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diff --git a/79294-h/79294-h.htm b/79294-h/79294-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3258d14 --- /dev/null +++ b/79294-h/79294-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1764 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="UTF-8"> +<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> +<title>Clay-shuttered doors | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <!-- TITLE="Clay-shuttered doors" --> + <!-- AUTHOR="Helen R. Hull" --> + <!-- LANGUAGE="en" --> + <!-- PUBLISHER="Harper & Brothers, New York" --> + <!-- DATE="1926" --> + <!-- COVER="images/cover.jpg" --> + +<style> + +body { margin-left:15%; margin-right:15%; } +div.frontmatter h1.title { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:2em; + margin-bottom:0.5em; } +div.frontmatter p.subt { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-bottom:1em; } +div.frontmatter p.aut { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; + margin-bottom:1em; } +div.frontmatter p.src { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-style:italic; + margin-bottom:1em; font-size:0.8em; } + +div.chapter{ page-break-before:always; } + +p { margin:0; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em; } +p.first { text-indent:0; padding-top:4em; } +p.noindent { text-indent:0; } +p.tb { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; } + +/* spans */ +.underline { text-decoration:underline; } + +a:link { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } +a:visited { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } +a:hover { text-decoration: underline; } +a:active { text-decoration: underline; } + +/* Transcriber's note */ +.trnote { font-size:0.8em; line-height:1.2em; background-color: #ccc; + color: #000; border: black 1px dotted; margin: 2em; padding: 1em; + page-break-before:always; margin-top:3em; } +.trnote p { text-indent:0; margin-bottom:1em; } +.trnote ul { margin-left: 0; padding-left: 0; } +.trnote li { text-align: left; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 1em; } +.trnote ul li { list-style-type: square; } +.trnote .transnote { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; } + +/* page numbers */ +a[title].pagenum { position: absolute; right: 1%; } +a[title].pagenum:after { content: attr(title); color: gray; background-color: inherit; + letter-spacing: 0; text-indent: 0; text-align: right; font-style: normal; + font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: x-small; + border: 1px solid silver; padding: 1px 4px 1px 4px; + display: inline; } +a.pagenum { text-decoration:none; } + +body.x-ebookmaker { margin-left:0; margin-right:0; } + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum { display:none; } + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum:after { display:none; } + .x-ebookmaker .trnote { margin:0; } + +</style> +</head> + + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79294 ***</div> + + +<div class="frontmatter chapter"> +<a id="page-684" class="pagenum" title="684"></a> +<h1 class="title"> +Clay-Shuttered Doors +</h1> + +<p class="subt"> +A Story +</p> + +<p class="aut"> +Helen R. Hull +</p> + +<p class="src"> +Harper’s Magazine, vol. 152, May 1926, pp. 684-695. +</p> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +For months I have tried not to +think about Thalia Corson. Anything +may invoke her, with her +langorous fragility, thin wrists and +throat, her elusive face with its long eyelids. +I can’t quite remember her mouth. +When I try to visualize her sharply I +get soft pale hair, the lovely curve from +her temple to chin, and eyes blue and +intense. Her boy, Fletcher, has eyes +like hers. +</p> + +<p> +To-day I came back to New York, +and my taxi to an uptown hotel was +held for a few minutes in Broadway +traffic where the afternoon sunlight +fused into a dazzle a great expanse of +plateglass and elaborate show motor +cars. The “Regal Eight”—Winchester +Corson’s establishment. I huddled as +the taxi jerked ahead, in spite of knowledge +that Winchester would scarcely +peer out of that elegant setting into taxi +cabs. I didn’t wish to see him, nor +would he care to see me. But the +glimpse had started the whole affair +churning again, and I went through it +deliberately, hoping that it might have +smoothed out into some rational explanation. +Sometimes things do, if you +leave them alone, like logs submerged +in water that float up later, encrusted +thickly. This affair won’t add to itself. +It stays unique and smooth, sliding +through the rest of life without annexing +a scrap of seaweed. +</p> + +<p> +I suppose, for an outsider, it all begins +with the moment on Brooklyn Bridge; +behind that are the years of my friendship +with Thalia. Our families had +summer cottages on the Cape. She was +just enough older, however, so that not +until I had finished college did I catch +up to any intimacy with her. She had +married Winchester Corson, who at that +time fitted snugly into the phrase “a +rising young man.” During those first +years, while his yeast sent up preliminary +bubbles, Thalia continued to spend +her summers near Boston, with Winchester +coming for occasional weekends. +Fletcher was, unintentionally, born +there; he began his difficult existence +by arriving as a seven-months baby. +Two years later Thalia had a second +baby to bring down with her. Those +were the summers which gave my friendship +for Thalia its sturdy roots. They +made me wonder, too, why she had +chosen Winchester Corson. He was +personable enough; tall, with prominent +dark eyes and full mouth under a neat +mustache, restless hands, and an uncertain +disposition. He could be a charming +companion, sailing the catboat with +dash, managing lobster parties on the +shore; or he would, unaccountably, +settle into a foggy grouch, when everyone—children +and females particularly—was +supposed to approach only on +tiptoe, bearing burnt offerings. The +last time he spent a fortnight there, +before he moved the family to the new +Long Island estate, I had my own difficulties +with him. There had always +been an undertone of sex in his attitude +toward me, but I had thought “that’s +just his male conceit.” That summer +he was a nuisance, coming upon me +<a id="page-685" class="pagenum" title="685"></a> +with his insistent, messy kisses, usually +with Thalia in the next room. They +were the insulting kind of kisses that +aren’t at all