 12. In the quiet place with the green waterfall, Ralph's vision might have kept faith with him, but how could he hope to surprise it in the mid-summer crowds of St. Moritz? Udeen, at any rate, had found there what she wanted, and when he was at her side, an o' radiant smile included him. Every other question was in abeyance. But there were hours of solitary striding over bare grassy slopes, face to face with the ironic interrogation of sky and mountains. When his anxieties came back, more persistent and importunate, sometimes they took the form of merely material difficulties. How, for instance, was he to meet the cost of their ruinous suite at the Engadine Palace, while he awaited Mr. Sprague's next remittance? And once the hotel bills were paid, what would be left for the journey back to Paris, the looming expenses there, the price of the passage to America? These questions would fling him back on the thought of his projected book, which was, after all, to be what the master piece of literature had mostly been, a pot-boiler. Well, why not? Did not the worshipper always heap the rarest essences on the altar of his divinity? Ralph still rejoiced in the thought of giving back to Udine something of the beauty of their first months together. But even on his solitary walks the vision alluded him, and he could spare so few hours to its pursuit. Udine's days were crowded, and it was still a matter of course that where she went he should follow. He had risen visibly in her opinion since they had been absorbed into the life of the big hotels, and she had seen that his commander foreign tongues put him at an advantage, even in circles where English was generally spoken, if not understood. Udine herself, hampered by her lack of languages, was soon drawn into the group of compatriots who struck the social pitch of their hotel. Their types were familiar enough to Ralph, who had taken their measure in former wanderings, and came across their duplicates in every scene of continental idleness. Foremost among them was Mrs. Harvey Shalom, a showy, peritonised figure, with the small wax-featured husband whose ultra-fashionable clothes seemed a tribute to his wife's importance rather than the mark of his personal taste. Mr. Shalom, in fact, could not be said to have any personal bent, though he conversed with a colourless fluency in the principal European tongues. He seldom exercised his gift, except in intercourse with hotel managers and head-waiters, and his long silences were broken, only by resigned allusions to the enormities he had suffered at the hands of his gifted but unscrupulous class. Mrs. Shalom, though in command of but a few verbs, all of which, on her lips, became irregular, managed to express a polyglot personality as vivid as her husband's was of taste. Her only idea of intercourse with her kind was to organise it into bands and subject it to frequent displacements, and society smiled at her for these exertions like an infant vigorously rocked. She saw at once Udean's value as a factor in her scheme, and the two formed an alliance on which Ralph refrained from shedding the cold light of depreciation. It was a point of honour with him, not to seem to disdain any of Udean's amusements. The noisy interminable picnics, the hop promiscuous balls, the concerts, bridge parties and theatricals, which helped to disguise the difference between the High Alps and Paris, or New York. He told himself that there is always anarchists' element in youth, and that what Udean really enjoyed was the image of her own charm mirrored in the general admiration. With her quick perceptions and her adaptabilities, she would soon learn to care more about the quality of the reflecting surface, and, meanwhile, no criticism of his should mar her pleasure. The appearance at their hotel at the Calgary officer from Sienna was a not wholly agreeable surprise, but even after the handsome Marquis had been introduced to Udean, and had whirled her through and evening's dances, Ralph was not seriously disturbed. Husband and wife had grown closer to each other since they had come to Saint Maritz, and in the brief moments she could give him, Udean was now always gay and approachable. Her fitful humours had vanished, and she showed qualities of comradeship that seemed the promise of a deeper understanding. But this very hope made him more subject to her moods, more fearful of disturbing the harmony between them. Leicester Ball could he broach the subject of money. He had too keen a memory of the way her lips could narrow, and her eyes turned from him as if he were a stranger. It was a different matter that one day brought the look he feared to her face. She had announced her intention of going on an excursion with Mrs Shullam and three or four of the young men who formed the nucleus of their shifting circle, and for the first time she did not ask Ralph if he were coming. But he felt no resentment at being left out. He was tired of these noisy assaults on the high solitudes, and the prospect of a quiet afternoon turned his thoughts to his book. Now if ever there seemed a chance of recapturing the moonlight vision, from his balcony he looked down on the assembling party. Mrs Shullam was already screaming billigently and various windows in the long faquade, and Udean presently came out of the hotel with the Marches-Rivano and two young English diplomatists. Slim and tall in her trim mountain garb, she made the ornate Mrs Shullam look like a piece of ambulant upholstery. The high-air brightened her cheeks and struck new lights from her hair, and Ralph had never seen her so touched with morning freshness. The party was not yet complete, and he felt a movement of annoyance when he recognised, in the last person to join it, a Russian lady of cosmopolitan notoriety whom he had run across in his unmarried days, and as to whom he had already warned Udean. Knowing what strange specimens from the depths slipped through the wide meshes at the watering place world, he had foreseen that a meeting with the Baroness, Eldician, was inevitable, but he had not expected her to become one of his wife's intimate circle. When the excursionists had started, he turned back to his writing table and tried to take up his work, but he could not fix his thoughts. They were far away, in pursuit of Udean. He had been but five months married, and it seemed, after all, rather soon for him to be dropped out of such excursions, as unquestioningly as poor Harvey Shullam. He smiled away his first twinge of jealousy, but the irritation at left found a pretext in his displeasure at Udean's choice of companions. Mrs. Shullam grated on his taste, and she was as open to inspection as a shop window, and he was sure that time would teach his wife the cheapness of what she had to show. Rovano and the Englishmen were well enough, too, frankly bent on amusement, but pleasant and well-bred, but they would naturally take their tone from the women they were with, and Madame Adelsheen's tone was notorious. He knew also that Udean's peculiarity of self-defense was weakened by the instinct of adapting herself to whatever company she was in, of copying the others in speech and gesture, as closely as she reflected them in dress, and he was disturbed by the thought of what her ignorance might expose to her. She came back late, flushed with her long walk, her face all sparkle and mystery, as he had seen it in the first days of their courtship, and the look somehow revived his irritated sense of having been intentionally left out at the party. You'd been gone forever. Was it the Eldersheen who made you go such lengths? He asked her, trying to keep to his usual joking tone. Udean, as she dropped down on the sofa and unpinned her hat, shed on him the light of her gill-less gaze. I don't know. Everybody was amusing. The marquee is awfully bright. I'd no idea you or Bertha Shalom knew Madame Adelsheen well enough to take her off with you in that way. Udean sat absently smoothing the tuft of glossy cocks feathers in her hat. I don't see that you've got to know people particularly well to go for a walk with them. The barreness is awfully bright too. She always gave her acquaintances their titles, seeming not, in this respect, to have noticed that a simpler form prevailed. I don't dispute the interest of what she says, but I've told you what decent people think of what she does. Ralph retorted exasperated by what seemed a willful pretense of ignorance. She continued to scrutinise him with her clear eyes, in which there was no shadow over fence. You mean they don't want to go round with her. You're mistaken. It's not true. She goes round with everybody. She dined last night with the grand duchess. Ravano told me so. This was not calculated to make Ralph take a more tolerant view of the question. Does he also tell you what said of her? What said of her? Udean's limpid glance rebuked him. Do you mean that disgusting scandal you told me about? Do you suppose I'd let him talk to me about such things? I meant you're mistaken about her social position. He says she goes everywhere. Ralph laughed impatiently. No doubt Ravano's an authority, but it doesn't happen to be his business to choose your friends for you. Udean echoed his laugh. Well, I guess I don't need anybody to do that. I can do it myself, she said, with the good, humid, curtness that was the habitual note of intercourse with the Spragues. Ralph sat down beside her and laid a caressing touch on her shoulder. No, you can't. You foolish child. You know nothing of this society you're in, of its incidents, its rules, its conventions, and it's my affair to look after you and warn you when you're on the wrong crack. Mercy, what a solemn speech. She shrugged away his hand without ill temper. I don't believe an American woman needs to know such a lot about their old rules. They can see I mean to follow my own, and if they don't like it, they needn't go with me. Oh, they'll go with you fast enough, as you call it. They will be too charmed to. The question is how far they'll make you go with them, and where they'll finally land you. She tossed her head back with the movement she had learned in speaking school pieces about freedom and the British tyrant. No one's ever yet gone any further with me than I wanted. She declared. She was really exquisitely simple. I'm not sure Ravano hasn't, in vouching for Madame Adelsheen, that he probably thinks you know about her. To him, this isn't society any more than the people in an omnibus are. Society to everybody here means the sanction of their own special group and of the corresponding groups elsewhere. The Adelsheen goes about in a place like this because it's nobody's business to stop her, but the woman who tolerated her here would drop her like a shot if she set foot on their own ground. The thoughtful air with which you then heard him out made him fancy this argument had carried, and as he ended, she threw him a bright look. Well, that's easy enough. I can drop her if she comes to New York. Relf sat silent for a moment. Then he turned away and began to gather up his scattered pages. Houdine, in ensuing days, was no less often