TOPPER announced luncheon. It was served in the dining-room, as Gita had taken a dislike to the breakfast-room, so intimately associated with Eustace and Elsie; and although she had sat beside Eustace here on the night of the wedding, their chairs tied together with a white ribbon, and listened to speeches and toasts, the only memory that emerged definitely was the white flounces De Witt Turner had sewed on her dignified ancestor’s uniform of state. He had looked excruciatingly funny and she had fastened her mind on those flounces and refrained from gritting her teeth when toasting bores were congratulating Eustace and assuming she was congratulating herself.
Geoffrey Pelham had sat on her side of the table and she had not seen him again until he bade her good-night. Then she had been too excited over her beautiful wedding-presents to give him a parting glance.
The dining-room was high and dark and austere. Black-browed Carterets in tarnished frames seemed to look out of the wall itself. But she felt a Carteret among them, severed the more completely from that brief period when all but the blessed sophisticates had called her Mrs. Bylant.
Places for two were laid at one end of the long table. Topper had suggested a small table in front of the fireplace for herself and Polly, but Gita was in no mood for compromise. She would sit where her grandmother had sat alone for so many years, save on the rare occasions when she had summoned the county to a formal and depressing function. Otherwise, no doubt, she had sat with her thoughts for company, her dimming vision peopling the long lines of chairs with ghosts. No compromise for her.
Topper, too, was uncompromising. If he could not have a symmetrical small table he would not crowd his beloved silver at one end leaving a long expanse desolate. Candelabra and massive pieces were arranged with precision from end to end, and although he felt no inclination to set places for absent guests, and left all but two of the paneled chairs against the paneled walls, the remote curve patronized by this incomprehensible mistress had never the unseemly effect of being cluttered.
Pelham felt that he had enough to endure without being asked to eat in a tomb. His mother talked sometimes of the past glories of her family, whose ancestral mansion (wooden, painted white, with green blinds) had been in Massachusetts, but he was thankful he was descended from the Dedhams on the petticoat side and had been brought up in a light and airy house in Atlantic City, however unhistoried and architecturally debased.
And Gita, sitting in her grandmother’s high-backed wing-chair, looked less like a descendant than an ancestress. She had been brittle but vivacious during that half-hour in the garden, but here she looked as if the mantle of these infernal frowning Carterets had frozen the blood in her veins. For the moment she once more interested him as a case.
He mentioned Eustace for the first time since he had made his perfunctory inquiry, after her visit. “I was very much worried for a time—afraid of infection. But Eustace has the constitution of an ox.”
“Your good doctoring.” And her smile was grimly gracious.
“Surgeons and nurses can do so much and no more. He may thank his sturdy Dutch ancestors and the healthy life he has led.”
Silence.
“I am afraid that shoulder will be permanently stiff,” he went on impatiently. “Hard on a writer.”
“He can dictate, I suppose.”
“He once told me he couldn’t endure the idea of anyone in the room with him when he wrote. Jealous, or something of the sort. Wanted to be alone with his characters. Authors are afflicted with temperament, you know.”
“He could tap it out with one hand. I’ve noticed one generally manages to do what one has to do. If not one way then another.”
“True. I’m glad he’d just finished his novel. By the time he is ready to begin another——”
“It would be a good idea for him to travel for a time. You might suggest it. He’s been talking of a trip to South America. How soon will he be able to travel?”
“Not for two or three months yet. Shock must be taken into consideration. . . . South America. Good idea. Interesting country. You would enjoy the trip yourself.”
He kept his eyes on his plate, although the excellent fried chicken of the excellent cook might have been a rump steak.
“I have no intention of going to South America. I expect to live in this house for the rest of my life.”
“Oh—rather a monotonous life, that, for a girl of your age. And rather rash to be so certain of anything, isn’t it?”
“Nothing rash about me,” muttered Gita. “When I make up my mind to do a thing I do it.”
Pelham cast out another line, thankful for the discretion of Topper who remained in the room as little as possible. “I can’t imagine Eustace shut up in an old manor house in winter. New York owns him, body and soul.”
“There will be nothing to keep him out of New York. He’s welcome to stay here as long as he’s an invalid, but when he goes it will be with the understanding he’s seen the last of the manor.”
A brief silence and then Geoffrey stammered: “Do you intend to divorce him?”
