The King in Yellow
partly because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still
I did hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her
well, and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I
had. I knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with
girls like Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble
in the least the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes
open, I also knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in
one manner or another, and though I professed to myself that marriage
was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a
priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high
mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is
more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives
as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia
was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was speaking of
Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and much
more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for my
pretty model until she should fall in love. But _then_ I knew that fate
alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate
would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing
but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face!
Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the
ice in her tumbler.
“Do you know that I also had a dream last night?” I observed.
“Not about that man,” she laughed.
“Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse.”
It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how
little tact the average painter has. “I must have fallen asleep about
ten o’clock,” I continued, “and after a while I dreamt that I awoke. So
plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches,
and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely
believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a
glass cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell
you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned
wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became
impatient and tried to move, but the box was too narrow. My hands were
crossed on my breast, so I could not raise them to help myself. I
listened and then tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the
trample of the horses attached to the wagon, and even the breathing of
the driver. Then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of
a window sash. I managed to turn my head a little, and found I could
look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the
glass panes in the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and
silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In
that house a window was open on the first floor, and a figure all in
white stood looking down into the street. It was you.”
Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with
her elbow.
“I could see your face,” I resumed, “and it seemed to me to be very
sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane.
Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with
fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed
to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was
close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the
hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid——”
A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw
I had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage.
“Why, Tess,” I said, “I only told you this to show you what influence
your story might have on another person’s dreams. You don’t suppose I
really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don’t you
see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive
watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell
asleep?”
She laid her head between her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would
break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was
about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her.
“Tessie dear, forgive me,” I said; “I had no business to frighten you
with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to
believe in dreams.”
Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but
she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her.
“Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.”
Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their
expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again.
“It’s all humbug, Tessie; you surely are not afraid that any harm will
come to you because of that.”
“No,” she said, but her scarlet lips quivered.
“Then, what’s the matter? Are you afraid?”
“Yes. Not for myself.”
“For me, then?” I demanded gaily.
“For you,” she murmured in a voice almost inaudible. “I—I care for
you.”
At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock
passed through me, and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the
crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed
between her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to
that innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could
misunderstand her and assure her as to my health, I could simply point
out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker
than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late,
for I had kissed her on the mouth.
That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over
the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no
back out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not
good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself
or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests
of Brittany. Was it buried for ever? Hope cried “No!” For three years
I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had
waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? “No!”
cried Hope.
I said that I was no good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a
comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what
invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting
consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious,
and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton
forests.
It was too late for me to regret what had occurred during the day.
Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the
more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and
unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart, my path lay marked before
me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had
never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world,
left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because
I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I
have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank
from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact
had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood
poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen
satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might
have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I
did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain
gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps as long
as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better
be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and
whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the
worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard
it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons,
and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I
was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I
dreamed the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was
safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered
my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie
as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future
squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the
affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy
that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we
would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband
unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me
to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry
some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do
something foolish. On the other hand, if she tired of me, then her
whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes
and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As
I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided
that she should find a substantial friend in me, anyway, and the future
could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my
evening dress, for the little faintly-perfumed note on my dresser said,
“Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,” and the note was signed
“Edith Carmichel, Metropolitan Theatre.”
I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and
I, at Solari’s, and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on
the Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith
at the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed along
the trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to
the Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a
figure sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept
over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass.
Then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might
merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed
up within me that such a creature should address me. For an instant I
felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I
walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some
time I tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out
of my ears, but could not. It filled my head, that muttering sound,
like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odour of noisome
decay. And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more
distinct, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They
came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them, and at last I could make
some sense out of the sounds. It was this:
“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”
“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”
“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”
I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and
his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked
pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before, and
it troubled me more than I cared to think.
I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but
as I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent
kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then
sat down before the easel.
“Hello! Where’s the study I began yesterday?” I asked.
Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the
piles of canvases, saying, “Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take
advantage of the morning light.”