The Gay Cockade
fire--did not fit into the picture. Her dreams of the future had not
included a tired man who worked for his living, and who was dying for
lack of intelligent care.
To put it into cold words makes it sound ghoulish. But of course Rosalie
was not really that. She was merely absorbed in her own exalted theories
and she was not maternal. I think when I compared her, unthinking, to
the young moon, that I was subconsciously aware of her likeness to the
"orbed maiden" whose white fire warms no one.
She tried to do her best, and I am quite sure that Perry never knew the
truth--that he might have been saved if she could have left her heights
for a moment and had become womanly and wifely. If she had mothered him
a bit--poured out her tenderness upon him--oh, my poor Perry. He loved
her too much to ask it, but I knew what it would have meant to him.
All through his last illness Rosalie clung to me. I think it grew to be
a horror to her to see him, gaunt and exhausted, in the west room. He
had a good nurse, toward the last, and good food. I had had a small
fortune left to me, too late, by a distant relative. I paid for the cook
and the nurse, and I sent flowers to Rosalie that she might take them to
Perry and let his hungry eyes feed upon her.
It was in the winter that he died, and after all was over Rosalie and I
went out and stood together on the little porch. There was snow on the
ground and the bright stars seemed caught in the branches of the pines.
Rosalie shook and sobbed.
"I hate--death," she said. "Oh, Jim Crow, why did God let my poor Peer
die?" She was completely unstrung. "Death is so--ugly."
I said, "It is not ugly. Peer will live again--like the daffodils in
the spring."
"Do you believe that, Jim Crow?"
I did believe it, and I told her so--that even now her Peer was strong
and well; and I think it comforted her. It gave her lover back to her,
as it were, in the glory of his youth.
She did not wear mourning, or, rather, she wore mourning which was like
that worn by no other woman. Her robes were of purple. She kept Perry's
picture on the table, and out of the frame his young eyes laughed at us,
so that gradually the vision of that ravaged figure in the west room
faded.
I went to see her once a week. It seemed the only thing to do. She was
utterly alone, with no family but the great-aunt and uncle who had been
with her when she met Perry. She was a child in business matters, and
Perry had left it to me to administer the affairs of his little estate.
Rosalie had her small bungalow, Perry's insurance, and she turned her
knowledge of painting to practical account. She made rather special
things in lamp-shades and screens, and was well paid for them.
I went, as I have said, once a week. A woman friend shared part of her
house, but was apt to be out, and so I saw Rosalie usually alone. I
lived now at the club and kept a car. Rosalie often dined with me, but I
rarely ate at the bungalow. Now and then in the afternoon she made me a
cup of tea, rather more, I am sure, for the picturesque service with
her treasured Sheffield than for any desire to contribute to my own
cheer or comfort.
And so, gradually, I grew into her life and she grew into mine. I was
forty-five, she twenty-five. In the back of my mind was always a sense
of the enormity of her offense against Perry. In my hottest moments I
said to myself that she had sacrificed his life to her selfishness; she
might have been a Borgia or a Medici.
Yet when I was with her my resentment faded; one could as little hold
rancor against a child.
Thus the months passed, and it was in the autumn, I remember, that a
conversation occurred which opened new vistas. She had been showing me a
parchment lamp-shade which she had painted. There was a peacock with a
spreading tail, and as she held the shade over the lamp the light shone
through and turned every feathered eye into a glittering jewel. Rosalie
wore one of her purple robes, and I can see her now as I shut my eyes,
as glowing and gorgeous as some of those unrivaled masterpieces in the
Pitti Palace.
"Jim Crow," she said, "I shall do a parrot next--all red and blue, with
white rings round his eyes."
"You will never do anything better than that peacock."
"Shan't I?" She left the shade over the lamp and sat down. "Do you think
I shall paint peacocks and parrots for the rest of my life, Jim Crow?"
"What would you like to do?" I asked her.
"Travel." She was eager. "Do you know, I have never been to Europe?
Perry used to tell me about it--Botticelli and Raphael--and
Michaelangelo--"
"We had a great time," I said, remembering it all--that breathless
search for beauty.
"He promised that some day he and I would go--together."
"Poor Perry!"
She rose restlessly.
"Oh, take me out somewhere, Jim Crow! I feel as if this little house
would stifle me."
We motored to the country club. She wore the color which she now
affected, a close little hat and a straight frock. People stared at her.
I think she was aware of their admiration and liked it.
She smiled at me as she sat down at the table. "I always love to come
with you, Jim Crow."
"Why?"
"You do things so well, and you're such a darling."
I do not believe that it was intended as flattery. I am sure that she
meant it. She was happy because of the lights and the lovely old room
with its cavernous fireplace and its English chintzes; and out of her
happiness she spoke.
She could not, of course, know the effect of her words on me. No one had
ever called me a darling or had thought that I did things well.
She used, too, to tell me things about my looks. "You'd be like one of
those distinguished gentlemen of Vandyke's if you'd wear a ruff and
leave off your eye-glasses."