with Madame Adelsheen, and Relf suspected a challenge in her open frequentation of the lady. But if challenge there were, he let it lie. Whether his wife saw more or less of Madame Adelsheen, seen no longer of much consequence. She had so amply shown him her ability to protect herself. The pang lay in the completeness of the proof, in the perfect functioning of her instinct of self-preservation. For the first time, he was faced to face with his hovering dread. He was judging where he still adored. Before long more pressing cares absorbed him, he already began to watch the post through his father-in-law's monthly remittance, without precisely knowing how, even with its aid, he was to bridge the gulf of expense between St. Moritz and New York. The non-arrival of Mr. Sprague's check was productive of graver tears, and these were abruptly confirmed when, coming in one afternoon, he found Newden crying over a letter from her mother. Her distress made him clear that Mr. Sprague was ill, and he drew her to him soothingly, but she broke away with an impatient movement. Oh, they're all well enough, but father's lost a lot of money. He's been speculating, and he can't send us anything for at least three months. Ralph murmured reassuringly, as long as there's no one ill, but in reality he was following her despairing gaze down the long perspective of their barren quarter. Three months, three months, Udine dried her eyes, and sat with set lips and tapping foot, while he read her mother's letter. Your poor father, it's a hard knock for him. I'm sorry, he said, as he handed it back. For a moment she did not seem to hear. Then she said between her teeth, it's hard for us. I suppose now we'll have to go straight home. He looked at her with wonder, if that were all. In any case, I should have to go back in a few weeks. But we needn't have left here in August. It's the first place in Europe that I've liked, and it's just my luck to be dragged away from it. I'm so awfully sorry, dearest. It's my fault for persuading you to marry a pauper. It's father's fault. Why on earth did he go and speculate? There's no use he's saying he's sorry now. She sat brooding for a moment, and then suddenly took Ralph's hand. Couldn't your people do something? Help us out just this once, I mean? He flushed to the forehead. It seemed inconceivable that she should make such a suggestion. I couldn't ask them. It's not possible. My grandfather does as much as he can for me, and my mother has nothing but what he gives her. Udeen seemed unconscious of his embarrassment. He doesn't give us nearly as much as father does, she said, and as Ralph remained silent, she went on. Couldn't you ask your sister then? I must have some clothes to go home in. His heart contracted as he looked at her. What sinister change came over her when her will was crossed. She seemed to grow inaccessible, implacable. Her eyes were like the eyes of an enemy. I don't know, I'll see, he said, rising and moving away from her. At that moment the touch of her hand was repugnant. Yes, he might ask Laura, no doubt, and whatever she had would be his. But the necessity was bitter to him, and Udeen's unconsciousness of the fact hurt him more than her indifference to her father's misfortune. What hurt him most was the curious fact that, for all her light, irresponsibility, it was always she who made the practical suggestion, hit the nail of expediency on the head. No sentimental scruple made the blow waver or deflected her resolute aim. She had thought at once of Laura, and Laura was his only, his inevitable resource. His anxious mind pictured his sister's wonder, and made him wince under the sting of Henley Fairford's ironing. Fairford, who, at the time of the marriage, had sat silent and pulled his moustache, while everyone else argued and objected, yet under whose silence Ralph had felt a deeper protest than under all the reasoning of the others. It was no comfort to reflect that Fairford would probably continue to say nothing, but necessity made light of these twingers, and Ralph set his teeth and cabled. Udeen's chief surprise seemed to be that Laura's response, though immediate and generous, did not enable them to stay on at St Merritt's. But she apparently read in her husband's look the uselessness of such a hope, for with one of the sudden changes of mood that still disarmed him, she accepted the need of departure, and took leave philosophically at the shalloms and their band. After all, Paris was ahead, and in September, one would have a chance to see the new models and surprise the secret councils of the dressmakers. Ralph was astonished at the tenacity with which she held to her purpose. He tried, when they reached Paris, to make her feel the necessity of starting at once for home, but she complained of fatigue and of feeling vaguely unwell, and he had to yield to her desire for rest. The word, however, was to strike him as strangely misapplied, for from the day at their arrival she was in state of perpetual activity. She seemed to have mastered her Paris by divine ocean, and between the hounds of the boulevards and the place Vendôme, she moved at once with supernatural ease. Of course, she explained to him, I understand how little we've got to spend, but I left New York without a rag, and it was with you who made me counterman my trousseau, instead of having it sent after us. I wish now I hadn't listened to you. Father had to pay for that, before he lost his money. As it is, it will be cheaper in the end for me to pick up a few things here. The advantage of going to the French dressmakers is that they'll wait twice as long for their money as the people at home, and they're all crazy to dress me. Bertha Shalom will tell you so. She says no one ever had such a chance. That's why I was willing to come to this stuffy little hotel. I wanted to save every scrap I could to get a few decent things, and over here they're accustomed to being bargained with. You ought to see how I've beaten them down. Have you any idea what a dinner dress costs in New York? So it went on, obtusely and persistently, whenever he tried to sound the note of prudence. But on other themes, she was more than usually responsive. Paris enchanted her, and they had delightful hours at the theatres, the little ones, amusing dinners at fashionable restaurants, and reckless evenings in haunts, where she thrilled with simple glee at the thought of what she must so obviously be taken for. All these familiar diversions regained, for real, a fresh zest in her company. Her innocence, her high spirits, her astounding comments and credulities renovated the old Parisian adventure and flung a veil of romance over its hachnite scenes. Be held through such a medium the future looked less near and implacable, and Ralph, when he had received a reassuring letter from his sister, led his conscious sleep and slipped forth on the high tide of pleasure. After all, in New York amusements would be fewer, and their life, for a time, perhaps more quiet. Moreover, Ralph's dim glimpses of Mr. Sprague's past suggested that the letter was likely to be on his feet again at any moment, and atoning by redoubled prodigialities for his temporary straits. And beyond all these possibilities, there was the book to be written. The book on which Ralph was sure he should get a real hold as soon as they settled down in New York. Meanwhile, the daily cost of living and the bills that could not be deferred were eating deep into Laura's subsidy. Ralph's anxieties returned, and his plight was brought home to him with the shock when, on going one day to engage passengers, he learned that the prices were that of the rush season, and one of the conditions immediate payment. At other times, he was told the rules were easier, but in September and October, no exception could be made. As he walked away with this fresh weight on his mind, he caught sight of the strolling figure of Peter Dejeun, Peter lounging and luxuriating among the seductions of the Boulevard with the disgusting ease of a man whose wants are all measured by money and who always has enough to gratify them. His present sense of these advantages revealed itself in the availability of his greeting to Ralph, and in his offhand request that the latter should look up Claire, who had come over with him to get her winter finery. She's motoring to Italy next week with some of her long-haired friends, but I'm off for the other side, going back to the sorceress. She's just been overhauled at Crenok, and we ought to have a good spin over. Better come along with me, old man. The sorceress was Van Dejeun's steam yacht, most huge and complicated of her kind, and it was his habit, after his semi-annual flights to Paris and London, to take a joyous company back on her and let Claire return by steamer. The character of these parties made the invitation almost an offence to Ralph, but reflecting that it was probably a phrase distributed to every acquaintance when Van Dejeun was in a rosy mood, he merely answered, Much obliged, my dear fellow, but you deen and I are sailing immediately. Peter's glassy eye grew lively. Ah, to be sure, you're not over the honey moon yet. How's the bride? Stunning as ever. My regards to her, please. I suppose she's too deep in dressmaking to be called on. Don't you forget to look up Claire. He hurried on in pursuit of a flitting petticoat, and Ralph continued his walk home. He prolonged it a little in order to put up telling you deen of his plight, that he could devise only one way of meeting the cost of the voyage, and that was to take it at once, and thus curtail their Parisian expenses. But he knew how unwelcome this plan would be, and he shrunk them all from seeing you deen's face hardened, since at late he had so basked in its brightness. When at last he entered the little salon she called Stuffy. He found her in conference with a blond bearded gentleman who wore the red ribbon in his lapel, and who, on Ralph's appearance, and at a sign, as it appeared, from Mrs Marble, swept into his note case some small objects that had lain on the table, and bowed himself out with a madame Montseua, worthy of the highest traditions. Ralph looked after him with amusement. Who's your friend, an ambassador or a tailor? Udeen was rapidly slipping on her rings, which, as he now saw, had also been scattered over the table. Oh, it was only that jeweler I told you about, the one Bertha Shalom goes to. A jeweler? Good heavens, my poor girl, you're buying jewels. The extravagance at the idea struck a laugh from him. Udeen's face did not harden. It took on, instead, almost deprecating look. Of course not. How silly you are. I only wanted a few old things reset, but I won't if you'd rather not. She came to him and sat down at his side, laying a hand on his arm. He took the hand up and looked at the deep gleam of the sapphires in the old family ring he had given her. You won't have that reset, he said, smiling and twisting the ring about on her finger. Then he went on with his thankless explanation. It's not that I don't want you to do this or that. It's simply that for the moment we're rather strapped. I've