Ainslee's, Vol. 15, No. 5, June 1905

“Think of whom?”

“Why, Rosie.”

“Rosie! What Rosie? Oh, you mean the one who gave you the cherries?”

“Yes, of course. Say” – this impulsively in my ear – “she’s the sweetest girl alive.”

“From what I saw just now,” said I, “I should say that you were quite competent to pass on Rosie’s flavor. You took at least two tastes.”

“I don’t care if you did see,” said Dickie. “Suppose you can keep a secret? We’re en – ”

“You young scamp!” I exclaimed. Visions of an ambitious and angry mother came to me with abrupt vividness. “You don’t mean to tell me that you two – ”

“Yep, we are. But no one is to know of it until I’ve graduated.”

Interesting news for me, wasn’t it? Well, by means of discreet deception and the use of such diplomacy as would have settled a dispute between nations, I dragged Dickie far away that very night. Moreover, although it was the most difficult and thankless task I had ever undertaken, I kept him away until I had seen him safely bestowed in a college dormitory. There I left him constructing, in defiance of all the good advice I had given him, an elaborate missive to a person whom he addressed as “My Darling Rosie.” Then I knew that I might as well give up. Sorrowfully I recalled the words of a forgotten sentimentalist: “It is on the deep pages of the heart that Youth writes indelibly its salutary to Cupid.”

When I met Dickie’s mother at the pier in October, I expected to hear that he had written all about my wicked interference in the Rosie affair. He hadn’t, though, and I shamelessly accepted her thanks, wondering all the while what she would say when the shocking truth came out. Her Dickie engaged! And to a nameless nobody! It would not be pleasant to face Dickie’s mother after she had acquired this knowledge.

So at the end of the term I was on hand to help Dickie pack his trunk, meaning to save him, by hook or crook, from his precocious entanglement. I should try reason first, then ridicule, and, lastly, I would plead with him, as humbly as I might, to forget.

This program I did not carry out. On the mantel in Dickie’s room, propped against a tobacco jar, was a photograph of a girl with fluffy hair and pouting lips. Observing that Dickie wrapped the picture carefully in a sweater before tucking it away in his trunk, I asked: “Who is that, Dickie?”

“Met her at the Junior hop,” said Dickie. “She’s a queen, all right.”

“Indeed!” Then I added, anxiously: “And what of Rosie?”

“Rosie?” Could this blankness on Dickie’s face be genuine? “What Rosie?”

“Why, the one who gave you the cherries.”

“Oh, that one!” Dickie laughed lightly. “Why, that’s all off long ago, you know.”

Right there I abandoned all faith in a sentimental theory having to do with Cupid and certain pages in the heart of Youth.

SONG

I gave to love the fairest roseThat in my garden grew;And still my heart its fragrance knows —Does he remember, too?He laid his dreams upon my day,His kisses on my mouth,I woke, to find him flown awayWith summer to the south.Love’s vagrant step once more to greet,My garden blooms in vain;The roses of the south are sweet —Love will not come again!The roses of the south are sweet —Love will not come again!Charlotte Becker.

AN EDITORIAL

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS I – XIII OF “THE DELUGE,” BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

Matthew Blacklock, the central figure of the story, is essentially a self-made man, who has made himself a power to be reckoned with. He is a man of great natural force, immense egotism, insatiable greed for notoriety and unswerving adherence to his own standards of morality. He has two devouring ambitions: First to become one of the inner circle that controls high finance and second to become one of the elect in society.

The opening chapters explain these ambitions. The magnate of the financial world is Roebuck, who has from time to time made use of Blacklock’s peculiar abilities and following. The latter has become impatient and dissatisfied with his role as a mere instrument and demands of Roebuck that he shall be given a place among the “seats of the mighty.” Roebuck makes a pretense of yielding to the demand.

Blacklock’s social ambition is awakened and stimulated by his meeting with Anita Ellersly, the sister of a young society man who has been the recipient of many financial favors from Blacklock.

The latter finally succeeds in his wish so far as to receive an invitation to dinner at the Ellerslys’, which is given for reasons that are obvious. It is made plain to him, however, that his intentions with respect to Anita are extremely distasteful to her, and after an evening spent under a tremendous nervous strain he leaves the house exhausted and depressed.