I wonder if you know how it seemed to have a child like that saying such
things. For she was more than a child, she was a beautiful woman, and
everything surrounding her was beautiful. And there had been a great
many gray years before I met Perry and before the money came which made
pleasant living possible.
"I like you because you are strong," was another of her tributes.
"How do you know I am strong?"
"Well, you look it. And not many men could have carried me so easily
up-stairs."
She had sprained her ankle in getting out of my car on the night that we
had dined at the country club. She had worn high-heeled slippers and had
stepped on a pebble.
It was on that night that I first faced the fact that I cared for her.
In my arms she had clung to me like a child, her hair had swept my
cheek, there had been the fragrance of violets.
I did not want to care for her. I remembered Perry--the burned toast
which had seemed to mark the beginning of their tragedy--those last
dreadful days. I knew that Perry's fate would not be mine; there would
be no need to sell bread to buy hyacinths. There was money enough and to
spare, money to let her live in the enjoyment of the things she craved;
money enough to--travel.
The more I thought of it the more I was held by the thought of what such
a trip would mean to me. It would be like that pilgrimage with young
Perry. There would be the same impassioned interest--there would be more
than that--there would be youth and loveliness--all mine.
I felt that I was mad to think of it. Yet she made me think of it. It
was what she wanted. She was not in the least unwomanly, but she was
very modern in her frank expression of the pleasure she felt in my
companionship.
"Oh, what would I do without you, Jim Crow?" was the way she put it.
I grew young in my months of association with her. I had danced a little
in my college days, but I had given it up. She taught me the new
steps--and we would set the phonograph going and take up the rugs.
When I grew expert we danced together at the country club and at some of
the smart places down-town. It was all very delightful. I made up my
mind that I should marry her.
I planned to ask her on Christmas Eve. I had a present for her, an
emerald set in antique silver with seed pearls. It was hung on a black
ribbon, and I could fancy it shining against the background of her
velvet smock. I carried flowers, too, and a book. I was keen with
anticipation. The years seemed to drop from me. I was a boy of twenty
going to meet the lady of my first romance.
When I arrived at the bungalow I found that Rosalie had with her the old
great-aunt and uncle who had been with her when we first met in Maine.
They had come on for Christmas unexpectedly, anticipating an eager
welcome, happy in their sense of surprise.
Rosalie, when we had a moment alone, expressed her dismay.
"They are going to stay until to-morrow night, Jim Crow. And I haven't
planned any Christmas dinner."
"We'll take them to the country club."
"How heavenly of you to think of it!"
I gave her the flowers and the book. But I kept the jewel for the high
moment when I should ask her for a greater gift in exchange.
But the high moment did not come that night. The old uncle and aunt sat
up with us. They had much to talk about. They were a comfortable
pair--silver-haired and happy in each other--going toward the end of the
journey hand in hand.
The old man went to the door with me when I left, and we stood for a
moment under the stars.
"Mother and I miss hanging up the stockings for the kiddies," he said.
"Were there many kiddies?"
"Three. Two dead and one married and out West. Rosalie seemed the
nearest that we had, and that's why we came. I thought mother might be
lonely in our big old house."
The next day at the country club the old gentleman was genial but
slightly garrulous. The old lady talked about her children and her
Christmas memories. I saw that Rosalie was frankly bored.
As for myself, I was impatient for my high moment.
But I think I gave the old folks a good time and that they missed
nothing in my manner. And, indeed, I think that they missed nothing in
Rosalie's. They had the gentle complacency of the aged who bask in their
own content.
It was toward the end of dinner that I caught a look in Rosalie's eyes
which almost made my heart stop beating. I had not seen it since Perry's
death. I had seen it first when she had stood in the door of his room on
the night that I tucked him up in bed and gave him the hot oysters. It
was that look of distaste--that delicate shrinking from an unpleasant
spectacle.
Following her gaze I saw that the old gentleman had sunk in his chair
and was gently nodding. His wife leaned toward me.
"Milton always takes a cat nap after meals," she said, smiling. And I
smiled back, she was so rosy and round and altogether comfortable.
Rosalie and I went with them to the train, and it was as we drove back
that I spoke of them.
"They are rather great dears, aren't they?"
Rosalie was vehement. "I hate old people!"
A chill struck to my bones. "You hate them? Why?"
"They're--ugly, Jim Crow. Did you see how they had shrunk since I last
saw them--and the veins in their hands--and the skull showing through
his forehead?"
She was twenty-five, and I was almost twice her age. When I was old she
would still be young--young enough to see my shrunken body and the
skull showing through!
The look that had been in her eyes for Perry would some day be in her
eyes for me. And I knew that if I ever saw it it would strike me dead.
It might not kill me physically, but it would wither like a flame all
joy and hope forever.
When we reached the bungalow I built up a fire, and Rosalie, leaving me
for a little, came back in something sheer and lovely in green. It was
the first time since Perry's death that she had discarded her purple
robes. She sank into a big chair opposite me and put her
silver-slippered feet on the green cushion.