just been to see the steamer people and our passengers will cost a good deal more than I thought. He mentioned the sum and the fact that he must give an answer the next day. Would she consent to sail that very Saturday, or should they go a fortnight later in a slow boat from Plymouth? Udeen frowned on both alternatives. She was an indifferent sailor and shrunk from the possible nastiness of the cheaper boat. She wanted to get the voyage over as quickly and luxuriously as possible. Bertha Shalom had told her that in a decked suite, no one need to be seasick, but she wanted still more to have another week or two of Paris, and it was always hard to make her see why circumstances could not be bent to her wishes. This week, but how on earth can I be ready? Besides, we're dining at Engine with the Shaloms on Saturday and motoring to Chantilly with the Jim Driscoll's on Sunday. I can't imagine how you thought we could go this week. But she still opposed the cheap steamer and after they had carried the question onto boysons and there unprofitably discussed it through a long luncheon, it seemed no nearer a solution. Well, think it over, let me know this evening, Ralph said, proportioning the weight as fee to a bill burden by Udeen's reckless choice of premiers. His wife was to join the newly arrived Mrs. Shalom in a round of the Rue de la Pa, and he had seized the opportunity of slipping off to a classical performance at the Francois. On their arrival in Paris, he had taken Udeen to one of these entertainments, but it left her too weary and puzzled for him to renew the attempt, and he had not found time to go back without her. He was glad now to shed his cares in such an atmosphere. The play was of the greatest, the interpretation that of the vanishing grand manor, which lived in his first memories at the Parisian stage, and his surrender such influences as complete as in his early days. Caught up in the fiery chariot of art, he felt once more the tug of its courses in his muscles, and the rush of their flight still throbbed in him when he walked back late to the hotel. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of the Custom of the Country This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Katie Gibbany, Arkansas, April 2008. The Custom of the Country by Edith Wharton, Chapter 13 He had expected to find Undine still out, but on the stairs he crossed Mrs. Shallum, who threw at him from under an immense hat-brim. Yes, she's in, but you'd better come and have tea with me at the luxe. I don't think husbands are wanted. Ralph laughingly rejoined that that was just the moment for them to appear, and Mrs. Shallum swept on, crying back. All the same, I'll wait for you. In the sitting-room Ralph found Undine seated behind a tea-table, on the other side of which, in an attitude of easy intimacy, Peter Van Degen stretched his lounging length. He did not move on Ralph's appearance, no doubt thinking their kinship close enough to make his nod and, hello, a sufficient greeting. Peter in intimacy was given to miscalculations of the sort, and Ralph's first movement was to glance at Undine and see how it affected her. But her eyes gave out the vivid rays that noise in banter always struck from them. Her face, at such moments, was like a theatre with all the lusters blazing. That the illumination should have been kindled by his cousin's husband was not precisely agreeable to Marvel, who thought Peter abhor in society and an insufferable nuisance on closer terms. But he was becoming blunted to Undine's lack of discrimination, and his own treatment of Van Degen was always tempered by his sympathy for Claire. He therefore listened with apparent good humour to Peter's suggestion of an evening at a petite theatre with the Harvey Shallums, and joined in the laugh with which Undine declared, O Ralph won't go, he only likes the theatres where they walk around in bath towels and talk poetry. Isn't that what you've just been seeing? She added, with a turn of the neck that shed her brightness on him. What, one of those five barrelled shows at the Francois? Great scot, Ralph, no wonder your wife's pining for the Follies-Bergère. She needn't, my dear fellow, we never interfere with each other's vices. Peter, unsolicited, was comfortably lighting a cigarette. Ah, there's the secret of domestic happiness. Marry somebody who likes all the things you don't, and make love to somebody who likes all the things you do. Undine laughed appreciatively. Only it dooms poor Ralph to such awful frumps. Can't you see the sort of woman who'd love his sort of play? Oh, I can see her fast enough. My wife loves them, said their visitor, rising with a grin, while Ralph threw out. So don't waste your pity on me, and Undine's laugh had the slight note of asperity that the mention of Claire always elicited. Tomorrow night, then, at Pallards, Van Degen concluded, and about the other business, that's a go-to, I leave it to you to settle the date. The nod and laugh they exchanged seemed to hint at depths of collusion from which Ralph was pointedly excluded, and he wondered how large a program of pleasure they had already had time to sketch out. He disliked the idea of Undine's being too frequently seen with Van Degen, whose Parisian reputation was not fortified by the connections that propped it up in New York, but he did not want to interfere with her pleasure, and he was still wondering what to say when, as the door closed, she turned to him gaily. I'm so glad you've come. I've got some news for you. She laid a light touch on his arm. Touch and tone were enough to disperse his anxieties, and he answered that he was in luck to find her already in when he had supposed her engaged, over a nouveau luxe tea-table in repairing the afternoon's ravages. Oh, I didn't shop much. I didn't stay out long. She raised a kindling face to him. And what do you think I've been doing while you were sitting in your stuffy old theater, worrying about the money I was spending? Oh, you needn't fib. I know you were. I was saving you hundreds and thousands. I've saved you the price of our passage. Ralph laughed in pure enjoyment of her beauty. When she shone on him like that, what did it matter what nonsense she talked? You wonderful woman, how did you do it, by countermanding a tiara? You know I'm not such a fool as you pretend. She held him at arm's length with a nod of joyous mystery. You'll simply never guess. I've made Peter Van Degen ask us to go home on the sorceress. What do you say to that? She flashed it out on a laugh of triumph, without appearing to have a doubt of the effect the announcement would produce. Ralph stared at her. The sorceress. You made him? Well, I managed it. I worked him round to it. He's crazy about the idea now, but I don't think he'd thought of it before he came. I should say not, Ralph ejaculated. He never would have had the cheek to think of it. Well, I've made him anyhow. Did you ever know such luck? Such luck? He groaned at her obstinate innocence. Do you suppose I'll let you cross the ocean on the sorceress? She shrugged impatiently. You say that because your cousin doesn't go on her. If she doesn't, it's because it's no place for decent women. It's Claire's fault if it isn't. Everybody knows she's crazy about you, and she makes him feel it. That's why he takes up with other women. Her anger reddened her cheeks and dropped her brows like a black bar above her glowing eyes. Even in his recoil from what she said, Ralph felt the tempestuous heat of her beauty. But for the first time his latent resentments rose in him, and he gave her back wrath for wrath. Is that the precious stuff he tells you? Do you suppose I had to wait for him to tell me? Everybody knows it. Everybody in New York knew she was wild when you married. That's why she's always been so nasty to me. If you won't go on the sorceress, they'll all say it's because she was jealous of me and wouldn't let you. Ralph's indignation had already flickered down to disgust. Undine was no longer beautiful. She seemed to have the face of her thoughts. He stood up with an impatient laugh. Is that another of his arguments? I don't wonder they're convincing. But as quickly as it had come, the sneer dropped, yielding to a wave of pity, the vague impulse to silence and protect her. How could he have given way to the provocation of her weakness, when his business was to defend her from it and lift her above it? He recalled his old dreams of saving her from Van Degenism. It was not thus that he had imagined the rescue. Don't let's pay Peter the compliment of squabbling over him, he said, turning away to pour himself a cup of tea. When he had filled his cup, he sat down beside Undine with a smile. No doubt he was joking and thought you were, but if you really made him believe we might go with him you'd better drop him a line. Undine's brow still gloomed. You refuse, then? Refuse? I don't need to. Do you want to succeed to have the chorus world of New York? They won't be on board with us, I suppose. The echoes of their conversations will. It's the only language Peter knows. He told me he longed for the influence of a good woman, she checked herself, reddening at Ralph's laugh. Well, tell him to apply again when he's been under it a month or two. Meanwhile, we'll stick to the liners. Ralph was beginning to learn that the only road to her reason lay through her vanity, and he fancied that if she could be made to see Van Degen as an object of ridicule she might give up the idea of the sorceress of her own accord. But her will hardened slowly under his joking opposition, and she became no less formidable as she grew more calm. He was used to women who, in such cases, yielded as a matter of course to masculine judgments. If one pronounced a man not decent, the question was closed. But it was Undine's habit to ascribe all interference with her plans to personal motives, and he could see that she attributed his opposition to the furtive machinations of poor Claire. It was odious to him to prolong the discussion, for the accent of recrimination was the one he most dreaded on her lips. But the moment came when he had to take the brunt of it, averting his thoughts as best he might, from the glimpse it gave, of a world of mean familiarities, of reprisals drawn from the vulgarest of vocabularies. Certain retorts sped through the air like the flight of household utensils. Certain charges rang out like accusations of tampering with the groceries. He stiffened himself against such comparisons, but they stuck in his imagination and left him thankful when Undine's anger yielded to a burst of tears. He had held his own and gained his point. The trip on the sorceress was given up, and a note of withdrawal dispatched to Van Degen. But at the same time Ralph cabled his sister to ask if she could increase her loan, for he had conquered only at the cost of a concession. Undine was to stay in Paris till October, and they were to sail on a fast steamer in a deck suite like the Harvey Chalems. Undine's ill humour was soon dispelled by any new distraction, and she gave herself to the untroubled enjoyment of Paris. The Chalems were