personal, and I could have +ended them fast enough if there hadn’t +been the complication of Thalia and +my love for her. If I made Winchester +angry he’d put an end to Thalia’s relation +to me. I didn’t, anyway, want her +to know what a fool he was. Of course +she did know, but I thought then that I +could protect her. +</p> + +<p> +There are, I have decided, two ways +with love. You can hold one love, +knowing that, if it is a living thing, it +must develop and change. That takes +maturity, and care, and a consciousness +of the other person. That was Thalia’s +way. Or you enjoy the beginning of +love and, once you’re past that, you +have to hunt for a new love, because +the excitement seems to be gone. Men +like Winchester, who use all their brains +on their jobs, never grow up; they go +on thinking that preliminary stir and +snap is love itself. Cut flowers, that +was Winchester’s idea, while to Thalia +love was a tree. +</p> + +<p> +But I said Brooklyn Bridge was the +point at which the affair had its start. +It seems impossible to begin there, or +anywhere, as I try to account for what +happened. Ten years after the summer +when Winchester made himself +such a nuisance—that last summer the +Corsons spent at the Cape—I went +down at the end of the season for a week +with Thalia and the children at the +Long Island place. Winchester drove +out for the weekend. The children were +mournful because they didn’t wish to +leave the shore for school; a sharp September +wind brought rain and fog down +the Sound, and Winchester nourished +all that Sunday a disagreeable grouch. +I had seen nothing of them for most +of the ten intervening years, as I had +been first in France and then in China, +after feature-article stuff. The week had +been pleasant: good servants, comfortable +house, a half-moon of white beach +below the drop of lawn; Thalia a stimulating +listener, with Fletcher, a thin, +eager boy of twelve, like her in his intensity +of interest. Dorothy, a plump, +pink child of ten, had no use for stories +of French villages or Chinese temples. +Nug, the wire-haired terrier, and her +dolls were more immediate and convincing. +Thalia was thin and noncommittal, +except for her interest in what I had +seen and done. I couldn’t, for all my +affection, establish any real contact. +She spoke casually of the town house, +of dinners she gave for Winchester, of +his absorption in business affairs. But +she was sheathed in polished aloofness +and told me nothing of herself. She +did say, one evening, that she was glad +I was to be in New York that winter. +Winchester, like his daughter Dorothy, +had no interest in foreign parts once he +had ascertained that I hadn’t even seen +the Chinese quarters of the motor company +in which he was concerned. He +had an amusing attitude toward me: +careful indifference, no doubt calculated +to put me in my place as no longer alluring. +Thalia tried to coax him into listening +to some of my best stories. “Tell +him about the bandits, Mary”—but his +sulkiness brought, after dinner, a casual +explanation from her, untinged with +apology. “He’s working on an enormous +project, a merging of several companies, +and he’s so soaked in it he can’t +come up for a breath.” +</p> + +<p> +In the late afternoon the maid set out +high tea for us, before our departure for +New York. Thalia suggested that perhaps +one highball was enough if Winchester +intended to drive over the wet +roads. Win immediately mixed a second, +asking if she had ever seen him in +the least affected. “Be better for you +than tea before a long damp drive, too.” +He clinked the ice in his glass. “Jazz +you up a bit.” Nug was begging for +food and Thalia, bending to give him a +corner of her sandwich, apparently did +not hear Winchester. He looked about +the room, a smug, owning look. The +fire and candlelight shone in the heavy +waxed rafters, made silver beads of the +<a id="page-686" class="pagenum" title="686"></a> +rain on the French windows. I watched +him—heavier, more dominant, his prominent +dark eyes and his lips sullen, as +if the whiskey banked up his temper +rather than appeased it. +</p> + +<p> +Then Jim, the gardener, brought the +car to the door; the children scrambled +in. Dorothy wanted to take Nug, but +her father said not if she wanted to sit +with him and drive. +</p> + +<p> +“How about chains, sir?” Jim held +the umbrella for Thalia. +</p> + +<p> +“Too damned noisy. Don’t need +them.” Winchester slammed the door +and slid under the wheel. Thalia and +I, with Fletcher between us, sat comfortably +in the rear. +</p> + +<p> +“I like it better when Walter drives, +don’t you, Mother?” said Fletcher as +we slid down the drive out to the road. +</p> + +<p> +“Sh—Father likes to drive. And +Walter likes Sunday off, too.” Thalia’s +voice was cautious. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s too dark to see anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can see lots,” announced Dorothy, +whereupon Fletcher promptly turned +the handle that pushed up the glass between +the chauffeur’s seat and the rear. +</p> + +<p> +The heavy car ran smoothly over the +wet narrow road, with an occasional +rumble and flare of headlights as some +car swung past. Not till we reached +the turnpike was there much traffic. +There Winchester had to slacken his +speed for other shiny beetles slipping +along through the rain. Sometimes he +cut past a car, weaving back into line +in the glaring teeth of a car rushing +down on him, and Fletcher would turn +inquiringly toward his mother. The +gleaming, wet darkness and the smooth +motion made me drowsy, and I paid +little heed until we slowed in a congestion +of cars at the approach to the +bridge. Far below on the black river, +spaced red and white stars suggested +slow-moving tugs, and beyond, faint +lights splintered in the rain hinted at +the city. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s look for the cliff dwellers, +Mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Thalia leaned forward, her fine, sharp +profile dimly outlined against the shifting +background of arches, and Fletcher +slipped to his feet, his arm about her +neck. “There!” +</p> + +<p> +We were reaching the New York end +of the bridge, and I had a swift glimpse +of their cliff dwellers—lights in massed +buildings, like ancient camp fires along +a receding mountain side. Just then +Winchester nosed out of the slow line, +Dorothy screamed, the light from another +car tunnelled through our windows, +the car trembled under the sudden +grip of brakes, and like a crazy top spun +sickeningly about, with a final thud +against the stone abutment. A shatter +of glass, a confusion of motor horns +about us, a moment while the tautness +of shock held me rigid. +</p> + +<p> +Around me that periphery of turmoil—the +usual recriminations, “what the +hell you think you’re doing?”