His first impulse after his visit to the Ellerslys’ house is to regard his plans as hopeless, but his vanity comes to his rescue and strengthens his resolution to succeed. For assistance he turns to Monson, the trainer of his racing stable, an Englishman in whom he has discovered unmistakable signs of breeding and refinement. Under Monson’s tuition he makes rapid progress in adapting himself to the requirements imposed upon aspirants for social distinction.

His absorption in these pursuits leads to his unconscious neglect of some of the finer points of his financial game. He allows himself to be misled by the smooth appearance of the friendliness of Mowbray Langdon, one of Roebuck’s trusted lieutenants, and accumulates a heavy short interest in one of his pet industrial stocks. He visits Roebuck and is deceived by the latter’s suavity. He has another invitation to dine at the Ellerslys’, but his experience is as discouraging as before.

Nevertheless, having now become hopelessly in love with Anita, he persists in his attentions and finally becomes engaged to her, though it is perfectly understood by both that she does not love him and accepts him only because he is rich and her family is poor.

Meantime, he has to some extent lost his hold upon his affairs in Wall Street and suddenly awakens to the fact that he has been betrayed by Langdon, who, knowing that Blacklock is deeply involved in a short interest in Textile Trust stock, has taken advantage of the latter’s preoccupation with Miss Ellersly to boom the price of the stock. With ruin staring him in the face, Blacklock takes energetic measures to save himself.

He makes the startling discovery that Langdon is the person responsible for the rise in Textile, the object being to drive him from the Street. He sees Anita, tells her the situation and frees her, but she refuses to accept her release when she hears of Langdon’s duplicity.

With the aid of money loaned to him by a gambler friend, he succeeds the next day, by means of large purchases of Textile Trust, in postponing the catastrophe.

Calling at the house of the Ellerslys’, he has a violent scene with Mrs. Ellersly, who attempts to break the engagement between him and Anita, but it ends in his taking her with him from the house.

THE DELUGE

A STORY OF MODERN FINANCE

By David Graham Phillips

[FOR SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS SEE PRECEDING PAGE]

As we neared the upper end of the park, I told my chauffeur, through the tube, to enter and go slowly. Whenever a lamp flashed in at us, I had a glimpse of her progress toward composure – now she was drying her eyes with the bit of lace she called a handkerchief; now her bare arms were up, and with graceful fingers she was arranging her hair; now she was straight and still, the soft, fluffy material with which her wrap was edged drawn close about her throat. I shifted to the opposite seat, for my nerves warned me that I could not long control myself, if I stayed on where her garments were touching me.

I looked away from her for the pleasure of looking at her again, of realizing that my overwrought senses were not cheating me. Yes, there she was, in all the luster of that magnetic beauty I cannot think of even now without an up-blazing of the fire which is to the heart what the sun is to the eyes of a blind man dreaming of sight. There she was on my side of the chasm that had separated us – alone with me – mine – mine! And my heart dilated with pride. But a moment later came a sense of humility. Her beauty intoxicated me, but her youth, her fineness, so fragile for such rough hands as mine, awed and humbled me. “I must be very gentle,” said I to myself. “I have promised that she shall never regret. God help me to keep my promise! She is mine, but only to preserve and protect.” And that idea of responsibility in possession was new to me – was to have far-reaching consequences. Now I think it changed the whole course of my life.

She was leaning forward, her elbow on the casement of the open window of the brougham, her cheek against her hand; the moonlight was glistening on her round, firm forearm and on her serious face. “How far, far away from – everything it seems here!” she said, her voice tuned to that soft, clear light, “and how beautiful it is!” Then, addressing the moon and the shadows of the trees rather than me: “I wish I could go on and on – and never return to – to the world.”

“I wish we could,” said I.

My tone was low, but she started, drew back into the brougham, became an outline in the deep shadow. In another mood that might have angered me. Just then it hurt me so deeply that to remember it to-day is to feel a faint ache in the scar of the long healed wound. My face was not hidden as was hers; so, perhaps, she saw. At any rate, her voice tried to be friendly as she said: “Well – I have crossed the Rubicon. And I don’t regret. It was silly of me to cry. I thought I had been through so much that I was beyond such weakness. But you will find me calm from now on, and reasonable.”