the centre of a like-minded group. And in the hours the ladies could spare from their dressmakers, the restaurants shook with their hilarity and the suburbs with the shriek of their motors. Van Degen, who had postponed his sailing, was a frequent sharer in these amusements. But Ralph counted on New York influences to detach him from Undine's train. He was learning to influence her through her social instincts, where he had once tried to appeal to other sensibilities. His worst moment came when he went to see Claire Van Degen, who, on the eve of departure, had begged him to come to her hotel. He found her less restless and rattling than usual, with a look in her eyes that reminded him of the days when she had haunted his thoughts. The visit passed off without vain returns to the past, but as he was leaving she surprised him by saying, Don't let Peter make a goose of your wife. Ralph reddened but laughed. Oh, Undine's wonderfully able to defend herself, even against such seductions as Peter's. Mrs. Van Degen looked down with a smile at the bracelets on her thin brown wrist. His personal seductions, yes, but as an inventor of amusements he's inexhaustible, and Undine likes to be amused. Ralph made no reply, but showed no annoyance. He simply took her hand and kissed it as he said goodbye, and she turned from him without audible farewell. As the day of departure approached, Undine's absorption in her dresses almost precluded the thought of amusement. Early and late she was closeted with fitters and packers, even the competent celeste not being trusted to handle the treasures now pouring in, and Ralph cursed his weakness in not restraining her and then fled for solace to museums and galleries. He could not rouse in her any scruple about incurring fresh deaths, yet he knew she was no longer unaware of the value of money. She had learned to bargain, pare down prices, evade fees, browbeat the small tradespeople and wedle concessions from the great. Not, as Ralph perceived, from any effort to restrain her expenses, but only to prolong and intensify the pleasure of spending. Pained by the trait, he tried to laugh her out of it. He told her once that she had a miserly hand, showing her in proof that, for all their softness, the fingers would not bend back, or the pink palm open. But she retorted a little sharply that it was no wonder, since she'd heard nothing talked of since their marriage but economy, and this left him without any answer. So the purveyors continued to mount to their apartment, and Ralph, in the course of his frequent nights from it, found himself always dodging the corners of black-glazed boxes and swaying pyramids of pasteboard, always lifting his hat to sidling milleners' girls, or a-facing himself before slender venduces, floating by in a mist of a poppenax. He felt incompetent to pronounce on the needs to which these visitors ministered, but the reappearance among them of the blonde-bearded jeweler gave him ground for fresh fears. Andine had assured him that she had given up the idea of having her ornaments reset, and there had been ample time for their return, but on his questioning her she explained that there had been delays and bothers, and put him in the wrong by asking ironically if he supposed she was buying things for pleasure when she knew as well as he that there wasn't any money to pay for them. But his thoughts were not all dark. Andine's moods still infected him, and when she was happy he felt an answering lightness. Even when her amusements were too primitive to be shared he could enjoy their reflection in her face. Only, as he looked back, he was struck by the evanescence, the lack of substance in their moments of sympathy, and by the permanent marks left by each breach between them. Yet he still fancied that some day the balance might be reversed, and that as she acquired a finer sense of values the depths in her would find a voice. Something of this was in his mind when, the afternoon before their departure, he came home to help her with their last arrangements. She had begged him for the day to leave her alone in their cramped salon into which belated bundles were still pouring, and it was nearly dark when he returned. The evening before she had seemed pale and nervous, and at the last moment had excused herself from dining with the shalems at a suburban restaurant. It was so unlike her to miss any opportunity of the kind that Ralph had felt a little anxious. But with the arrival of the Packers she was a foot in in command again, and he withdrew submissively, as Mr. Sprague, in the early apex days, might have fled from the spring storm of house-cleaning. When he entered the sitting room he found it still in disorder. Every chair was hidden under scattered dresses, tissue paper surged from the yawning trunks, and, prone among her heaped-up finery, Undine lay with closed eyes on the sofa. She raised her head as he entered, and then turned listlessly away. My poor girl, what's the matter? Haven't they finished yet? Instead of answering she pressed her face into the cushion and began to sob. The violence of her weeping shook her hair down on her shoulders, and her hands, clenching the arm of the sofa, pressed it away from her as if any contact were insufferable. Ralph bent over her in alarm. Why, what's wrong, dear? What's happened? Her fatigue of the previous evening came back to him, a puzzled, hunted look in her eyes, and with the memory a vague wonder revived. He had fancied him felt fairly disencumbered of the stock formulas about the hallowing effects of motherhood, and there were many reasons for not welcoming the news he suspected she had to give. But the woman a man loves is always a special case, and everything was different that befell Undine. If this was what had befallen her, it was wonderful and divine, for the moment that was all he felt. Dear, tell me what's the matter, he pleaded. She sobbed on unheedingly, and he waited for her agitation to subside. He shrank from the phrases considered appropriate to the situation, but he wanted to hold her close and give her the depth of his heart in long kiss. Suddenly she sat upright and turned a desperate face on him. Why on earth are you staring at me like that? Anybody can see what's the matter. He winced at her tone, but managed to get one of her hands in his, and they stayed thus in silence, eye to eye. Are you as sorry as all that, he began at length conscious of the flatness of his voice? Sorry, sorry, I'm—I'm—she snatched her hand away and went on weeping. But Undine, dearest, by and by you'll feel differently, I know you will. Differently, differently, when, in a year? It takes a year, a whole year out of life. What do I care how I shall feel in a year? The chill of her tone struck in. This was more than a revolt of the nerves. It was a settled, a reasoned resentment. Ralph found himself groping for extenuations, evasions, anything to put a little warmth into her. Who knows, perhaps, after all, it's a mistake. There was no answering light in her face. She turned her head from him wearily. Don't you think, dear, you may be mistaken? Mistaken? How on earth can I be mistaken? Even in that moment of confusion he was struck by the cold competence of her tone and wondered how she could be so sure. You mean you've asked, you've consulted? The irony of it took him by the throat. They were the very words he might have spoken in some miserable secret colloquy, the words he was speaking to his wife. She repeated dully, I know I'm not mistaken. There was another long silence. Undine lay still, her eyes shut, drumming on the arm of the sofa with a restless hand. The other lay cold in Ralph's clasp, and through it there gradually stole to him the benumbing influence of the thought she was thinking, the sense of the approach of illness, anxiety and expense, and of the general unnecessary disorganization of their lives. That's all you feel, then, he asked at length a little bitterly, as if to disguise from himself the hateful fact that he felt it too. He stood up and moved away. That's all, he repeated? Why, what else do you expect me to feel? I feel horribly ill, if that's what you want. He saw the sobs trembling up through her again. Poor dear, poor girl, I'm so sorry, so dreadfully sorry. The senseless reiteration seemed to exasperate her. He knew it by the quiver that ran through her like the premonitory ripple on smooth water before the coming of the wind. She turned about on him and jumped to her feet. Sorry, you're sorry, you're sorry! Why, what earthly difference will it make to you? She drew back a few steps and lifted her slender arms from her sides. Look at me, see how I look, how I'm going to look? You won't hate yourself more and more every morning when you get up and see yourself in the glass. Your life's going on just as usual, but what's mine going to be for months and months? And just as I'd been to all this bother, fagging myself to death about all these things, her tragic gesture swept the disordered room, just as I thought I was going home to enjoy myself and look nice and see people again and have a little pleasure after all our worries. She dropped back on the sofa with another burst of tears. For all the good this rubbish will do me now, I load the very sight of it, she sobbed with her face in her hands. CHAPTER XIV It was one of the distinctions of Mr. Claude Walshingham Popple that his studio was never too much encumbered with the attributes of his art to permit the installing in one of its cushioned corners of an elaborately furnished tea-table flanked by the most varied seductions and sandwiches and pastry. Mr. Popple, like all great men, had at first had his ups and downs, but his reputation had been permanently established by the verdict of a wealthy patron who, returning from an excursion into other fields of portraiture, had given it as the final fruit of his experience that Popple was the only man who could do pearls. To sitters for whom this was of the first consequence, it was another of the artist's merits that he always subordinated art to elegance in life as well as in his portraits. The messy element of production was no more visible in his expensively screened and tapestry'd studio than its results were perceptible in his painting, and it was often said, in praise of his work, that he was the only artist who kept his studio tidy enough for a lady to sit to him in a new dress. Mr. Popple, in fact, held that the personality of the artist should at all times be dissembled behind that of the man. It was his opinion that the essence of good breeding lay in tossing off a picture as easily as you lit a cigarette. Ralph Marble had one said of him that when he began a portrait, he always turned back his cuffs and said, Ladies and gentlemen, you can see there's absolutely nothing here. And Mrs. Fairfort supplemented the description by defining his painting as Shafing-Dish art. On a certain late afternoon of December, some four years after Mr. Popple's first meeting with Miss Undine Sprague of Apex, even the symbolic Shafing-Dish was nowhere visible in his studio. The only evidence of its recent activity