr. Weston had fixed his own hour for coming. And her husband had waited all the morning, and he hadn’t turned up. Her tongue stumbled over the “Mr. Weston”; it sounded stiff and affected; she remembered having called him “Vance” as a matter of course the first time she had seen him, at the Willows. But something made her feel that she was no longer in his confidence, or perhaps it was that he had simply forgotten what friends they had been.⁠ ⁠… The idea disconcerted her, and made her a little shy. It was as if their parts in the conversation had been reversed. “My husband expected you, but you never came,” she repeated, gently reproachful.

No, he said, he hadn’t come. He’d meant to, the day before, as soon as his train got to New York; but he hadn’t been able to. He stated the fact simply, without embarrassment or regret, and left it at that. Halo felt a slight flatness, an uncertainty as to how to proceed.

“And this morning⁠—?”

“This morning I couldn’t either. I called round at the office half an hour ago, but it was closed, and the janitor told me to come here instead.”

“Yes, I left word⁠—as my husband’s away.”

She suddenly perceived that they were still in the middle of the room, exchanging their explanations on the particular figure of the rug where he had been standing when she entered. She signed to him to take one of the armchairs by the fireplace, and herself sank into the other. Twilight had gathered in the corners of the bookwalled room, and the fire flowed more deeply for the shadows. Her visitor leaned to it. “I never saw such a beautiful fire⁠—why, that’s real wood!” he exclaimed, and fell on his knees on the hearth, as if to verify the strange discovery.

“Of course. We never burn anything else.”

This seemed to surprise him, and he lifted his firelit face to hers. “Because it’s so much more beautiful?”

“Because it’s alive.”

His gaze returned to the hearth. “That’s so; it’s alive.⁠ ⁠…” He stretched his hands to the flame, and as she watched him she remembered, a few days before, looking at Lewis’s hands as he held them out in the same way, and thinking: “Why isn’t he a poet?”

This boy’s hands were different: sturdier, less diaphanous, with blunter fingertips, though the fingers were long and flexible. A worker’s hand, she thought; a maker’s hand. She wondered what he would make.

The thought reminded her once more of the object of his visit⁠—or at least of hers in sending for him, and she said: “But you’ve brought a lot of things with you, haven’t you? I hope so. I want so much to see them.”

“Manuscripts?” He shook his head. “No, not much. But I’m going to write a lot of new stuff here.” He got to his feet and stood leaning against the mantelshelf, looking down at her with eyes which, mortifyingly enough, seemed to include her as merely part of the furniture. “What is he really seeing at this moment?” she wondered. Aloud she said: “But my husband wrote you were to be sure to bring everything you’d written. He’s so much interested⁠ ⁠… we both think ‘One Day’ so wonderful. I understood he’d asked you to bring all the stories and articles The Hour had rejected. You see it’s in new hands⁠—my husband’s⁠—and he means to pursue a much broader policy.⁠ ⁠…” (Why was she talking like a magazine prospectus? she asked herself.)

Vance Weston shook his head. “I didn’t bring any of those old things; they’re no good. The Hour was dead right to refuse them.”

“Oh⁠—” she exclaimed, surprised and interested. It was a new sound in that room⁠—the voice of honest self-disparagement! She looked at him with a rising eagerness, noting again the breadth of his forehead, and the bold upward cut of the nostrils, and the strong planting of his thickish nose between the gray eyes, set so deeply and widely apart.

“Authors are not always the best judges. Perhaps what you think no good might be just what a critic would admire.”

“No, that man Frenside’s a critic, isn’t he? Anyhow, the objections he made were right every time; I know they were.” He spoke firmly, but without undue humility. “My head’s always full of subjects, of course. But he said I hadn’t accumulated enough life-stuff to build ’em with; and I know that’s right. And I know I can do a lot better now. That’s why I want to get to work at once.”

She felt disappointed, foreseeing her husband’s disappointment. It would have given him such acute satisfaction to reverse one of Frenside’s judgments! “You think by this time you’ve accumulated the life-stuff?” Her tone was faintly ironical.

“Well,” he said with simplicity, “I guess time keeps on doing that⁠—the months and years. They ought to. I’m three years older, and things have happened to me. I can see further into my subjects now.”

She noticed the lighting up of his eyes when he began to speak of his writing, and felt herself more remote from him than ever. She longed to know if he remembered nothing of their talks and she rejoined more gently: “I suppose it seems a long time to you since you read your poems to me on Thundertop.”

“Yes, it does,” he said. “But you taught me a lot that day that I haven’t forgotten⁠—and at the Willows too.” He paused, as if groping for the right phrase. “I guess you were the first to show me what there was in books.”

The joyous colour rushed to her face. At last he had recovered the voice of the other Vance! “Ah, I was young then too,” she said with a wistful laugh.

“Young? I guess you’re young still.” Relapsing into friendly bluntness, he added: “I’m only twenty-two.”

“And I’m old enough to be your mother!”

“Say⁠—I guess you’re about twenty-five, aren’t you?”

She shook her head with a mournful grimace. “You must add one whole year to that. And such heaps and heaps of useless experience! I don’t even know how to turn it into stories. But tell me⁠—haven’t you at least brought one with you today?”

“A story? No, I haven’t brought anything.”

She sat silent, inconceivably disappointed. “Shall I make a confession? I hoped you’d want me to see something of yours⁠ ⁠… after all our talks.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, I do; but I want to be sure it’s good enough.” He moved away from the fire and held out his hand. “I want to go right home now and write something. This is generally my best hour.”

She put her hand reluctantly in his. “I suppose I mustn’t keep you then. But you’ll come back? Come whenever you feel that I might help.”

“Surely,” he said with his rare smile; she was not sure she had ever seen him smile before. It made him look more boyish than ever. “I suppose I can see your husband on Monday?” he added.

Yes, she thought he could; but she repeated severely that he must be sure to telephone and make an appointment. “Editors are busy people, you know, Vance,” she added rather maternally, slipping back into her old way of addressing him. “If you make another appointment you must be sure to keep it⁠—be on the stroke, I mean. My husband was rather surprised at your not coming yesterday, at your not even sending word. His time is⁠—precious.”

He met this with a youthful seriousness. “Yes, I presume he would be annoyed; but he won’t be when I’ve explained. I couldn’t help it, you see; I had to see the girl I’m going to marry before I did anything else.”

Halo drew back a step and looked at him with startled eyes. She felt as if something she had been resting on had given way under her. “You’re going to marry?”

“Yes,” he said, with illuminated eyes. “That’s the reason I’ve got to get to work as quick as I can. I guess your husband’ll understand that. And I’ll be sure to be at the office whatever time he wants me on Monday.”

When he had gone Héloïse Tarrant sat down alone and looked into the fire.