“How could I? What excuse?” And then she burst into a peal of laughter. The one plea she could advance was a husband’s wild attempt to enforce his rights.
Her mantle fell from her. “Don’t ask me what I was laughing at! Poor Eustace! If he chooses to divorce me he can do so on the ground of desertion. We could meet in Paris. And of course he will want his freedom in time.”
The precipitations of the past week had suddenly resolved themselves an hour since into a half-conscious determination to show Polly her place and Pelham that he was still hopelessly in her toils. But when she found herself alone with him in the dining-room she had anathematized herself as a fool and retreated in stiff panic from the results of any such exercise of power. Now she suddenly felt light-hearted once more. Her intense self-consciousness had fled with her gale of mirth. Blessed be humor.
No reason they shouldn’t be friends until he went out of her life altogether. And she realized sharply that her most crying want this past week had been someone to talk to, a confidant. She had got used to talking things out.
She, too, threw out a line.
“Too bad Polly had to desert you today. I’m a poor substitute. Don’t know exactly how or what I’ve been feeling this last week. Remorse, I think, for not feeling remorse. Been as glum as—can’t think of anything emphatic enough. Felt, rather, as if I’d been stirred up with a spoon and nothing would settle. Better not try to diagnose me,” she added hastily. His gaze was very intense. “Are you and Polly engaged?” She shot out the question and then dropped her eyes in consternation. She had had no intention of being direct.
“Certainly not. Neither I nor Polly has ever thought of such a thing.”
“You’re as blind as a bat!” She fastened her eyes on him with her fiercest expression and he felt as if they had pushed him to the wall and pinned him there. “Of course she expects you to marry her,” she said with harsh and bitter emphasis. “So does everybody else. You’d be a cad if you didn’t——”
Pelham gave a violent exclamation and sprang to his feet, overturning his chair. “How dare you use such a word to me!” he shouted, his face blazing. “After what I’ve been through—done—renounced! You little tiger-cat! I wish to God you were a man!”
He felt no love for her at that moment. He almost hated her. He had had words both high and hot with men who disagreed with him, been abused by unreasonable patients, but it was the first time the most contemptible word in the language had been hurled at him, and the indignity stung him to fury. “Yes, by God! I wish you were a man. I’d beat you black and blue and rub your nose in the dirt.”
Gita had gazed at him fascinated for a moment and then dropped her eyes. A curious thrill rippled over her nerves, and she hid her hands under the table.
“I’ll take it back,” she said hastily. “You know how carelessly and exaggeratedly we use words these days. I only meant that any girl would expect a proposal—after such devotion——”
“Devotion! She knows I enjoy her society. She knows I’ve never given anything further a thought—any more than she has herself. There’s never been a glance of sentiment between us. She amuses herself with one man after another. She told me so herself. What—how could you—after what I told you——”
“Yes, yes, I remember.” She did not raise her eyes. Geoffrey had not looked so attractive in costume as with those flaming furious blue eyes—almost black with temper—exactly like an indignant schoolboy unjustly accused of raiding an orchard. “Please sit down. I’ve apologized. You should forgive me.”
He lifted his chair and dropped into it. “You don’t deserve to be forgiven,” he growled, although his anger was ebbing. “But we’ll settle this once for all. If I’ve made Polly conspicuous there is but one thing for me to do. I’ll place Eustace in the hands of a local practitioner and return to New York. As she will spend the summer here we shall drift apart naturally, and anyone who has gossiped—if anyone has—will forget it. There are too many to take my place. But as a matter of fact I don’t believe anyone has thought of such a thing but you.”
“Oh—I don’t think you should do that—leave Eustace—I——”
She felt unaccountably nervous. Cold. There was a slight tremor in her knees.
She was on the point of telling him that Mrs. Pleyden and Elsie had expressed themselves forcibly, and that Polly was serious . . . that would settle it. But she could not—or would not. Moreover Topper entered at the moment. Gone was the desire to show Polly her place, but Polly had had her chance and lost out. Why should she sacrifice herself further? . . . Sacrifice? She frowned down at the unsteady hands in her lap. What did she feel, anyhow? Damn it.
Then that zealous little censor she had firmly dethroned reinstated itself slyly. Why, of course, she wanted his friendship. She must have a friend. She’d not make a second mistake and marry one—not she—a man whose eyes burned like blue rockets . . . rather interesting, a friendship with a spice of danger in it. Her friendship with Eustace had certainly lacked that. He’d never hung out a danger-signal until that night after the party when his eyes betrayed that the bottom was beginning to fall out of his little game. And in him it was merely revolting. The very thought made her sick.