being the full-length portrait of Mrs. Ralph Marble, who, from her lofty easel and heavily garlanded frame, faced the doorway with the air of having been invited to receive for Mr. Popple. The artist himself, becomingly clad in mouse-colored velveteen, had just turned away from the picture to hover above the teacups. But his place had been taken by then considerably broader bulk of Mr. Peter Van Degen, who tightly molded into a coat of the latest cut stood before the portrait in the attitude of a first arrival. Yes, it's good. It's damn good, Pop. You've hit the hair off ripplingly. But the pearls ain't big enough, he pronounced. A slight laugh sounded from the raised dais behind the easel. Of course they're not. But it's not his fault, poor man. He didn't give them to me. As she spoke, Mrs. Ralph Marble rose from a monumental guilt armchair of pseudo-Venetian design, and swept her long draperies to Van Degen's side. He might, then, for the privilege of painting you, the latter rejoined, transferring his bulging stare from the counterfeit to the original. His eyes rested on Mrs. Marble's in what seemed a quick exchange of understanding. Then they passed on to a critical inspection of her person. She was dressed for the sitting in something faint and shining, above which the long curves of her neck looked dead white in the cold light of the studio, and her hair, all a shadowless rosy gold, was starred with the hard glitter of diamonds. The privilege of painting me? Mercy! I have to pay for being painted. He'll tell you he's giving me the picture. But what do you suppose this cost? She laid a fingertip on her shimmering dress. Van Degen's eye rested on her with cold enjoyment. Does the price come higher than the dress? She ignored the illusion. Of course what they charge for is the cut. What they cut away, that's what they ought to charge for, ain't it, Pop? Van Degen took this with cool disdain, but Mr. Popple's sensibilities were offended. My dear Peter, really, the artist, you understand, sees all this as a pure question of color, of pattern, and it's a point of honor with the man to steal himself against the personal seduction. Mr. Van Degen received this protest with the sound of almost vulgar derision, but Undine thrilled agreeably under the glance which her portrayer cast on her. She was flattered by Van Degen's notice, and thought his impertinence witty, but she glowed inwardly at Mr. Popple's eloquence. After more than three years of social experience, she still thought he spoke beautifully like the hero of a novel, and she ascribed to jealousy the lack of seriousness with which her husband's friends regarded him. His conversations struck her as intellectual, and his eagerness to have her share his thoughts was in flattering contrast to Ralph's growing tendency to keep his to himself. Popple's homage seemed the subtlest proof of what Ralph could have made of her if he had really understood her. It was but another step to ascribe all her past mistakes to the lack of such understanding, and the satisfaction derived from this thought had once impelled her to tell the artist that he alone knew how to rouse her higher self. He had assured her that the memory of her words would thereafter hallow his life, and as he hinted that it had not been stained by the darkest errors, she was moved at the thought of the purifying influence she exerted. Thus it was that a man should talk to a true woman, but how few whom she had known possessed the secret. Ralph, in the first months of their marriage, had been eloquent too, had even gone the length of quoting poetry, but he disconcerted her by his baffling twists and strange allusions, she always scented ridicule in the unknown, and the poets he quoted were esoteric and abstruse. Mr. Popple's rhetoric was drawn from more familiar sources, and abounded in favorite phrases and in moving reminiscences of the fifth reader. He was, moreover, as literary as he was artistic, possessing an unequaled acquaintance with contemporary fiction, and dipping even into the lighter type of memoirs in which the old acquaintances of history are served up in the disguise of a royal sorceress or passion in a palace. The mastery with which Mr. Popple discussed the novel of the day, especially in relation to the sensibilities of its hero and heroine, gave Undine a sense of intellectual activity which contrasted strikingly with Marvel's flippant estimate of such works. Passion, the artist implied, would have been the dominant note of his life had it not been held in check by a sentiment of exalted chivalry and by the sense that a nature of such emotional intensity as his must always be ridden on the curb. Van Degen was helping himself from the tray of iced cocktails which stood near the tea-table, and Popple, turning to Undine, took up the thread of his discourse. But why, he asked, why allude before others to feelings so few could understand? The average man, lucky devil, with a compassionate glance at Van Degen's back, the average man knew nothing of the fierce conflict between the lower and higher natures, and even the woman whose eyes had kindled it. How much did she guess of its violence? Did she know, Popple recklessly asked, how often the artist was forgotten in the man? How often the man would take the bit between his teeth? Were it not that the look in her eyes recalled some sacred memory, some lesson learned perhaps beside his mother's knee? I say, Pop, was that where you learned to mix this drink? Because it does the old lady credit, Van Degen called out, smacking his lips, while the artist, dashing a nervous hand through his hair, muttered, hang it, Peter, is nothing sacred to you? It pleased Undine to feel herself capable of inspiring such emotions. She would have been fatigued by the necessity of maintaining her own talk on Popple's level, but she'd like to listen to him, and especially to have others overhear what he said to her. Her feeling for Van Degen was different. There was more similarity of tastes between them, though his manner flattered her vanity less than Popple's. She felt the strength of Van Degen's contempt for everything he did not understand, or could not buy. That was the only kind of exclusiveness that impressed her, and he was still to her, as in her inexperienced days, the master of the mundane science she had once imagined that Ralph Marvel possessed. During the three years since her marriage, she had learned to make distinctions unknown to her girlish categories. She had found out that she had given herself to the exclusive and the dowdy when the future belonged to the showy and the promiscuous. That she was in the case of those who have cast in their lot with the fallen cause, or to use an analogy more within her range, who have hired an opera box on the wrong night. It was all confusing and exasperating. Apex ideals had been based on the myth of old families ruling New York from a throne of revolutionary tradition with the new millionaires paying them futile allegiance. But experience had long since proved the delusiveness of the simile. Mrs. Marvel's classification of the world into the visited and the unvisited was as obsolete as a medieval cosmogony. Some of those whom Washington Square left unvisited were the center of social systems far outside its kin, and as indifferent to its opinions as the constellations to the reckonings of the astronomers, and all these systems joyously revolved about their central son of gold. There were moments after Undine's return to New York when she was tempted to class her marriage with the hateful early mistakes from the memories of which she had hoped it would free her. Since it was never her habit to accuse herself of such mistakes, it was inevitable that she should gradually come to lay the blame on Ralph. She found a poignant pleasure at this stage of her career in the question, What does a young girl know of life? And the poignancy was deepened by the fact that each of the friends to whom she put the question seemed convinced that, had the privilege been his, he would have known how to spare her the disenchantment it implied. The conviction of having blundered was never more present to her than when, on this particular afternoon, the guests invited by Mr. Popple to view her portrait began to assemble before it. Some of the principal figures of Undine's group had rallied for the occasion, and almost all were in exasperating enjoyment of the privileges for which she pined. There was young Jim Driscoll, heir apparent of the house, with his short stout, mistrustful wife, who hated society, but went everywhere lest it might be thought she had been left out. The beautiful Mrs. Beringer, a lovelily aimless being, who kept, as Laura Fairford said, a home for stray opinions, and could never quite tell them apart. Little Dickie Bowles, whom everyone invited, because he was understood to say things, if one didn't. The Harvey Shalems, fresh from Paris, and dragging in their wake a bewildered nobleman vaguely designated as the Count, who offered cautious conversational openings, like an explorer trying beads on savages, and behind these morseliant types, the usual filling in of those who are seen everywhere because they have learned to catch the social eye. Such a company was one to flatter the artist, as much as his sitter, so completely did it represent the unanimity of opinion which constitutes social strength. Not one of the number was troubled by any personal theory of art. All they asked of a portrait was that the costume should be sufficiently lifelike, and the face not too much so. And a long experience in idealizing flesh and realizing dress fabrics had enabled Mr. Popple to meet both demands. Hang it, Peter Van Degen pronounced, standing before the easel in an attitude of inspired interpretation. The great thing in a man's portrait is to catch the likeness. We all know that. But with the women's, it's different. A woman's picture has got to be pleasing. Who wants it about if it isn't? Those big chaps who blow about what they call realism, how do their portraits look in a drawing room? Do you suppose they ever ask themselves that? They don't care. They're not going to live with the things. And what do they know of drawing rooms anyhow? Lots of them haven't even got a dress suit. There's where ol' Pop has the pool over him. He knows how we live and what we want. This was received by the artist with the deprecating murmur, and by his public with warm expressions of approval. Happily in this case, Popple began, as in that of so many of my sitters he hastily put in, there has been no need to idealize. Nature herself has outdone the artist's dream. Undine, radiantly challenging comparison with her portrait, glanced up at it with a smile of conscious merit, which deepened as young Jim Driscoll declared, by Jove, Mamie, you must be done exactly like that for the new music room. His wife turned a cautious eye upon the picture. How big is it? For our house it would have to be a good deal bigger, she objected, and Popple, fired by the thought of such a dimensional opportunity, rejoined that it would be the chance of all others