“Not too reasonable, please,” said I, with an attempt at her lightness. “A reasonable woman is as trying as an unreasonable man.”

“But we are going to be sensible with each other,” she urged, “like two friends. Aren’t we?”

“We are going to be what we are going to be,” said I. “We’ll have to take life as it comes.”

That clumsy reminder set her to thinking, stirred her vague uneasiness in those strange circumstances to active alarm. For presently she said, in a tone that was not quite so matter-of-course as she would have liked to make it: “We’ll go now to my uncle Frank’s. He’s a brother of my father. I always used to like him best – and still do. But he married a woman mamma thought – queer – and they hadn’t much – and he lives away up on the West Side – One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street.”

“The wise plan, the only wise plan,” said I, not so calm as she must have thought me, “is to go to my partner’s house and send out for a minister.”

“Not to-night,” she replied, nervously. “Take me to uncle Frank’s, and to-morrow we can discuss what to do and how to do it.”

“To-night,” I persisted. “We must be married to-night. No more uncertainty and indecision and weakness. Let us begin bravely, Anita!”

“To-morrow,” she said. “But not to-night. I must think it over.”

“To-night,” I repeated. “To-morrow will be full of its own problems. This is to-night’s.”

She shook her head, and I saw that the struggle between us had begun – the struggle against her timidity and conventionality. “No, not to-night.” This in her tone for finality.

To have argued with any woman in such circumstances would have been dangerous; to have argued with her would have been fatal. To reason with a woman is to flatter her into suspecting you of weakness and herself of strength. I told the chauffeur to turn about and go slowly uptown. She settled back into her corner of the brougham. Neither of us spoke until we were passing Clairmont. Then she started out of her secure confidence in my obedience, and exclaimed: “This is not the way!” And her voice had in it the hasty call-to-arms.

“No,” I replied, determined to push the panic into a rout. “As I told you, our future shall be settled to-night.” That in my tone for finality.

A pause, then: “It has been settled,” she said, like a child that feels, yet denies, its impotence as it struggles in the compelling arms of its father. “I thought until a few minutes ago that I really intended to marry you. Now I see that I didn’t.”

“Another reason why we’re not going to your uncle’s,” said I.

She leaned forward so that I could see her face. “I cannot marry you,” she said. “I feel humble toward you, for having misled you. But it is better that you – and I – should have found out now than too late.”

“It is too late – too late to go back.”

“Would you wish to marry a woman who does not love you, who loves some one else, and who tells you so and refuses to marry you?” She had tried to concentrate enough scorn into her voice to hide her fear.

“I would,” said I. “And I shall. I’ll not desert you, Anita, when your courage and strength fail. I will carry you on to safety.”

“I tell you I cannot marry you,” she cried, between appeal and command. “There are reasons – I may not tell you. But if I might, you would – would take me to my uncle’s. I cannot marry you!”

“That is what conventionality bids you say now,” I replied. “But what will it bid you say to-morrow morning, as we drive down crowded Fifth Avenue, after a night in this brougham?”

I could not see her, for she drew back into the darkness as sharply as if I had struck her with all my force full in the face. But I could feel the effect of my words upon her. I paused, not because I expected or wished an answer, but because I had to steady myself – myself, not my purpose; my purpose was inflexible. I would put through what we had begun, just as I would have held her and cut off her arm with my pocketknife if we had been cast away alone, and I had had to do it to save her life. She was not competent to decide for herself. Every problem that had ever faced her had been decided by others for her. Who but me could decide for her now? I longed to plead with her, to show her how I was suffering; but I dared not. “She would misunderstand,” said I to myself. “She would think you were weakening.”

Full fifteen minutes of that frightful silence before she said: “I will go where you wish.” And she said it in a tone which makes me wince as I recall it now.

I called my partner’s address up through the tube. Again that frightful silence, then she was trying to choke back the sobs. A few words I caught: “They have broken my will – they have broken my will.”