—the +shriek of a siren on an approaching +motor cycle. Within the circle I tried +to move across the narrow space of the +car. Fletcher was crying; vaguely I +knew that the door had swung open, +that Thalia was crouching on her knees, +the rain and the lights pouring on her +head and shoulders; her hat was gone, +her wide fur collar looked like a drenched +and lifeless animal. “Hush, Fletcher.” +I managed to force movement into my +stiff body. “Are <a id="corr-0"></a>you hurt? Thalia—” +Then outside Winchester, with the +bristling fury of panic, was trying to lift +her drooping head. “Thalia! My God, +you aren’t hurt!” Someone focussed a +searchlight on the car as Winchester +got his arms about her and lifted her +out through the shattered door. +</p> + +<p> +Over the springing line of the stone +arch I saw the cliff dwellers’ fires and I +thought as I scrambled out to follow +Winchester, “She was leaning forward, +looking at those, and that terrific spin +of the car must have knocked her head +on the door as it lurched open.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lay her down, man!” An important +little fellow had rushed up, a doctor +evidently. “Lay her down, you fool!” +Someone threw down a robe, and Winchester, +<a id="page-687" class="pagenum" title="687"></a> +as if Thalia were a drowned +feather, knelt with her, laid her there +on the pavement. I was down beside +her and the fussy little man also. She +did look drowned, drowned in that beating +sea of tumult, that terrific honking +of motors, unwilling to stop an instant +even for—was it death? Under the +white glare of headlights her lovely face +had the empty shallowness, the husklikeness +of death. The little doctor had +his pointed beard close to her breast; +he lifted one of her long eyelids. “She’s +just fainted, eh, doctor?” Winchester’s +angry voice tore at him. +</p> + +<p> +The little man rose slowly. “She +your wife? I’m sorry. Death must +have been instantaneous. A blow on +the temple.” +</p> + +<p> +With a kind of roar Winchester was +down there beside Thalia, lifting her, +her head lolling against his shoulder, +his face bent over her. “Thalia! Thalia! +Do you hear? Wake up!” I think he +even shook her in his baffled fright and +rage. “Thalia, do you hear me? I +want you to open your eyes. You +weren’t hurt. That was nothing.” And +then, “Dearest, you must!” and more +words, frantic, wild words, mouthed +close to her empty face. I touched his +shoulder, sick with pity, but he staggered +up to his feet, lifting her with him. +Fletcher pressed shivering against me, +and I turned for an instant to the child. +Then I heard Thalia’s voice, blurred and +queer, “You called me, Win?” and +Winchester’s sudden, triumphant laugh. +She was standing against his shoulder, +still with that husklike face, but she +spoke again, “You did call me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, let’s get out of this.” Winchester +was again the efficient, competent +man of affairs. The traffic cops +were shouting, the lines of cars began +to move. Winchester couldn’t start his +motor. Something had smashed. His +card and a few words left responsibility +with an officer, and even as an ambulance +shrilled up, he was helping Thalia +into a taxi. “You take the children, +will you?” to me, and “Get her another +taxi, will you?” to the officer. He had +closed the taxi door after himself, and +was gone, leaving us to the waning curiosity +of passing cars. As we rode off in +a second taxi, I had a glimpse of the +little doctor, his face incredulous, his +beard wagging, as he spoke to the +officer. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothy was, characteristically, tearfully +indignant that her father had left +her to me. Fletcher was silent as we +bumped along under the elevated tracks, +but presently he tugged at my sleeve, +and I heard his faint whisper. “What +is it?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Is my mother really dead?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not, Fletcher. You saw +her get into the cab with your father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t Daddy take us too?” +wailed Dorothy, and I had to turn to +her, although my nerves echoed her +question. +</p> + +<p> +The house door swung open even as +the taxi bumped the curb, and the butler +hurried out with <a id="corr-1"></a>an umbrella which we +were too draggled to need. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Corson instructed me to pay +the man, madam.” He led us into the +hall, where a waiting maid popped the +children at once into the tiny elevator. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you wait for the elevator, +madam? The library is one flight.” +The butler led me up the stairs, and I +dropped into a low chair near the fire, +vaguely aware of the long, narrow room, +with discreet gold of the walls giving +back light from soft lamps. “I’ll tell +Mr. Corson you have come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mrs. Corson—does she seem all +right?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite, madam. It was a fortunate +accident, with no one hurt.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, perhaps it had addled my brain! +I waited in a kind of numbness for Winchester +to come. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he strode in, his feet silent +on the thick rugs. +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry,” he began, abruptly. “I +wanted to look the children over. Not +a scratch on them. You’re all right, of +course?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-688" class="pagenum" title="688"></a> +“Oh, yes. But Thalia—” +</p> + +<p> +“She won’t even have a doctor. I +put her straight to bed—she’s so damned +nervous, you know. Hot-water bottles +... she was cold. I think she’s +asleep now. Said she’d see you in the +morning. You’ll stay here, of course.” +He swallowed in a gulp the whiskey he +had poured. “Have some, Mary? Or +would you like something hot?