to work in a marble particle and a court-train. He had just done Mrs. Lysergis Ambler in a court-train and feathers, and as that was for Buffalo, of course the pictures needn't clash. Well, it would have to be a good deal bigger than Mrs. Ambler's, Mrs. Driscoll insisted, and on Popple's suggestion that in that case he might work in Driscoll, in court dress also. You've been presented? Well, you will be. You'll have to, if I do the picture, which will make a lovely memento. Van Degen turned aside to murmur to Undine, pure bluff, you know, Jim couldn't pay for a photograph, old Driscoll's high and dry since the Ararat investigation. She threw him a puzzled glance, having no time in her crowded existence to follow the perturbations of Wall Street, save as they affected the hospitality of Fifth Avenue. You mean they've lost their money? Won't they give their fancy ball, then? Van Degen shrugged. Nobody knows how it's coming out. That queer chap Elmer Muffet threatens to give old Driscoll a fancy ball, says he's going to dress him in stripes. It seems he knows too much about the Apex Street Railways. Undine paled a little. Though she had already tried on her costume for the Driscoll ball, her disappointment at Van Degen's announcement was effaced by the mention of Muffet's name. She had not had the curiosity to follow the reports of the Ararat Trust investigation, but once or twice lately in the snatches of smoking-room talk, she had been surprised by a vague allusion to Elmer Muffet as to a neuradic financial influence, half ridiculed, yet already half-redoubtable. Was it possible that the redoubtable element had prevailed, that the time had come for Elmer Muffet? The Elmer Muffet of Apex could, even for a moment, cause consternation in the Driscoll camp? He had always said he saw things big, but no one had ever believed he was distant to carry them out on the same scale. Yet, apparently in those idle Apex days, while he seemed to be loafing and fooling, as her father called it, he had really been sharpening his weapons of aggression. There had been something, after all, in the effect of loose drifting power she had always felt in him. Her heart beat faster, and she longed to question Mandegen. But she was afraid of betraying herself, and turned back to the group about the picture. Mrs. Driscoll was still presenting objections in a tone of small mild obstinacy. Oh, it's a likeness, of course. I can see that. But there's one thing I must say, Mr. Popple. It looks like a last year's dress. The attention of the ladies instantly rallied to the picture, and the artist paled at the challenge. It doesn't look like a last year's face, anyhow. That's what makes them all wild, Mandegen murmured. Andine gave him back a quick smile. She had already forgotten about Muffet. Any triumph in which she shared left a glow in her veins, and the success of the picture obscured all other impressions. She saw herself throning in a central panel at the spring exhibition, with the crowd pushing about the picture, repeating her name. And she decided to stop on the way home and telephone her press agent to do a paragraph about Popple's tea. But in the hall, as she drew on her cloak, her thoughts reverted to the Driscoll's fancy ball. What a blow if it were given up after she had taken so much trouble about her dress. She was to go as the Empress Josephine, after the Proudhon portrait in the Louvre. The dress was already fitted and partly embroidered, and she foresaw the difficulty of persuading the dressmaker to take it back. Why so pale and sad, fair cousin? What's up? Mandegen asked as they emerged from the lift in which they had descended alone from the studio. I don't know. I'm tired of posing. And it was so frightfully hot. Yes, Popple always keeps his place at low-neck temperature as if the portraits might catch cold. Mandegen glanced at his watch. Where are you off to? West End Avenue, of course, if I can find a cab to take me there. It was not the least of Undine's grievances that she was still living in the house which represented Mr. Sprague's first real estate venture in New York. It had been understood, at the time of her marriage, that the young couple were to be established within the sacred precincts of fashion, but on their return from the honeymoon the still untenanted house in West End Avenue had been placed at their disposal, and in view of Mr. Sprague's financial embarrassment even Undine had seen the folly of refusing it. That first winter, moreover, she had not regretted her exile. While she awaited her boy's birth, she was glad to be out of sight of Fifth Avenue, and to take her hateful compulsory exercise where no familiar eye could fall on her. And the next year, of course, her father would give them a better house. But the next year, rents had risen in the Fifth Avenue quarter, and meanwhile little Paul Marvell, from his beautiful pink cradle, was already interfering with his mother's plans. Ralph, alarmed by the fresh rush of expenses, sided with his father-in-law in urging Undine to resign herself to West End Avenue. And thus, after three years, she was still submitting to the incessant pinpricks inflicted by the incongruity between her social and geographical situation, the need of having to give a West Side address to her tradesmen, and the deeper irritation of hearing her friends say, Do let me give you a lift home, dear. Oh, I'd forgotten. I'm afraid I haven't the time to go so far. It was bad enough to have no motor of her own, to be avowedly dependent on lifts, openly and unconcealably in quest of them, and perpetually plotting to provoke their offer. She did so hate to be seen in a cab. But to miss them, as often as not, because of the remoteness of her destination, emphasized the hateful sense of being out of things. Van Degen looked out at the long snow-piled streets, down which the lamps were beginning to put their dreary yellow splashes. Of course you won't get a cab on a night like this. If you don't mind the open car, you'd better jump in with me. I'll run you out to the High Bridge and give you a breath of air before dinner. The offer was tempting, for Undine's triumph in the studio had left her tired and nervous. She was beginning to learn that success may be as fatiguing as failure. Moreover, she was going to a big dinner that evening, and the fresh air would give her the eyes and complexion she needed. But in the back of her mind there lingered the vague sense of a forgotten engagement. As she tried to recall it, she felt Van Degen raising the fur collar about her chin. Got anything you can put over your head? Will that lace thing do? Come along then. He pushed her through the swinging doors and added with a laugh as they reached the street. You're not afraid of being seen with me, are you? It's all right at this hour. Ralph's still swinging on a strap in the elevated. The winter twilight was deliriously cold, and as they swept through Central Park and gathered impetus for their northward flight along the darkening boulevard, Undine felt the rush of physical joy that drowns scruples and silences memory. Her scruples, indeed, were not serious. But Ralph disliked her being too much with Van Degen, and it was her way to get what she wanted with as little fuss as possible. Moreover, she knew it was a mistake to make herself too accessible to a man of Peter's sort. Her impatience to enjoy was curbed by an instinct for holding off and biting her time that resembled the patient's skill with which her father had conducted the sale of his bad real estate in the Pure Water Move days. But now and then youth had its way. She could not always resist the present pleasure. And it was amusing, too, to be talked about with Peter Van Degen, who was noted for not caring for nice women. She enjoyed the thought of triumphant over meretricious charms. It ennobled her in her own eyes to influence such a man for good. Nevertheless, as the motor flew on through the icy twilight, her present cares flew with it. She could not shake off the thought of the useless fancy dress which symbolized the other crowding expenses she had not dared confess to Ralph. Van Degen heard her sigh and bent down, lowering the speed of the motor. What's the matter? Isn't everything all right? His tone made her suddenly feel that she could confide in him, and though she began by murmuring that it was nothing, she did so with the conscious purpose of being persuaded to confess, and his extraordinary niceness seemed to justify her, and to prove that she had been right in trusting her instinct, rather than in following the counsels of Prudence. Here to four in their talks she had never gone beyond the vaguest hint of material bothers, as to which dissimulation seemed vain, while one lived in West End Avenue. But now that the avowal of a definite worry had been wrung from her, she felt the injustice of the view generally taken of poor Peter, for he had been neither too enterprising nor too cautious, though people said of him that he didn't care it to part. He had just laughed away, in bluff brotherly fashion, the gnawing thought of the fancy dress, had assured her he'd give a ball himself rather than miss seeing her wear it, and had added, oh, hang waiting for the bill, won't a couple of thou make it all right? In a tone that showed what a small matter money was to anyone who took the larger view of life. The whole incident passed off so quickly and easily that within a few minutes she had settled down with the nod for his everything jolly again now to untroubled enjoyment of the hour. Face of mind, she said to herself, was all she needed to make her happy, and that was just what Ralph had never given her. At the thought his face seemed to rise before her with the sharp lines of care between the eyes. It was almost like a part of his nagging that he should thrust himself in at such a moment. She tried to shut her eyes to the face, but a moment later it was replaced by another, a small odd likeness of itself. And with a cry of compunctions she started up from her furs. Mercy! It's the boy's birthday! I was to take him to his grandmothers. She was to have a cake for him, and Ralph was to come uptown. I knew there was something I'd forgotten. End of CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER XV. OF THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Mary Rody. THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY. by Edith Wharton. CHAPTER XV. In the Dagonette drawing-room, the lamps had long been lit, and Mrs. Fairford, after a last impatient turn, had put aside the curtains of worn damask to strain her eyes into the darkening square. She came back to the hearth where Charles Bowen stood, leaning between the prim cariatides of the white marble chimney piece. No sign of her, she simply forgotten. Bowen looked at his watch and turned to compare it with the high-waisted Empire Clock. Six o'clock. Why not telephone again? There must be some mistake. Perhaps she knew Ralph would be late. Laura laughed. I haven't noticed that she follows Ralph's movements so closely. When I telephoned just now, the servant said she'd been out since