Ball lived in a big, graystone house that stood apart and commanded a noble view of the Hudson and the Palisades. It was, in the main, a reproduction of a French chateau, and such changes as the architect had made in his model were not positively disfiguring, though amusing. There should have been trees and shrubbery about it, but – “As Mrs. B. says,” Joe had explained to me, “what’s the use of sinking a lot of cash in a house people can’t see?” So there was not a bush, not a flower. Inside – One day Ball took me on a tour of the art shops. “I’ve got a dozen corners and other big bare spots to fill,” said he. “Mrs. B. hates to give up money, haggles over every article. I’m going to put the job through in business style.” I soon discovered that I had been brought along to admire his “business style,” not to suggest. After two hours, in which he bought in small lots about a carload of statuary, paintings, vases and rugs, he said, “This is too slow.” He pointed his stick at a crowded corner of the shop. “How much for that bunch of stuff?” he demanded. The proprietor gave him a figure. “I’ll close,” said Joe, “if you’ll give fifteen off for cash.” The proprietor agreed. “Now we’re done,” said Joe to me. “Let’s go downtown, and maybe I can pick up what I’ve dropped.”

You can imagine that interior. But don’t picture it as notably worse than the interior of the average New York palace. It was, if anything, better than those houses, where people who deceive themselves about their lack of taste have taken great pains to prevent anyone else from being deceived. One could hardly move in Joe’s big rooms for the litter of gilded and tapestried furniture, and their crowded walls made the eyes ache.

The appearance of the man who opened the door for Anita and me suggested that our ring had roused him from a bed where he had deposited himself without bothering to take off his clothes. At the sound of my voice, Ball peered out of his private smoking room, at the far end of the hall. He started forward; then, seeing how I was accompanied, stopped with mouth ajar. He had on a ragged smoking jacket, a pair of shapeless old Romeo slippers, his ordinary business waistcoat and trousers. He was wearing neither tie nor collar, and a short, black pipe was between his fingers. We had evidently caught the household stripped of “lugs,” and sunk in the down-at-the-heel slovenliness which it called “comfort.” Joe was crimson with confusion, and was using his free hand to stroke, alternately, his shiny bald head and his heavy brown mustache. He got himself together sufficiently, after a few seconds, to disappear into his den. When he came out again, pipe and ragged jacket were gone, and he rushed for us in a gorgeous gray velvet jacket with dark red facings, and a showy pair of slippers.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Blacklock” – he always addressed every man as Mister in his own house, just as “Mrs. B.” always called him “Mister Ball,” and he called her “Missus Ball” before “company.” “Come right into the front parlor. Billy, turn on the electric lights.”

Anita had been standing with her head down. She now looked round with shame and terror in those expressive blue-gray eyes of hers; her delicate nostrils were quivering. I hastened to introduce Ball to her. Her impulse to fly passed; her training in doing the conventional thing asserted itself. She lowered her head again, murmured an inaudible acknowledgment of Joe’s greeting.

“Your wife is at home?” said I. If one was at home in the evening, the other always was also, and both were always there, unless they were at some theater – except on Sunday night, when they dined at Sherry’s, because many fashionable people did it. They had no friends and few acquaintances. In their humbler and happy days they had had many friends, but had lost them when they moved away from Brooklyn and went to live, like uneasy, out-of-place visitors, in their grand house, pretending to be what they longed to be, longing to be what they pretended to be, and as discontented as they deserved.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. B.’s at home,” Joe answered. “I guess she and Alva were – about to go to bed.” Alva was their one child. She had been christened Malvina, after Joe’s mother; but when the Balls “blossomed out” they renamed her Alva, which they somehow had got the impression was “smarter.”

At Joe’s blundering confession that the females of the family were in no condition to receive, Anita said to me in a low voice: “Let us go.”

I pretended not to hear. “Rout ’em out,” said I to Joe. “And then take my electric and bring the nearest parson. There’s going to be a wedding – right here.” And I looked round the long salon, with everything draped for the summer departure. Joe whisked the cover off one chair, his man off another. “I’ll have the women folks down in two minutes,” he cried. Then to the man: “Get a move on you, Billy. Stir ’em up in the kitchen. Do the best you can about supper – and put a lot of champagne on the ice. That’s the main thing at a wedding.”

Anita had seated herself listlessly in one of the uncovered chairs. The wrap slipped back from her shoulders and – how proud I was of her! Joe gazed, took advantage of her not looking up to slap me on the back and to jerk his head in enthusiastic approval. Then he, too, disappeared.