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thanks. If you’re sure she’s all +right I’ll go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure?” His laugh was defiant. +“Did that damn fool on the bridge +throw a scare into you? He gave me a +bad minute, I’ll say. If that car hadn’t +cut in on me—I told Walter last week +the brakes needed looking at. They +shouldn’t grab like that. Might have +been serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“Since it wasn’t—” I rose, wearily, +watching him pour amber liquid slowly +into his glass—“if you’ll have someone +show me my room—” +</p> + +<p> +“After Chinese bandits, a little skid +ought not to matter to you.” His +prominent eyes gleamed hostilely at me; +he wanted some assurance offered that +the skidding wasn’t his fault, that only +his skill had saved all our lives. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t see Thalia?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s asleep. Nobody can see her.” +His eyes moved coldly from my face, +down to my muddy shoes. “Better +give your clothes to the maid for +a pressing. You’re smeared quite a +bit.” +</p> + +<p> +I woke early, with clear September +sun at the windows of the room, with +blue sky behind the sharp city contours +beyond the windows. There was none +too much time to make the morning +train for Albany, where I had an engagement +that day, an interview for an +article. The maid who answered my +ring insisted on serving breakfast to me +in borrowed elegance of satin negligee. +Mrs. Corson was resting, and would see +me before I left. Something—the formality +and luxury, the complicated +household so unlike the old days at +the Cape—accented the queer dread +which had filtered all night through my +dreams. +</p> + +<p> +I saw Thalia for only a moment. +The heavy silk curtains were drawn +against the light and in the dimness +her face seemed to gather shadows. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you quite all right, Thalia?” I +hesitated beside her bed, as if my voice +might tear apart the veils of drowsiness +in which she rested. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes—” as if she wondered. +Then she added, so low that I wasn’t +sure what I heard, “It is hard to get +back in.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, Thalia?” I bent toward her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be myself once I’ve slept enough.” +Her voice was clearer. “Come back +soon, won’t you, Mary?” Then her +eyelids closed and her face merged into +the shadows of the room. I tiptoed +away, thinking she slept. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +It was late November before I returned +to New York. Free-lancing has +a way of drawing herrings across your +trail and, when I might have drifted +back in early November, a younger +sister wanted me to come home to +Arlington for her marriage. I had +written to Thalia, first a note of courtesy +for my week with her, and then a +letter begging for news. Like many +people of charm, she wrote indifferent +letters, stiff and childlike, lacking in +her personal quality. Her brief reply +was more unsatisfactory than usual. +The children were away in school, lots +of cold rainy weather, everything was +going well. At the end, in writing +unlike hers, as if she scribbled the line +in haste, “I am lonely. When are you +coming?” I answered that I’d show +up as soon as the wedding was over. +</p> + +<p> +The night I reached Arlington was +rainy, too, and I insisted upon a taxi +equipped with chains. My brother +thought that amusing, and at dinner +gave the family an exaggerated account +of my caution. I tried to offer +him some futile sisterly advice and, to +point up my remarks, told about that +drive in from Long Island with the Corsons. +<a id="page-689" class="pagenum" title="689"></a> +I had never spoken of it before; +I found that an inexplicable inhibition +kept me from making much of a story. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, nothing happened, did it?” +Richard was triumphant. +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal might have,” I insisted. +“Thalia was stunned, and I was disagreeably +startled.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thalia was stunned, was she?” An +elderly cousin of ours from New Jersey +picked out that item. I saw her fitting +it into some pigeon hole, but she said +nothing until late that evening when +she stopped at the door of my room. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen Thalia Corson lately?” +she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t been in New York since +September.” +</p> + +<p> +She closed the door and lowered her +voice, a kind of avid curiosity riding +astride the decorous pity she expressed. +</p> + +<p> +“I called there, one day last week. I +didn’t know what was the matter with +her. I hadn’t heard of that accident.” +</p> + +<p> +I waited, an old antagonism for my +proper cousin blurring the fear that +shot up through my thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Thalia was always <em>individual</em>, of +course.” She used the word like a reproach. +“But she had <em>savoir faire</em>. +But now she’s—well—<em>queer</em>. Do you +suppose her head was affected?” +</p> + +<p> +“How is she queer?” +</p> + +<p> +“She looks miserable, too. Thin and +white.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am telling you, Mary. She was +quite rude. First she didn’t come down +for ever so long, although I sent up +word that I’d come up to her room if +she was resting. Then her whole manner—well, +I was really offended. She +scarcely heard a word I said to her, just +sat with her back to a window so I +couldn’t get a good look at her. When +I said, ‘You don’t look like yourself,’ +she actually sneered. ‘Myself?’ she +said. ‘How do you know?’ Imagine! +I tried to chatter along as if I noticed +nothing. I flatter myself I can manage +awkward moments rather well. But +Thalia sat there and I am sure she muttered +under her breath. Finally I rose +to go and I said, meaning well, ‘You’d +better take a good rest. You look half +dead.’ Mary, I wish you’d seen the +look she gave me! Really I was frightened. +Just then their dog came in, you +know, Dorothy’s little terrier. Thalia +used to be silly about him. Well, she +actually tried to hide in the folds of the +curtain, and I don’t wonder! The dog +was terrified at her. He crawled on his +belly out of the room. Now she must +have been cruel to him if he acts like +that. I think Winchester should have +a specialist. I didn’t know how to +account for any of it; but of course a +blow on the head can affect a person.” +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately my mother interrupted +us just then, and I didn’t, by my probable +rudeness, give my cousin reason to +suppose that the accident had affected +me, too. I sifted through her remarks +and decided they might mean only that +Thalia found her more of a bore than +usual. As for Nug, perhaps he retreated +from the cousin! During the next few +days the house had so much wedding +turmoil that she found a chance only for +a few more dribbles: one that Thalia +had given up all her clubs—she had belonged +to several—the other that she +had sent the children to boarding schools +instead of keeping them at home. “Just +when her husband is doing so well, too!” +</p> + +<p> +I was glad when the wedding party +had departed, and I could plan to go +back to New York. Personally I think +a low-caste Chinese wedding is saner +and more interesting than a modern +American affair. My cousin “should +think I could stay home with the +family,” and “couldn’t we go to New +York together, if I insisted upon gadding +off?” We couldn’t. I saw to that. +She hoped that I’d look up Thalia. +Maybe I could advise Winchester about +a specialist. +</p> + +<p> +I did telephone as soon as I got in. +That sentence “I am lonely,” in her +brief note kept recurring. Her voice +sounded thin and remote, a poor connection, +I thought. She was sorry. +<a id="page-690" class="pagenum" title="690"></a> +She was giving a dinner for Winchester +that evening. The next day? +</p> + +<p> +I had piles of proof to wade through +that next day, and it was late afternoon +when I finally went to the Corson house. +The butler looked doubtful but I insisted, +and he left me in the hall while +he went off with my card. He returned, +a little smug in his message: Mrs. Corson +was resting and had left word she +must not be disturbed. Well, you can’t +protest to a perfect butler, and I started +down the steps, indignant, when a car +stopped in front of the house, a liveried +chauffeur opened the door, and Winchester +emerged. He glanced at me in +the twilight and extended an abrupt +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Would Thalia see you?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” For a moment I hoped he +might convoy me past the butler. +“Isn’t she well? She asked me to come +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hoped she’d see you.” Winchester’s +hand smoothed at his little mustache. +“She’s just tired from her +dinner last night. She overexerted herself, +was quite the old Thalia.” He +looked at me slowly in the dusk, and I +had a brief feeling that he was really +looking at me, no, <em>for</em> me, for the first +time in all our meetings, as if he considered +me without relation to himself +for once. “Come in again, will +you?” He thrust away whatever else +he thought of saying. “Thalia really +would like to see you. Can I give you +a lift?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thanks. I need a walk.” As +I started off I knew the moment had +just missed some real significance. If +I had ventured a question ... but, +after all, what could I ask him? He +had said that Thalia was “just tired.” +That night I sent a note to her, saying +I had called and asking when I might +see her. +</p> + +<p> +She telephoned me the next day. +Would I come in for Thanksgiving? +The children would be home, and she +wanted an old-fashioned day, everything +but the sleigh ride New York +couldn’t furnish. Dinner would be at +six, for the children; perhaps I could +come in early. I felt a small grievance +at being put off for almost a week, but +I promised to come. +</p> + +<p> +That was the week I heard gossip +about Winchester, in the curious devious +way of gossip. Atlantic City, and +a gaudy lady. Someone having an inconspicuous +fortnight of convalescence +there had seen them. I wasn’t surprised, +except perhaps that Winchester +chose Atlantic City. Thalia was too +fine; he couldn’t grow up to her. I +wondered how much she knew. She +must, years ago, with her sensitiveness, +have discovered that Winchester was +stationary so far as love went and, +being stationary himself, was inclined +to move the object toward which he +directed his passion. +</p> + +<p> +On Thursday, as I walked across Central +Park, gaunt and deserted in the +chilly afternoon light, I decided that +Thalia probably knew more about Winchester’s +affairs than gossip had given +me. Perhaps that was why she had +sent the children away. He had always +been conventionally discreet, but discretion +would be a tawdry coin among +Thalia’s shining values. +</p> + +<p> +I was shown up to the nursery, with +a message from Thalia that she would +join me there soon. Fletcher seemed +glad to see me, in a shy, excited way, +and stood close to my chair while Dorothy +wound up her phonograph for a +dance record and pirouetted about us +with her doll. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother keeps her door tight locked +all the time,” whispered Fletcher doubtfully. +“We can’t go in. This morning +I knocked and knocked but no one answered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you like your school?” I asked +cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I like my home better.” His eyes, +so like Thalia’s with their long, arched +lids, had young bewilderment under +their lashes. +</p> + +<p> +“See me!” called Dorothy. “Watch +me do this!” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-691" class="pagenum" title="691"></a> +While she twirled I felt Fletcher’s +thin body stiffen against my arm, as if +a kind of panic froze him. Thalia stood +in the doorway. Was the boy afraid of +her? Dorothy wasn’t. She cried, +“See me, Mother! Look at me!” and +in her lusty confusion, I had a moment +to look at Thalia before she greeted me. +She was thin, but she had always been +that. She did not heed Dorothy’s +shrieks, but watched Fletcher, a kind of +slanting dread on her white, proud face. +I had thought, that week on Long +Island, that she shut herself away from +me, refusing to restore the intimacy of +ten years earlier. But now a stiff loneliness +hedged her as if she were rimmed +in ice and snow. She smiled. “Dear +Mary,” she said. At the sound of her +voice I lost my slightly cherished injury +that she had refused earlier to see me. +“Let’s go down to the library,” she +went on. “It’s almost time for the +turkey.” I felt Fletcher break his +intent watchfulness with a long sigh, +and as the children went ahead of us, I +caught at Thalia’s arm. “Thalia—” +She drew away, and her arm, under +the soft flowing sleeve of dull blue stuff, +was so slight it seemed brittle. I +thought suddenly that she must have +chosen that gown because it concealed +so much beneath its lovely embroidered +folds. “You aren’t well, Thalia. What +<em>is</em> it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well enough! Don’t fuss about +me.” And even as I stared reproachfully +she seemed to gather vitality, so +that the dry pallor of her face became +smooth ivory and her eyes were no +longer hollow and distressed. “Come.” +</p> + +<p> +The dinner was amazingly like one of +our old holidays. Winchester wore his +best mood, the children were delighted +and happy. Thalia, under the gold +flames of the tall black candles, was a +gracious and lovely hostess. I almost +forgot my troublesome anxiety, wondering +whether my imagination hadn’t been +playing me tricks. +</p> + +<p> +We had coffee by the library fire +and some of Winchester’s old Chartreuse. +Then he insisted upon exhibiting +his new radio. Thalia demurred, +but the children begged for a concert. +“This is their party, Tally!” Winchester +opened the doors of the old teakwood +cabinet which housed the apparatus. +Thalia sank back into the shadows +of a wing chair, and I watched her +over my cigarette. Off guard, she had +relaxed into strange apathy. Was it +the firelight or my unaccustomed Chartreuse? +Her features seemed blurred +as if a clumsy hand trying to trace a +drawing made uncertain outlines. +Strange groans and whirrs from the +radio. +</p> + +<p> +“Win, I can’t stand it!” Her voice +dragged from some great distance. “Not +to-night.” She swayed to her feet, her +hands restless under the loose sleeves. +</p> + +<p> +“Static,” growled Winchester. “Wait +a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Again it was as if vitality +flowed into her. “Come, children. +You have had your party. Time to go +upstairs. I’ll go with you.” +</p> + +<p> +They were well trained, I thought. +Kisses for their father, a curtsy from +Dorothy for me, and a grave little hand +extended by Fletcher. Then Winchester +came toward the fire as the three of +them disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re good for Thalia,” he said, in +an undertone. “She’s—well, what do +you make of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” I fenced, unwilling to indulge +him in my vague anxieties. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw how she acted about the +radio. She has whims like that. Funny, +she was herself at dinner. Last week +she gave a dinner for me, important +affair, pulled it off brilliantly. Then +she shuts herself up and won’t open her +door for days. I can’t make it out. +She’s thin—” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you had a doctor?” I asked, +banally. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s another thing. She absolutely +refuses. Made a fool of me when +I brought one here. Wouldn’t unlock +her door. Says she just wants to rest. +But—” he glanced toward the door—“do +<a id="page-692" class="pagenum" title="692"></a> +you know that fool on the bridge +... that little runt? The other night, +I swear I saw him rushing down the +steps as I came home. Thalia just +laughed when I asked about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Something clicked in my thoughts, a +quick suspicion, drawing a parallel between +her conduct and that of people I +had seen in the East. Was it some +drug? That lethargy, and the quick +spring into vitality? Days behind a +closed door— +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you’d persuade her to go off +for a few weeks. I’m frightfully pressed +just now, in an important business matter, +but if she’d go off—maybe you’d go +with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where, Winchester?” We both +started, with the guilt of conspirators. +Thalia came slowly into the room. +“Where shall I go? Would you suggest—Atlantic +City?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. Although some place farther +south this time of year—” Winchester’s +imperturbability seemed to me +far worse than some slight sign of embarrassment; +it marked him as so rooted +in successful deceit whether Thalia’s +inquiry were innocent or not. “If +Mary would go with you. I can’t get +away just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not go anywhere until your +deal goes through. Then—” Thalia +seated herself again in the wing chair. +The hand she lifted to her cheek, fingers +just touching her temple beneath the +soft drift of hair, seemed transparent +against the firelight. “Have you told +Mary about your deal? Winchester +plans to be the most important man on +Automobile Row.” Was there mockery +in her tone? “I can’t tell you the details, +but he’s buying out all the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be absurd. Not all of them. +It’s a big merging of companies, that’s +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“We entertain the lords at dinner, +and in some mysterious way that +smooths the merging. It makes a wife +almost necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Invite Mary to the next shebang, +and let her see how well you do it.” +Winchester was irritated. “For all +your scoffing, there’s as much politics +to being president of such a concern as +of the United States.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’ll invite Mary. Then she’ll +see that you don’t really want to dispense +with me—yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God, I meant for a week or +two.” +</p> + +<p> +As Winchester, lighting a cigarette, +snapped the head from several matches +in succession, I moved my chair a little +backward, distressed. There was a thin +wire of significance drawn so taut between +the two that I felt at any moment +it might splinter in my face. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s so lucky—” malice flickered on +her thin face—“that you weren’t hurt +in that skid on the bridge, Mary. Winchester +would just have tossed you in +the river to conceal your body.