too. The nurse waited till half past four, not liking to come without orders. And now it's too late for Paul to come. She wandered away toward the father-end of the room, where, through half-open doors, a shining surface of mahogany reflected a flower-readed cake in which two candles dwindled. Put them out, please, she said to someone in the background. Then she shut the doors and turned back to Bowen. It's all so unlucky, my grandfather giving up his drive and mother backing out of her hospital meeting and having all the committee down on her. And Henley, I've even coaxed Henley away from his bridge. He escaped again just before you came. Undine promised she'd have the boy here at four. It's not as if he'd had never happened before. She's always breaking her engagements. She has so many that it's inevitable some should get broken. All if she'd only choose, now that Ralph has had into business, and is kept in his office so late, it's cruel of her to drag him out every night. He told us the other day they hadn't dined at home for a month. Undine doesn't seem to notice how hard he works. Bowen gazed meditatively at the crumbling fire. No, why should she? Why should she? Really, Charles. Why should she when she knows nothing about it? She may know nothing about his business, but she must know it's her extravagance that's forced him into it. Mrs. Fairford looked at Bowen reproachfully. You talk as if you were on her side. Are there sides already? If so, I want to look down on them impartially from the heights of pure speculation. I want to get a general view of the whole problem of American marriages. Mrs. Fairford dropped into her armchair with the sigh. If that's what you want, you must make haste. Most of them don't last long enough to be classified. I grant you it takes an active mind, but the weak point is so frequently the same that after a time one knows where to look for it. What do you call the weak point? He paused. The fact that the average American looks down on his wife. Mrs. Fairford was up with the spring. If that's where paradox lands you—Bowen mildly stood his ground. Well, doesn't he prove it? How much does he let her share in the real business of life? How much does he rely on her judgment and help in the conduct of serious affairs? Take Ralph, for instance. You say his wife's extravagance forces him to work too hard. But that's not what's wrong. It's normal for a man to work hard for a woman. What's abnormal is his not caring to tell her anything about it. To tell on Dean, she'd be bored to death if he did. Just so, she'd even feel aggrieved. But why? Because it's against the custom of the country. And whose fault is that? The man's, again. I don't mean Ralph, I mean the genus he belongs to. Homo sapiens, Americanis. Why haven't we taught our women to take an interest in our work? Simply because we don't take enough interest in them. Mrs. Fairford, sinking back into her chair, sat gazing at the vertiginous depths above which his thoughts seemed to dangle her. You don't. The American man doesn't. The most slaving, self-effacing, self-sacrificing. Yes, and the most indifferent. There's the point. The slaving's no argument against the indifference. To slave for women is part of the old American tradition. Lots of people give their lives for dogmas they've ceased to believe in. Then again, in this country, the passion for making money has preceded the knowing how to spend it. And the American man lavishes his fortune on his wife because he doesn't know what else to do with it. Then you call it a mere want of imagination for a man to spend his money on his wife? Not necessarily, but it's a want of imagination to fancy it's all he owes her. Look about you and you'll see what I mean. Why does the European woman interest herself so much more in what the men are doing? Because she's so important to them that they make it worth her while. She's not a parenthesis, as she is here. She is in the very middle of the picture. I'm not implying that Ralph isn't interested in his wife. He's a passionate, apathetic exception. But even he has to conform to an environment where all the romantic values are reversed. Where does the real life of most American men lie? In some woman's drawing room, or in their offices? The answer's obvious, isn't it? The emotional center of gravity's not the same in the two hemispheres. In the effete society's it's love. In our new one, it's business. In America, the real crime passionel is a big steal. There's more excitement in wrecking railways than homes. Bo and Pasta light another cigarette, and then took up his theme. Isn't that the key to our easy divorces? If we cared for women in the old, barbarous, possessive way, do you suppose we'd give them up as readily as we do? The real paradox is the fact that the men who make, materially, the biggest sacrifices for their women, should do least for them ideally and romantically. And what's the result? How do the women avenge themselves? All my sympathies with them, poor, deluded deers, when I see their fallacious little attempt to trick out the leavings tossed them by the preoccupied male, the money and the motors and the clothes, and pretend to themselves and each other that that's what really constitutes life. Oh, I know what you're going to say. It's less and less of a pretense with them, I grant you. They're more and more succumbing to the force of the suggestion. But here and there I fancy there's one who still sees through the humbug, and knows that money and motors and clothes are simply the big bribe she's paid for keeping out of some man's way. Mrs. Fairford presented an amazed silence to the rush of this tirade. But when she rallied it was to murmur and is undeen one of the exceptions. Her companion took the shot with a smile. No, she's a monstrously perfect result of the system, the completest proof of its triumph. It's Ralph who's the victim and the exception. Oh, poor Ralph! Mrs. Fairford raised her head quickly. I hear him now. I suppose, she added in an undertone, we can't give him your explanation for his wife's having forgotten to come. Bowen echoed her sigh and then seemed to toss it from him with his cigarette end. But he stood in silence while the door opened and Ralph Marvel entered. Well, Laura, hello, Charles. Have you been celebrating, too? Ralph turned to his sister. It's outrageous of me to be so late, and I dared look my son in the face. But I stayed downtown to make provision for his future birthdays. He returned Mrs. Fairford's kiss. Don't tell me the party's over and the guest of honour gone to bed. As he stood before them, laughing and a little flushed, the strain of long fatigue sounding through his gaiety and looking out of his anxious eyes, Mrs. Fairford threw a glass at Bowen and then turned away to ring the bell. Get down, Ralph. You look tired. I'll give you some tea. He dropped into an armchair. I did have, rather, a rush to get here. But hadn't I better joined the revelers? Where are they? He walked to the end of the room and threw open the dining-room doors. Hello! Where have they all gone to? What a jolly cake! He went up to it. Why, it's never even been cut! Mrs. Fairford called after him. Come and have your tea first. No, no. Tea afterward. Thanks. Are they all upstairs with my grandfather? I must make my peace with Undine. His sister put her arm through his and drew him back to the fire. Undine didn't come. Didn't come? Who brought the boy then? He didn't come, either. That's why the cake's not cut. Ralph frowned. What's the mystery? Is he ill? Or what's happened? Nothing's happened. Paul's all right. Apparently, Undine forgot. She never went home for him, and the nurse waited till it was too late to come. She saw his eyes darken. But he merely gave a slight laugh and drew out his cigarette case. Poor little Paul! Poor chap! He moved toward the fire. Yes, please. Some tea. He dropped back into his chair with the look of weariness, as if some strong stimulant had suddenly ceased to take effect on him. But before the tea-table was brought back, he had glanced at his watch and was on his feet again. But this won't do. I must rush home and see the poor chap before dinner. And my mother and my grandfather—I want to say a word to them. I must make Paul's excuses. Grandfather's taking his nap, and mother had to rush out for a postponed committee meeting. She left as soon as we heard Paul wasn't coming. Ah, I see. He sat down again. Yes, make the strong, please. I've had a beastly fagging sort of day. He leaned back half-closed eyes, his untouched cup in his hand. Then took leave, and Laura sat silent, watching her brother under lowered lids, while she feigned to be busy with the kettle. Ralph presently emptied his cup and put it aside. Then, sinking into his former attitude, he clasped his hands behind his head and lay staring apathetically into the fire. But suddenly he came to life and started up. A motor-horn had sounded outside, and there was a noise of wheels at the door. There's Undine. I wonder what could have kept her. He jumped up and walked to the door. But it was Claire Van Degen who came in. At sight of him she gave a little murmur of pleasure. What luck to find you! No, not luck. I came because I knew you'd be here. He never comes near me, Laura. I have to hunt him down to get a glimpse of him. Slender and shadowy in her long furs, she bent to kiss Mrs. Fairford, and then turned back to Ralph. Yes, I knew I'd catch you here. I knew it was the boy's birthday, and I've brought him a present, a vulgar, expensive Van Degen offering. I've not enough imagination left to find the right thing, the thing it takes feeling and not money to buy. When I look for a present nowadays, I never say to the shopman, I want this or that. I simply say, give me something that costs so much. She drew a parcel from her muff. Where's the victim of my vulgarity? Let me crush him under the weight of my gold. Mrs. Fairford sighed out. Claire, Claire. And Ralph smiled at his cousin. I'm sorry, but you'll have to depute me to present it. The birthday's over. You're too late. She looked surprised. Why, I've just left Mamie Driscoll, and she told me Undine was still at Popple's studio a few minutes ago. Popple's giving a tea to show the picture. Popple's giving a tea? Ralph struck an attitude of mock consternation. Ah, in that case, in Popple's society, who wouldn't forget the flight of time? He had recovered his usual easy tone, and Laura saw that Mrs. Van Degen's words had dispelled his preoccupation. He turned to his cousin. Will you trust me with your present for the boy? Claire gave him the parcel. I'm sorry not to give it to myself. I said what I did because I knew what you and Laura were thinking, but it's really a battered old Dagonette bowl that came to me from our revered great grandmother. What? The heirloom you used to eat your porridge out of? Ralph detained her hand to put a kiss on it. That's dear of you. She threw him one of her strange glasses. Why not say, That's like you. But you don't remember what I'm like. She turned away to glass at the clock. It's late, and I must be off. I'm going to a big