OLIVE left the telephone table and strolled across the bright library to the fire. The sussuration of dragged silk behind her moving gown gave her a queer discomfort; there had been no time to change in the rush; it seemed improper to attend a death-bed in evening dress. And she was intrusive, here, and helpless. Mark’s pain was calm. He would suffer later, at the end of these hours or minutes. The bored, plump doctor came into the library, closed the door and lit a cigarette, joining Olive at the warm hearth.
“He was asking for Miss Walling, just now.”
“Ah? She’s in Philadelphia. She was dining with some friends at the Ritz, there, so we left her.”
The doctor said, “Very sensible,” and blew a smoke ring. Under its dissolution his eyes admired Olive’s shoulders then, the pastel of Gurdy in a black frame on the mantel.
“Tell me,” Olive asked, “how—how far is he conscious?”
[251]“It would be interesting to know. In these collapses we’re not sure. His conscious mind probably asserts itself, now and then. The unconscious—I really can’t say. Still, before you and Mr. Walling came he spoke in Swedish several times. And that’s the unconscious. He forgot his Swedish years ago. Been in this country ever since eighteen sixty-eight. But he spoke Swedish quite correctly and very fast. I’m a Swede. It surprised me.”
“Indeed,” said Olive and shivered before his science, cool, weary, not much interested.
The doctor looked at his watch, murmured, “Twelve thirty,” and tossed his cigarette in the fire. He observed, “But the old gentleman’s in no pain. The reversion’s very interesting. He was talking to some one about Augustin Daly. Very interesting.” The clipped, brisk voice denied the least interest. The doctor went from the library as Olive heard wheels halt outside. This couldn’t be Gurdy. She looked through a window and recognized her maid paying a taxicab driver. The black and yellow taxicab trembled behind a car entirely black and windowless; the undertaker awaited Carlson’s body. Olive drew the curtains across the glass, shook herself and went down to speak with her maid.
“Margot hadn’t come back from her dinner when you came away, Lane?”
[252]“No, m’lady. Such a noosance getting the luggage to the station, down there.... Might I have some tea in your pantry, Mr. Collins?” the woman asked Mark’s butler as Olive turned away. These two would sit in the butler’s pantry drinking tea and discussing deaths. Olive went up the soft stairs and into Carlson’s bedroom behind the library. She entered an immutable group. The two nurses sat in a corner. The doctor examined one of the framed, old photographs that pallidly gleamed on the walls made brown by the lowered light. Mark stood with his hands clutching the white bedfoot. His black seemed to rise supernatural from the floor. He was taller, thinner. He glared at the stretched length of his patron. To Olive the dying man appeared more like an exhumed Pharaoh than ever. The yellow head was unchanged. She had a dizzy, picturesque fancy that his eyes might open, that he might speak in some unknown, sonorous dialect of the Nile. As she dropped a hand beside Mark’s fingers on the rail the old man spoke without breath in a sound of torn fabric yet with an airy, human amusement. “All right, Mister Caz’nove. Don’t git flustered. I’ll tell Miss Morris.”
Mark writhed. The plastron of his shirt crackled. He gripped Olive’s arm and drew her from the room. In the hall he panted, “Augustin[253] Daly’s prompter—a Frenchman—I guess he meant Clara Morris.” But in the cooler hall, away from the insufferable bed, he was ashamed. This was bad behaviour, unmanly, ridiculous. He smiled timidly at Olive who suddenly put her hands on his face and kissed him.
“I talked to Gurdy. He’ll be here as soon as he can, dear.”
“Thanks. Got to go back.” Mark sighed, “You go to bed, though.”
“No.”
Mark didn’t want her to go to bed. He smiled and went back to his watch. Odious time passed. The smell of cigarettes crept from the walls and the furniture. Carlson had smoked many thousands here. One of the nurses clicked a string of beads. The tiny cross was silver and lustrous as it swung. The beads seemed amethyst. What good did the woman think she was doing? But she had liked Carlson. She was praying for his soul and Carlson thought he had a soul. Let her pray. The amethyst flicker soothed Mark, took his eyes from the bed. The voice surprised him with his name.
“Mark.”
“Yessir.”
“It’s a poor house. Rain....”