But it attracted her uncannily in this man, in spite of the fact that she had nothing to give him. Well, she’d have him for a friend if she could manage him. Heaven knew she needed one. Being a hermit in an old manor house didn’t really appeal to her at all. No drama in that. . . . Here might be the bridge to something new. Element of suspense in it, anyhow. . . . Who knew? What, after all, was life but successive links in a chain?
Topper had brought in a lemon pie as light as a soufflé and retired. She looked up and smiled, a hesitating, curiously girlish smile. Geoffrey’s face was calmer but his eyes still burned.
“You won’t really go?” she asked pleadingly. “You know how Eustace depends on you. It might set him back. And now that you’re no longer worried about him you’re enjoying your vacation. If it’s all right about Polly there’s no need to bother. And nobody else will be here but your sister. Mrs. Pleyden thinks Eustace wrenched his shoulder and has only telephoned once to inquire. Topper and the gardener won’t talk. Nor those nurses, I suppose. The other servants think he slipped and fell downstairs. And I don’t want a strange doctor here. And as Elsie’s coming to stay, no doubt Polly will go home. Do, please, stay.”
There was no coquetry in her manner, but he looked at her probingly. There was a new intonation in her voice and her face had softened curiously. She looked not unlike a coaxing child . . . not quite. But his mind felt a little dazed. She had been so many different kinds of female since he had seen her, less than an hour ago, sitting under that portrait of her grandmother. . . . But he was not too bemused to ask pointedly:
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes, I do. You see—I haven’t a friend left. I’ll never even like Eustace again. Polly may not be in love with you but she takes no interest in me or any woman when she is concentrating on a man. I’ve barely seen her except at table since she came here, and then she’s almost as silent as myself. I’ll never forgive Elsie. Perhaps you’ve guessed she cares a lot for Eustace?”
“Yes, I think it possible.”
“He should have married her—no doubt will in time. I’ve asked her to stay here and give him a chance to find out his mistake. But she failed me when I needed her most—I’ve been like a lost soul this last week and would have given everything I possessed for one good long talk with her. So, you see——” And her eyes so recently fierce, wicked, arrogant, looked as if pleading to heaven, and she smiled tremulously.
He turned pale and gave the table a sharp rap with his fork. The lemon pie was neglected. “You place me in a beastly position,” he said harshly. “You are asking for friendship, and—well, Eustace is upstairs, wounded——”
She lifted her head, looking less like a madonna than a Carteret. “This is my house and he is my very unwilling guest—unwilling on both sides.”
“He is still your husband.”
“He never was my husband.” She saw where this digression was leading and added hastily: “Not that I want to hear about anything else. I—well, I suppose it doesn’t matter if I say it—I suppose I should have loved you if I could love anyone. But I can’t. That’s final. Your sister and Polly say I’m asexual.”
Dr. Pelham swore fluently and shamelessly.
“But it’s true——”
“That subject—and all it connotes—may not come within the province of surgery, but I happen to have a friend who is a distinguished endocrinologist and psychiatrist, two sciences which are more dependent on each other than is generally known. We have discussed the subject until I know as much about it as he does; and it happens to interest me profoundly. You are no more asexual——”
“I am. I want to be. I don’t wish to talk about it. But if you don’t want to be my friend——”
“I’ll be your friend—God knows I never wanted to help anyone more—until you and Eustace have put an end to your marriage farce. Then, by God—oh!”
Polly’s laugh rang through the hall.
Gita sprang to her feet. “Go out. Don’t let her come in here. Tell her I’ve had to go to the kitchen——”
He followed her precipitate retreat and caught her by the arm. “You must——”
She was cowering away from him. “Let go! Let go!” she said through her teeth. “I hate being touched.” And she pressed her hand against her chin.
He dropped his hand but his eyes flashed. “I’d not do anything you disliked—thought you disliked—for the world. But tell me when I may have a talk with you again. How can we be friends if I never see you alone? Polly and Elsie both here—there’s Elsie’s voice—have you ever been on the salt marshes at night?”
“No.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’ve always wanted to.”
“I’ll meet you at the manor gates at ten o’clock tonight and take you for a row. Don’t fail to be there——”