dinner at the Chauncey Ellings. But you must be going there, too, Ralph. You'd better let me drive you home. In the motor Ralph leaned back in silence, while the rug was drawn over their knees, and Claire restlessly fingered the row of gold-topped objects in the rack at her elbow. It was restful to be swept through the crowded streets in this smooth fashion, and Claire's presence at his side gave him a vague sense of ease. For a long time now, feminine nearness had come to mean to him not this relief from tension, but the ever-renewed dread of small daily deceptions, evasions, subterfuges. The change had come gradually, marked by one disillusionment after another. But there had been one moment that formed the point beyond which there was no returning. It was the moment, a month or two before his boy's birth, when glancing over a batch of belated Paris bills, he had come on one from the jeweler he had once found in private conference with Undine. The bill was not large, but two of its items stood out sharply, resetting Pearl and Diamond Pendant, resetting Sapphire and Diamond Ring. The Pearl and Diamond Pendant was his mother's wedding present. The ring was one he had given Undine on their engagement. That they were both family relics, kept unchanged through several generations, scarcely mattered to him at the time. He felt only the stab of his wife's deception. She had assured him in Paris that she had not had her jewels reset. He had noticed, soon after their return to New York, that she had left off her engagement ring. But the others were soon discarded also, and in answer to his question she had told him that, in her ailing state, rings worried her. Now he saw she had deceived him, and forgetting everything else, he went to her, bill in hand. Her tears and distress filled him with immediate contrition. Was this a time to torment her about trifles? His anger seemed to cause her actual physical fear, and at the sight he abased himself in entreaties for forgiveness. When the scene ended, she had pardoned him, and the reset ring was on her finger. Soon afterward, the birth of the boy seemed to wipe out these humiliating memories. Yet Marvel found in time that they were not afaced, but only momentarily crowded out of sight. In reality, the incident had a meaning out of proportion to its apparent seriousness, for it put in his hand a clue to a new side of his wife's character. He no longer minded her having lied about the jeweler. What pained him was that she had been unconscious of the wound she inflicted in destroying the identity of the jewels. He saw that, even after their explanation, she still supposed he was angry only because she had deceived him, and the discovery that she was completely unconscious of states of feeling on which so much of his inner life depended marked a new stage in their relation. He was not thinking of all this as he sat beside Claire Van Degen, but it was part of the chronic disquietude which made him more alive to his cousin's sympathy, her shy, unspoken understanding. After all, he and she were of the same blood, and had the same traditions. She was slight and frivolous, without strength of will or depth of purpose, but she had the frankness of her foibles, and she would never have lied to him or traded on his tenderness. Claire's nervousness gradually subsided, and she lapsed into a low-voiced mood, which seemed like an answer to his secret thought. But she did not sound the personal note, and they chatted quietly of commonplace things, of the dinner dance at which they were presently to meet, of the costume she had chosen for the Driscoll Fancy Ball, the recurring rumors of old Driscoll's financial embarrassment, and the mysterious personality of Elmer Muffet, on whose movements Wall Street was beginning to fix a fascinated eye. When Ralph, the year after his marriage, had renounced his profession to go into partnership with the firm of real estate agents, he had come in contact for the first time with the drama of business, and whenever he could turn his attention from his own tasks, he found a certain interest in watching the fierce interplay of its forces. In the downtown world, he had heard things of Muffet that seemed to single him out from the common herd of money-makers, anecdotes of his coolness, his lazy good temper, the humorous detachment he preserved in the heat of conflicting interests, and his figure was enlarged by the mystery that hung about it, the fact that no one seemed to know whence he came, or how he had acquired the information which, for the moment, was making him so formidable. I should like to see him, Ralph said. He must be a good specimen of the one of the few picturesque types we've got. Yes, it might be amusing to fish him out, but the most picturesque types in Wall Street are generally the tamest in a drawing-room, Claire littered, but doesn't Undine know him? I seem to remember seeing them together. Undine and Muffet? Then you know him? You've met him? Not actually met him, but his been pointed out to me. It must have been some years ago. Yes, it was one night at the theatre, just after you announced your engagement. He fancied her voice trembled slightly, as though she thought he might notice her way of dating her memories. You came into our box, she went on, and I asked you the name of the red-faced man who was sitting in the stall next to Undine. You didn't know, but someone told us it was Muffet. Marvel was more struck by her tone than by what she was saying. If Undine knows him, it's odd she's never mentioned it, he answered indifferently. The motor stopped at his door, and Claire, as she held out her hand, turned a first full look at him. Why do you never come to see me? I miss you more than ever, she said. He pressed her hand without answering, but after the motor had rolled away, he stood for a while on the pavement, looking after it. When he entered the house, the hall was still dark, and the small over-furnished drawing-room empty. The parlor may told him that Mrs. Marvel had not yet come in, and he went upstairs to the nursery. But on the threshold, the nurse met him with a whispered request not to make a noise, as it had been hard to quiet the boy after the afternoon's disappointment, and she had just succeeded in putting him to sleep. Ralph went down to his own room and threw himself in the old college arm-chair, in which four years previously he had sat the night out, dreaming of Undine. He had no study of his own, and he had crowded into his narrow bedroom, his prints and book-shells, and the other relics of his youth. As he sat among them now, the memory of that other night swept over him, the night when he had heard the call. Fool as he had been not to recognize its meaning then, he knew himself triply mocked in being, even now, at its mercy. The flame of love that had played about his passion for his wife had died down to its embers. All the transfiguring hopes and delusions were gone, but they had left an unquenchable ache for her nearness, her smile, her touch. His life had come to be nothing but a long effort to win these mercies by one concession after another. The sacrifice of his literary projects, the exchange of his profession for an uncongenial business, and the incessant struggle to make enough money to satisfy her increasing exactions. That was where the call had led him. The clock struck eight, but it was useless to begin to dress till Andine came in, and he stretched himself out in his chair, reached for a pipe, and took up the evening paper. His passing annoyance had died out. He was usually too tired after his day's work for such feelings to keep their edge long. But he was curious, disinterestedly curious, to know what pretext Andine would invent for being so late, and what excuse she would have found for forgetting the little boy's birthday. He read on till half past eight, then he stood up and sauntered to the window. The avenue below it was deserted, not a carriage or motor turned the corner, around which he expected Andine to appear, and he looked idly in the opposite direction. There, too, the perspective was nearly empty, so empty that he singled out a dozen blocks away the blazing lamps of a large touring-car that was bearing furiously down the avenue from Morningside. As it drew nearer, its speed slackened, and he saw it hug the curb and stop at his door. By the light of the street lamp he recognized his wife as she sprang out, and detected a familiar silhouette in her companion's fur-coated figure. Then the motor flew on, and Andine ran up the steps. Ralph went out on the landing. He saw her coming up quickly, as if to reach her room unperceived. But when she saw a side of him, she stopped, her head thrown back, and the light falling on her blown hair and glowing face. "'Well,' she said, smiling up at him, "'They waited for you all afternoon in Washington Square. The boy never had his birthday,' he answered. Her color deepened, but she instantly rejoined. Why, what happened? Why didn't the nurse take him? You said you were coming to fetch him, so she waited. But I telephoned.' He said to himself, Is that the lie?' and answered, Wherefrom? Why, the studio, of course. She flung her cloak open, as if to attest her veracity. The sitting lasted longer than usual. There was something about the dress he couldn't get. But I thought he was giving a tea. He had tea afterward, he always does, and he asked some people in to see my portrait. That detained me too. I didn't know they were coming, and when they turned up I couldn't rush away. It would have looked as if I didn't like the picture. She paused, and they gave each other a searching, simultaneous glance. "'Who told you it was a tea?' she asked. "'Claire Andigan, I saw her at my mother's. So you weren't unconsoled after all.' The nurse didn't get any message. My people were awfully disappointed, and the poor boy has cried his eyes out. "'Dear me, what a fuss! But I might have known my message wouldn't be delivered. Everything always happens to put me in the wrong with your family.' With a little air of injured pride she started to go to her room, but he put out a hand to detain her. "'You've just come from the studio?' "'Yes. It is awfully late. I must go and dress. We're dining with the Ellingens, you know.' "'I know. How did you come? In a cab?' She faced him limpedly. "'No, I couldn't find one that would bring me. So Peter gave me a lift, like an angel. I'm blown to bits. He had his open car.' Her collar was still high, and Ralph noticed that her lower lip twitched a little. He had led her to the point they had reached solely to be able to say, "'If you're straight from the studio, how was it that I saw you coming down from Morningside?' Unless he asked her that, there would be no point in his cross questioning, and he would have sacrificed his pride without a purpose. But suddenly, as they stood there face to face, almost touching, she became something immeasurably alien and far off, and the question died on his lips. "'Is that all?' she asked with a slight smile. "'Yes, you'd better go and dress,' he said, and turned back to his room.' End of Chapter 15