That had been very singular—very singular. What a queer, dark, unhappy delight, holding her glass in her hand, she had taken in seeing the home of her supplanter! Every nook and cranny. The clothes, the linen, the china, the rugs, the furniture, the photographs of Daisy which stood on the dressing table—the broom with which he had killed the mouse in the bathtub, the stove under which the fire had broken out—she had to see it all. She seemed unable to see enough. Was there anything else? Nothing more? Nothing more at all? And then, after a while, the delirium in the dark room, the divine delirium—the profound simple happiness at being together again, after all these months, and in spite of the shadow of Daisy—or perhaps even more because of it. Would there ever again be such an hour in his life?
Possibly not. And yet, there had been something wrong with it. In spite of the sharp edge given to their delight by the fact that they were using Daisy’s apartment and that Eunice was secretly and wickedly, as it were, usurping Daisy’s place, a delight of which they had both been acutely conscious at the time, and in spite too of the feeling of revelry which it was impossible not to share with the public frenzy—for the streets were full of yodeling men and women—nevertheless, as they lay together, the queer shadow had come between them. Was it, after all, simply Daisy? Or was it simply that time had somehow sundered them? For suddenly he had begun, after the first raptures were over, to feel detached, remote, alone with himself; his gestures, even his voice, had gradually become more and more self-conscious; the impulse to make love to her seemed to have come to an end. He had lain there and stared at the dark ceiling, awkwardly and almost ashamedly aware of his hand that rested on her shoulder—afraid to caress her, lest the caress seem forced and false, and equally afraid to remove his hand, lest Eunice perceive the change. But she had perceived it, he knew now—as quickly as he had; she too had become strained and strange. A silence had fallen, during which they listened to the sound of running feet outside, drunken shouts, the noise of someone falling heavily, a caterwaul of falsetto laughter. And then by tacit consent they had begun to talk of—not themselves, not of this odd change, which would have been the wise and brave thing to do, but of any trifle, any straw of topic at which they could clutch, as if desperate to conceal their calamity. He remembered, at this point, suddenly realizing that he wanted her to go. He wanted to be alone. If she would go quickly, and if also perhaps she could show, ever so slightly and faintly, but courageously, that she was hurt, why then something might even yet be salvaged. He would be touched, his conscience would be moved, and through this circuit his feeling for her would be renewed. He wanted her to go, moreover, by herself—to have to accompany her all the way to Boston, at this hour, on such a night, with the prospect of a long and hideous return journey, would, he felt sure, be the final destruction of the delicately balanced thing. If, on the other hand, she were to offer to go alone, then again his feeling might be renewed, and he would perhaps actually want to go with her.…
But she had made no such suggestion; no doubt she was a little frightened; she had seen the situation—partially at any rate—and simply hadn’t known how to deal with it. So they had lain together, increasingly silent, increasingly conscious of the dark turmoil of doubt and apathy which had arisen between them, until he had at last himself told her that it was very late. Extraordinary, extraordinary ending to what had promised to be so joyful a night! There was really no reason why she shouldn’t stay with him till morning. But he wanted desperately to be alone. And so they had risen and turned on the lights; and Eunice had rearranged her hair, using Daisy’s mirror; and he had said, a little lamely, that as he was fearfully tired he hoped she wouldn’t mind if he merely saw her to the Square, and there put her on a Massachusetts Avenue car.… Good Lord! It had been scandalous. And on that, of all nights! Harvard Square was a bedlam. And the last car, the owl-car, when it appeared, was packed with the dregs of humanity, all drunk, all singing. And into this horrible crowd he had permitted Eunice to go alone. And the only woman in the car.…
He groaned as he thought of it; he could never think of it without closing his eyes. Astonishing that a mere internal necessity should have compelled him to do such a thing! And not very flattering. And yet, there it was, one of those freaks of psychology. He had had to do it, just as afterwards he had had to wait nearly two years before he felt again a genuine impulse to see her. It hadn’t been that his feeling for her had really changed—not at all. If anything, his feeling for her had been steadily and surely deepening all these years, and was perhaps deeper now than it had ever been. No, it was some subtle pang of conscience, some shadow of Daisy, some vague distaste for duplicity, which had dictated the whole fiasco, and brought to an end the loveliest relationship with a human being which he had ever known. And when, finally, he had tried to get hold of her once more—but again with a misgiving that the same fiasco would recur—it was to learn from Miss McKittrick that Eunice was married. Miss McKittrick had been distinctly hostile and hadn’t in the least tried to conceal it. What was it, precisely, that she had said? He couldn’t remember; but certainly she had conveyed to him, unmistakably, that he had made Eunice very unhappy, and had practically driven her into marriage with a man about whom she cared nothing at all. Miss McKittrick had remained standing during the brief interview, making it plain that she didn’t want to talk with him. And so he had left the door of the Newbury Street house for the last time. He had walked almost automatically to the Waldorf, for a bowl of cornflakes and cream, as if somehow for the completion of a ritual, and as he sat there and stared at the ugly mosaic floor he had begun to know his misery, his misery which had never left him, and which perhaps would never leave him. He must see her—he must see her. He must, somehow, explain the whole horrible thing to her! But it was impossible.… And when, later still, he had written to her, she had merely said, “No!”
Well, it was time to get up, time for breakfast, and still snowing, and time for work. And later in the day—well, he would walk through Newbury Street; and look up at the three windows which had once belonged to Eunice.
SPIDER, SPIDER
Just as he allowed himself to sink gloomily into the deep brown leather chair by the fireplace, reflecting, “Here I am again, confound it—why do I come here?”—she came swishing into the room, rising, as she always did, curiously high on her toes. She was smiling delightedly, almost voraciously; the silver scarf suited enchantingly her pale Botticelli face.
“How nice of you to come, Harry!” she said.
“How nice of you to ask me, Gertrude!”
“Nice of me?… Not a bit of it. Self-indulgent.”