Mark’s throat was full of dry fire. He gripped the rail, waiting. But the voice did not[254] come again. After four the doctor nodded. One nurse yawned. The Irishwoman fell gently on her knees under the large, signed photograph of Ada Rehan in the frilled, insolent dress of Lady Teazle. Olive led Mark quickly from the room into the library. He pressed his hands on his eyes. He wouldn’t cry over this. Carlson had too often called him a crybaby, a big calf.
“Dear Mark.”
“Oh ... can’t be helped.—God, I did want him to see the Walling! Won’t be any funeral. Body goes straight to Sweden.... He’s left Gurdy and Margot some money.... Awful kindhearted.... Lot of old down and out actors’d come here. Gave ’em money. Awful kind to me.... No reason.” His husky speech made a chant for his old friend. Olive’s eyes filled. He was childish in his woe, charming. She wished that he’d weep so she could fondle the red hair on her shoulder. This would hurt his pleasure in the new theatre and the splendid play. The butler came in after the heavy, descending motion of men on the stairs was over and the dull wheels had rolled off from the curb. He brought a small, gold capped bottle and two glasses on his tray.
“Doctor Lundquist said to bring this up, sir.”
The champagne whispered delicately in the glasses and washed down the muffling, dry taste[255] from Mark’s tongue. He smiled at Olive and said, “Dunno what I’d have done without you bein’ here.” What a brave woman! Her daughter had died swiftly of pneumonia before Olive could reach her. Her son had been blown to pieces.
“I’m glad Gurdy didn’t get here,” she said, “He’s seen quite enough of death and he was fond of Mr. Carlson.”
“Of course. Fonder than Margot was. Bein’ a man, though, he never showed it so much.”
Olive hoped that Margot would never tell him how she disliked the old man’s coarseness, his manifold derisions. She said, “But go to bed, Mark. You really should. These things strain one.”
“Awful. They packed me off to Aunt Edith’s when mamma died. First time I ever saw any one I liked.... Frohman was drowned. Clyde Fitch died in France. Good night, Olive.”
He wished she would kiss him again and watched her pass up to her rooms. Then he went to bed, without thinking, and slept. He slept soundly and woke slowly into warm, luxurious sun that mottled the blue quilt. He said, “Hello, brother,” to Gurdy who leaned on the dresser between the windows, solemn and grieved in a dark suit, his pale hair ruffled and gay with light. Gurdy must be cheered up. “Well, you[256] missed it. He didn’t have a pain. When did you get here?”
“A while ago. I—dad’s here.”
“Eddie? Well, that’s good of him.”
Bernamer came about the bed and dropped a hand on Mark’s chest. He said nothing, but grinned and sat down. His seemly clothes and cropped head made him amazingly like Gurdy. Mark beamed at both of them. “Had your breakfast?”
“Hell, yes,” said Bernamer, “Had two. Got some coffee in Philadelphia and then Lady Ilden made us eat somethin’ when we got here.”
Mark swung out of bed and ordered Gurdy, “Tell ’em to bring me up some coffee in the library, sonny. Oh, Margot ain’t got here?”
“Yes, she’s here,” said Gurdy and quickly left the room.
The sun filled his showerbath. Mark cheered further, babbled to his brother-in-law while he shaved and wondered what Bernamer had talked about to Olive at breakfast.
“Oh, we just talked,” said the farmer, curtly, “Nice kind of woman.”
He leaned in the door of the bathroom and rolled a cigarette in his big, shapely hands. Now that he had five hired men his hands were softer and not so thick. A fine, quiet man, full of sense.
“Awful good of you to come up, Eddie. I[257] ain’t makin’ a fool of myself. The old man was eighty. It’s a wonder he lasted as long.”
“Better get some coffee in you, bud. You look run down.”
“Been workin’ like a horse, Eddie.”
Mark knotted his tie, took Bernamer’s arm and hugged it a little, walking into the library. Olive dropped a newspaper and told him he looked “gorgeous” in a weary voice, then poured coffee into his cup on the low stand by a large chair close to the fire. She was smoking. The vapour didn’t hide yellowish hollows about her eyes.
“No, I didn’t sleep well, old man. Rather fagged.”
