“On that corner—a rose, if you like,” he said, without preliminaries, “or on this, a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee! I’ve had an awful time.”
“Awful? Was it? Why on earth do you go?”
“Partly because it gives me such a good alibi—everybody thinks I’m spending the whole afternoon in Watertown.”
Tom smiled at her gratefully. They went into the lunchroom.
“But it’s horrible, somehow,” Marie went on, after a moment, stirring the cup of coffee which had been brought to the mahogany counter. “She’s dying. Really dying. She said a most dreadful thing!… And I lied cheerfully about the train, and came gayly away to meet—you—of whom not one of my family or friends ever heard!… Don’t you think it’s horrible?”
Tom stared at his coffee.
“It’s the way things are,” he said slowly.
Presently they walked down the sloping dark aisle of the vaudeville theater, looking for seats. “Here are two,” said Tom. A blackface singer, on the stage, was singing coarsely. The blinding disc of spotlight, with its chromatic red edge, illuminated his bluish makeup, made his tongue an unnatural pink, sparkled the gold fillings in his wide teeth. “Hot lips,” he intoned, grinning, “that are pips … and no more conscience than a snake has hips.”… Tom took her gloved hand, inserted his finger in the opening, and stroked her palm. A delicious feeling of weakness, dissolution, came over her. Life suddenly seemed to her extraordinarily complex, beautiful, and miserable. “By the waters of Watertown we sat down and wept, yea, we wept when we remembered Boston.”
MR. ARCULARIS
Mr. Arcularis stood at the window of his room in the hospital and looked down at the street. There had been a light shower, which had patterned the sidewalks with large drops, but now again the sun was out, blue sky was showing here and there between the swift white clouds, a cold wind was blowing the poplar trees. An itinerant band had stopped before the building and was playing, with violin, harp, and flute, the finale of “Cavalleria Rusticana.” Leaning against the window-sill—for he felt extraordinarily weak after his operation—Mr. Arcularis suddenly, listening to the wretched music, felt like crying. He rested the palm of one hand against a cold window-pane and stared down at the old man who was blowing the flute, and blinked his eyes. It seemed absurd that he should be so weak, so emotional, so like a child—and especially now that everything was over at last. In spite of all their predictions, in spite, too, of his own dreadful certainty that he was going to die, here he was, as fit as a fiddle—but what a fiddle it was, so out of tune!—with a long life before him. And to begin with, a voyage to England ordered by the doctor. What could be more delightful? Why should he feel sad about it and want to cry like a baby? In a few minutes Harry would arrive with his car to take him to the wharf; in an hour he would be on the sea, in two hours he would see the sunset behind him, where Boston had been, and his new life would be opening before him. It was many years since he had been abroad. June, the best of the year to come—England, France, the Rhine—how ridiculous that he should already be homesick!
There was a light footstep outside the door, a knock, the door opened, and Harry came in.
“Well, old man, I’ve come to get you. The old bus actually got here. Are you ready? Here, let me take your arm. You’re tottering like an octogenarian!”
Mr. Arcularis submitted gratefully, laughing, and they made the journey slowly along the bleak corridor and down the stairs to the entrance hall. Miss Hoyle, his nurse, was there, and the Matron, and the charming little assistant with freckles who had helped to prepare him for the operation. Miss Hoyle put out her hand.
“Goodbye, Mr. Arcularis,” she said, “and bon voyage.”
“Goodbye, Miss Hoyle, and thank you for everything. You were very kind to me. And I fear I was a nuisance.”
The girl with the freckles, too, gave him her hand, smiling. She was very pretty, and it would have been easy to fall in love with her. She reminded him of someone. Who was it? He tried in vain to remember while he said goodbye to her and turned to the Matron.
“And not too many latitudes with the young ladies, Mr. Arcularis!” she was saying.
Mr. Arcularis was pleased, flattered, by all this attention to a middle-aged invalid, and felt a joke taking shape in his mind, and no sooner in his mind than on his tongue.
“Oh, no latitudes,” he said, laughing. “I’ll leave the latitudes to the ship!”
“Oh, come now,” said the Matron, “we don’t seem to have hurt him much, do we?”
“I think we’ll have to operate on him again and really cure him,” said Miss Hoyle.
He was going down the front steps, between the potted palmettos, and they all laughed and waved. The wind was cold, very cold for June, and he was glad he had put on his coat. He shivered.
“Damned cold for June!” he said. “Why should it be so cold?”
“East wind,” Harry said, arranging the rug over his knees. “Sorry it’s an open car, but I believe in fresh air and all that sort of thing. I’ll drive slowly. We’ve got plenty of time.”
They coasted gently down the long hill toward Beacon Street, but the road was badly surfaced, and despite Harry’s care Mr. Arcularis felt his pain again. He found that he could alleviate it a little by leaning to the right, against the arm-rest, and not breathing too deeply. But how glorious to be out again! How strange and vivid the world looked! The trees had innumerable green fresh leaves—they were all blowing and shifting and turning and flashing in the wind; drops of rainwater fell downward sparkling; the robins were singing their absurd, delicious little four-noted songs; even the street cars looked unusually bright and beautiful, just as they used to look when he was a child and had wanted above all things to be a motorman. He found himself smiling foolishly at everything, foolishly and weakly, and wanted to say something about it to Harry. It was no use, though—he had no strength, and the mere finding of words would be almost more than he could manage. And even if he should succeed in saying it, he would then most likely burst into tears. He shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Ain’t it grand?” he said.
“I’ll bet it looks good,” said Harry.
“Words fail me.”
“You wait till you get out to sea. You’ll have a swell time.”
“Oh, swell!… I hope not. I hope it’ll be calm.”
“Tut tut.”
When they passed the Harvard Club Mr. Arcularis made a slow and somewhat painful effort to turn in his seat and look at it. It might be the last chance to see it for a long time. Why this sentimental longing to stare at it, though? There it was, with the great flag blowing in the wind, the Harvard seal now concealed by the swift folds and now revealed, and there were the windows in the library, where he had spent so many delightful hours reading—Plato, and Kipling, and the Lord knows what—and the balconies from which for so many years he had watched the Marathon. Old Talbot might be in there now, sleeping with a book on his knee, hoping forlornly to be interrupted by anyone, for anything.
“Goodbye to the old club,” he said.
“The bar will miss you,” said Harry, smiling with friendly irony and looking straight ahead.
“But let there be no moaning,” said Mr. Arcularis.
“What’s that a quotation from?”
“‘The Odyssey.’”
In spite of the cold, he was glad of the wind on his face, for it helped to dissipate the feeling of vagueness and dizziness that came over him in a sickening wave from time to time. All of a sudden everything would begin to swim and dissolve, the houses would lean their heads together, he had to close his eyes, and there would be a curious and dreadful humming noise, which at regular intervals rose to a crescendo and then drawlingly subsided again. It was disconcerting. Perhaps he still had a trace of fever. When he got on the ship he would have a glass of whisky.… From one of these spells he opened his eyes and found that they were on the ferry, crossing to East Boston. It must have been the ferry’s engines that he had heard. From another spell he woke to find himself on the wharf, the car at a standstill beside a pile of yellow packing cases.