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you’re going over that again!” +Winchester strode out of the room. As +Thalia turned her head slightly to watch +him, her face and throat had the taut +rigidity of pain so great that it congeals +the nerves. +</p> + +<p> +I was silent. With Thalia I had +never dared intrude except when she +admitted me. In another moment she +too had risen. “You’d better go home, +Mary,” she said, slowly. “I might tell +you things you wouldn’t care to live +with.” +</p> + +<p> +I tried to touch her hand, but she retreated. +If I had been wiser or more +courageous, I might have helped her. +I shall always have that regret, and +that can’t be much better to live with +than whatever she might have told me. +All I could say was stupidly, “Thalia, +if there’s anything I can do! You know +I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Love? That’s a strange word,” she +said, and her laugh in the quiet room +was like the shrilling of a grasshopper +on a hot afternoon. “One thing I will +tell you.” (She stood now on the stairway +above me.) “Love has no power. +It never shouts out across great space. +Only fear and self-desire are strong.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she had gone, and the butler +<a id="page-693" class="pagenum" title="693"></a> +appeared silently, to lead me to the little +dressing room. +</p> + +<p> +“The car is waiting for you, madam,” +he assured me, opening the door. I +didn’t want it, but Winchester was +waiting, too, hunched angrily in a +corner. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the way she acts,” he began. +“Now you’ve seen her I’ll talk about it. +Thalia never bore grudges, you know +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems deeper than a grudge,” I +said cautiously. +</p> + +<p> +“That reference to the ... the accident. +That’s a careless remark I made. +I don’t even remember just what I said. +Something entirely inconsequential. +Just that it was damned lucky no one +was hurt when I was putting this merger +across. You know if it’d got in the +papers it would have queered me. +Wrecking my own car ... there’s always +a suspicion you’ve been drinking. +She picked it up and won’t drop +it. It’s like a fixed idea. If you can +suggest something. I want her to see +a nerve specialist. What does she do +behind that locked door?” +</p> + +<p> +“What about Atlantic City?” I asked, +abruptly. I saw his dark eyes bulge, +trying to ferret out my meaning, there +in the dusky interior of the car. +</p> + +<p> +“A week there with you might do her +good.” That was all he would say, and +I hadn’t courage enough to accuse him, +even in Thalia’s name. +</p> + +<p> +“At least you’ll try to see her again,” +he said, as the car stopped in front of +my apartment house. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +I couldn’t sleep that night. I felt +that just over the edge of my squirming +thoughts there lay clear and whole the +meaning of it all, but I couldn’t +reach past thought. And then, stupidly +enough, I couldn’t get up the next day. +Just a feverish cold, but the doctor insisted +on a week in bed and subdued me +with warnings about influenza. +</p> + +<p> +I had begun to feel steady enough on +my feet to consider venturing outside +my apartment when the invitation +came, for a formal dinner at the Corsons’. +Scrawled under the engraving +was a line, “Please come. T.” I sent a +note, explaining that I had been ill, and +that I should come—the dinner was a +fortnight away—unless I stayed too +wobbly. +</p> + +<p> +I meant that night to arrive properly +with the other guests, but my watch, +which had never before done anything +except lose a few minutes a day, had +gained an unsuspected hour. Perhaps +the hands stuck—perhaps—Well, I was +told I was early, Thalia was dressing, +and only the children, home for the +Christmas holidays, were available. So +I went again to the nursery. Dorothy +was as plump and unconcerned as ever, +but Fletcher had a strained, listening +effect and he looked too thin and white +for a little boy. They were having +their supper on a small table, and Fletcher +kept going to the door, looking out +into the hall. “Mother promised to +come up,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The maid cleared away their dishes, +and Dorothy, who was in a beguiling +mood, chose to sit on my lap and entertain +me with stories. One was about +Nug the terrier; he had been sent out +to the country because Mother didn’t +like him any more. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” interrupted Fletcher, “she +likes him, but he has a queer notion +about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She doesn’t like him,” repeated +Dorothy. Then she dismissed that subject, +and Fletcher too, for curiosity +about the old silver chain I wore. I +didn’t notice that the boy had slipped +away, but he must have gone down +stairs; for presently his fingers closed +over my wrist, like a frightened bird’s +claw, and I turned to see him, trembling, +his eyes dark with terror. He +couldn’t speak but he clawed at me, and +I shook Dorothy from my knees and let +him pull me out to the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Fletcher?” He only +pointed down the stairway, toward his +mother’s door, and I fled down those +stairs. <em>What</em> had the child seen? +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-694" class="pagenum" title="694"></a> +“The door wasn’t locked—” he gasped +behind me—“I opened it very still and +went in—” +</p> + +<p> +I pushed it ajar. Thalia sat before +her dressing table, with the threefold +mirrors reiterating like a macabre symphony +her rigid, contorted face. Her +gown, burnished blue and green like +peacock’s feathers, sheathed her gaudily, +and silver, blue, and green chiffon +clouded her shoulders. Her hands +clutched at the edge of the dressing +table. For an instant I could not move, +thrust through with a terror like the +boy’s. Then I stumbled across the +room. Before I reached her, the mirrors +echoed her long shudder, her eyelids +dragged open, and I saw her stare +at my reflection wavering toward her. +Then her hands relaxed, moved quickly +toward the crystal jars along the heavy +glass of the table and, without a word, +she leaned softly forward, to draw a +scarlet line along her white lips. +</p> + +<p> +“How cold it is in here,” I said, stupidly, +glancing