“We waked you up pretty early,” said Bernamer, “Sit down, bud, and drink your coffee.”
Mark lounged in the deep chair. Bernamer asked Olive if she had liked Washington but stood patting Mark’s shoulder and rather troubled the drinking of coffee. Gurdy came down the blue rug with some mail.
“Look and see if there’s anything important, sonny. Probably ain’t.... Hello, sister!”
Margot roamed down the library in a black dress. But she paused yards from his stretched hand and frowned incomprehensibly. Gurdy turned at the desk with a letter against his grey[258] coat. Margot said, “I suppose Gurdy’s told you.”
Gurdy thrust his jaw up toward the ceiling. Olive rose with a flat, rasping “Margot” and Bernamer hissed, his fingers tight on Mark’s shoulder. Mark set down his coffee cup and looked at them all.
“Oh, no one’s said anything?” Margot put a knee on a small chair and stroked the velvet back. “Well, we’d better get it over. I was turned out of the hotel in Philadelphia last—”
“Shut up,” said Bernamer, “Shut your mouth!”
She went on, staring at Mark, “I’m going to marry him as soon as he can get a divorce, dad.... No use trying to lie about it. I belong to Cosmo and—and that’s all.” She passed a hand over her mouth. Then her bright slippers twinkled as she walked out of the room. Mark blinked after her. Something had happened. He looked up at Bernamer whose face was rocky, meaningless. Gurdy ran to Mark and spoke in gasps, beating a fist on his hip.
“Russell called me at the farm about two—Dad went down with me.—We talked to the manager—We bribed him.—Russell gave the hotel detective a check for a thousand dollars—”
“I guess they’ll keep their mouths shut,” said Bernamer, “Told ’em they’d each get another check in six months if we didn’t hear nothin’.—Now[259] it ain’t so bad, bud. Margot says this feller can get a divorce from Cora Boyle—He was gone and we didn’t see him. It might be worse.”
“Stop hittin’ your leg, Gurd. You’ll hurt yourself,” said Mark.
He rose and began to walk up and down the tiles of the hearth. One of his hands patted the front of his coat. His face was empty. He seemed wonderfully thin. Olive watched him in terror of a cry. Gurdy and his father drew off against the shelves of still books. Bernamer commenced rolling a cigarette. After a while Mark said, “It’s the way I was brought up, Olive.”
“Oh, Mark, try to—to see her point of view. She loved him. She sees something we don’t—It’s—”
“Sure. That’s so.—Oh, you’re right.”
He walked on, aware of them watching, helpless. Things passed and turned in his head. He was being silly, old-fashioned. Ought to collect himself. Ought to do something for Gurdy who wouldn’t have her, now. Get the boy something to do. Get his mind off it. “Call the office, sonny. Tell them to close ‘Todgers Intrudes.’ Give the company two weeks’ pay. Have Hamlin write checks—Didn’t try to thrash this Rand, did you?”
“We didn’t see him. He’d gone.”
“That’s good. Call the office.”
[260]The boy went to the telephone, far off on its desk and began to talk evenly. Mark stumbled over to Bernamer and mumbled, “Keep him busy. Awful jolt for him, Eddie. Takes it fine.”
“He ain’t in love with her, bud.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Set down, bud. Better drink—”
“No.—Ain’t been any saint, myself. Girls are different.—Maybe he’s a nice fellow.—Took it nice about the play being closed.—I’m all right, Olive. Sort of a shock.”
He walked on. Then he was too tired to walk and Bernamer made him sit in the chair by the hearth. He stared at the blue rug and it seemed to clear his head. He became immobile, watching a white thread. The world centred on this wriggle of white on the blue down. He lapsed into dullness, knowing that Gurdy stood close to him. He should think of things to say, consolations. The boy must be in tortures. He was dull, empty.
Bernamer beckoned Olive. They went out of the library and the farmer shut the door without jarring the silver handle. Olive found herself dizzy. She said, “You have something to—”
“Let’s get downstairs where I can smoke. You’re sick. This is as bad on you—”
He helped her downstairs into the drawing room and was gone, came back with water in[261] which she tasted brandy. The big man lit his cigarette and spoke in a drawl like Mark’s but heavier.
“I don’t understand this business. The little fool says she&rs............