A wait, during which we could hear through the silence excited undertones from the upper floors. The words were indistinct until Joe’s heavy voice sent down to us an angry “No damn’ nonsense, I tell you. Allie’s got to come, too. She’s not such a fool as you think. Bad example – bosh!”

Anita started up. “Oh – please – please!” she cried. “Take me away – anywhere! This is dreadful.”

It was, indeed, dreadful. If I could have had my way at just that moment, it would have gone hard with “Mrs. B.” and “Allie” – and heavy-voiced Joe, too. But I hid my feelings. “There’s nowhere else to go,” said I, “except the brougham.”

She sank helplessly into her chair.

A few minutes more of silence, and there was a rustling on the stairs. She started up, trembling, looked round, as if seeking some way of escape or some place to hide. Joe was in the doorway holding aside one of the curtains. There entered, in a beribboned and beflounced tea gown, a pretty, if rather ordinary, woman of forty, with a petulant baby face. She was trying to look reserved and severe. She hardly glanced at me before fastening sharp, suspicious eyes on Anita.

“Mrs. Ball,” said I, “this is Miss Ellersly.”

“Miss Ellersly!” she exclaimed, her face changing. And she advanced and took both Anita’s hands. “Mr. Ball is so stupid,” she went on, with that amusingly affected accent which is the “Sunday clothes” of speech.

“I didn’t catch the name, my dear,” Joe stammered.

“Be off,” said I, aside, to him. “Get the nearest preacher, and hustle him here with his tools.”

I had one eye on Anita all the time, and I saw her gaze follow Joe as he hurried out; and her expression made my heart ache. I heard him saying in the hall, “Go in, Allie. It’s O. K.;” heard the door slam, knew we should soon have some sort of minister with us.

“Allie” entered the drawing room. I had not seen her in six years. I remembered her unpleasantly as a great, bony, florid child, unable to stand still or to sit still, or to keep her tongue still, full of aimless questions and giggles and silly remarks, which she and her mother thought funny. I saw her now, grown into a handsome young woman, with enough beauty points for an honorable mention, if not for a prize – straight and strong and rounded, with a brow and a keen look out of the eyes which it seemed a pity should be wasted on a woman. Her mother’s looks, her father’s good sense, a personality got from neither, but all her own, and unusual and interesting.

“From what Mr. Ball said,” Mrs. Ball was gushing affectedly to Anita, “I got an idea, that – well, really, I didn’t know what to think.”

Anita looked as if she were about to suffocate. Allie came to the rescue. “Not very complimentary to Mr. Blacklock, mother,” said she, good-humoredly. Then to Anita, with a simple friendliness there was no resisting: “Wouldn’t you like to come up to my room for a few minutes?”

“Oh, thank you,” responded Anita, after a quick but thorough inspection of Alva’s face, to make sure she was like her voice. I had not counted on this; I had been assuming that Anita would not be out of my sight until we were married. It was on the tip of my tongue to interfere when she looked at me – for permission to go. “Don’t keep her too long,” said I to Alva, and they were gone.

“You can’t blame me – really you can’t, Mr. Blacklock,” Mrs. Ball began to plead for herself, as soon as they were safely out of hearing. “After some things – mere hints, you understand – for I’m careful what I permit Mr. Ball to say before me. I think married people cannot be too respectful of each other. I never tolerate vulgarity.”

“No doubt, Joe has made me out a very vulgar person,” said I, forgetting her lack of sense of humor.

“Oh, not at all, not at all, Mr. Blacklock,” she protested, in a panic lest she had done her husband damage with me. “I understand, men will be men, though as a pure-minded woman, I’m sure I can’t imagine why they should be.”

“How far off is the nearest church?” I cut in.

“Only two blocks – that is, the Methodist church,” she replied. “But I know Mr. Ball will bring an Episcopalian.”

“Why, I thought you were a devoted Presbyterian,” said I, recalling how in their Brooklyn days she used to insist on Joe’s going with her twice every Sunday to sleep through long sermons.

She looked uncomfortable. “I was reared Presbyterian,” she explained, confusedly, “but you know how it is in New York. And when we came to live here, we got out of the habit of churchgoing. And all Alva’s little friends were Episcopalians. So I drifted toward that church. I find the service so satisfying – so – elegant. And – one sees there the people one sees socially.”