toward the windows, +where the heavy silk damask, drawn +across, lay in motionless folds. “Fletcher +said—” I was awkward, an intruder. +</p> + +<p> +“He startled me.” Her voice came +huskily. She rouged her hollow cheeks. +It was as if she drew another face for +herself. “I didn’t have time to lock the +door.” Then turning, she sought him +out, huddled at the doorway, like a moth +on a pin of fear. “It wasn’t nice of you, +Son. It’s all right now. You see?” +She rose, drawing her lovely scarf over +her shoulders. “You should never open +closed doors.” She blew him a kiss +from her finger tips. “Now run along +and forget you were so careless.” +</p> + +<p> +The icy stir of air against my skin +had ceased. I stared at her, my mind +racing back over what I knew of various +drugs and the stigmata of their victims. +But her eyes were clear and undilated, +a little piteous. “This,” she said, “is +the last time. I can’t endure it.” And +then, with that amazing flood of vitality, +as if a sudden connection had been made +and current flowed again, “Come, Mary. +It is time we were down stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +I thought Fletcher peered over the +railing as we went down. But a swift +upward glance failed to detect him. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner itself I don’t remember +definitely except that it glittered and +sparkled, moving with slightly alcoholic +wit through elaborate courses, +while I sat like an abashed poor relation +at a feast, unable to stop watching +Thalia, wondering whether my week of +fever had given me a tendency to hallucinations. +At the end a toast was +proposed, to Winchester Corson and +his extraordinary success. “It’s done, +then?” Thalia’s gaiety had sudden +malice—as she looked across at Winchester, +seating himself after a slightly +pompous speech. “Sealed and cemented +forever?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks to his charming wife, too,” +cried a plump, bald man, waving his +glass. “A toast to Mrs. Corson!” +</p> + +<p> +Thalia rose, her rouge like flecked +scarlet on white paper. One hand drew +her floating scarf about her throat, and +her painted lips moved without a sound. +There was an instant of agitated discomfort, +as the guests felt their mood +broken so abruptly, into which her +voice pierced, thin, high. “I ... deserve +... such a toast—” +</p> + +<p> +I pushed back my chair and reached +her side. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take her—” I saw Winchester’s +face, wine-flushed, angry rather than +concerned. “Come, Thalia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t bother. I’ll be all right—now.” +But she moved ahead of me so +swiftly that I couldn’t touch her. I +thought she tried to close her door +against me, but I was too quick for that. +The silver candelabra still burned above +the mirrors. “Mary!” Her voice was +low again as she spoke a telephone number. +“Tell him <em>at once</em>.” She stood +away from me, her face a white mask +with spots of scarlet, her peacock dress +ashimmer. I did as I was bid and when +I had said, “Mrs. Corson wishes you at +once,” there was an emptiness where a +<a id="page-695" class="pagenum" title="695"></a> +man’s voice had come which suggested +a sudden leap out of a room somewhere. +</p> + +<p> +“I can never get in again!” Her fingers +curled under the chiffon scarf. +“Never! The black agony of fighting +back—If he—” She bent her head, +listening. “Go down to the door and +let him in,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +I crept down the stairs. Voices from +the drawing-room. Winchester was seeing +the party through. Almost as I +reached the door and opened it I found +him there: the little doctor with the +pointed beard. He brushed past me up +the stairs. He knew the way, then! I +was scarcely surprised to find Thalia’s +door fast shut when I reached it. Behind +it came not a sound. Fletcher, +like an unhappy sleepwalker, his eyes +heavy, slipped down beside me, clinging +to my hand. I heard farewells, churring +of taxis and cars. Then Winchester +came up the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s shut you out?” He raised his +fist and pounded on the door. “I’m +going to stop this nonsense!” +</p> + +<p> +“I sent for a doctor,” I said. “He’s +in there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it—” his face was puffy and gray—“that +same fool?” +</p> + +<p> +Then the door opened, and the man +confronted us. +</p> + +<p> +“It is over,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you done to her?” Winchester +lunged toward the door, but the +little man’s lifted hand had dignity +enough somehow to stop him. +</p> + +<p> +“She won’t come back again.” He +spoke slowly. “You may look if you +care to.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“She died—months ago. There on +the bridge. But you called to her, and +she thought you wanted—<em>her</em>.” +</p> + +<p> +Winchester thrust him aside and +strode into the room. I dared one +glance and saw only pale hair shining +on the pillow. Then Fletcher flung +himself against me, sobbing, and I knelt +to hold him close against the fear we +both felt. +</p> + +<p> +What Winchester saw I never knew. +He hurled himself past us, down the +stairs. And Thalia was buried with +the coffin lid fast closed under the +flowers. +</p> + +<div class="trnote chapter"> +<p class="transnote"> +Transcriber’s Notes +</p> + +<p> +Transcribed from <i>Harper’s Magazine, vol. 152, May 1926, pp. 684-695</i>. +</p> + +<p> +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain. +</p> + +<p> +The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. Minor typesetting +mistakes were silently corrected. All other changes (before/after) are listed +here: +</p> + + + +<ul> + +<li> +... stiff body. “Are <span class="underline">your</span> hurt? Thalia—” ...<br> +... stiff body. “Are <a href="#corr-0"><span class="underline">you</span></a> hurt? Thalia—” ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... hurried out with umbrella which we ...<br> +... hurried out with <a href="#corr-1"><span class="underline">an</span></a> umbrella which we ...<br> +</li> +</ul> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79294 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/79294-h/images/cover.jpg b/79294-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..db92461 --- /dev/null +++ b/79294-h/images/cover.jpg |
