Part 40 (1/2)
”You know it is pretty cold here. They can say all they want to about the cold and all that out in Minnesota, but, really, the humidity----”
”Rats; it isn't so very cold, not if you walk fast.”
”Well, maybe; anyway, I guess it would be nice to explore some.”
”All right; let's.”
”I do think people are so conventional. Don't you?” said Gertie, while Carl discerningly stole one of Ray's best cigars out of the humidor.
”Awfully conventional. Not going out for good long walks. Dorothy Gibbons and I did find the nicest place to walk, up in Bronx Park, and there's such a dear little restaurant, right on the water; of course the water was frozen, but it seemed quite wild, you know, for New York. We might take that walk, whenever you'd like to.”
”Oh--Bronx Park--gee! Gertie, I can't get up much excitement over that. I want to get away from this tame city, and forget all about offices and parks and people and everything like that.”
”N-n-n-now!” she clucked in a patronizing way. ”We mustn't ask New York to give us wilderness, you know! I'm afraid that would be a little too much to ask of it! Don't you think so yourself!”
Carl groaned to himself, ”I won't be mothered!”
He was silent. His silence was positively noisy. He wanted her to hear it. But it is difficult to be sulky with a bland, plump woman of thirty who remembers your childhood trick of biting your nails, and glances up at you from her embroidery, occasionally patting her brown silk hair or smoothing her brown silk waist in a way which implies a good digestion, a perfect memory of the morning's lesson of her Sunday-school cla.s.s, and a mild disbelief in men as anything except relatives, providers, card-players, and nurslings. Carl gave up the silence-cure.
He hummed about the room, running over the advertising pages of magazines, discussing Plato fraternities, and waiting till it should be time to go home. Their conversation kept returning to the fraternities. There wasn't much else to talk about. Before to-night they had done complete justice to all other topics--Joralemon, Bennie Rusk, Joe Jordan's engagement, Adelaide Benner, and symphony concerts.
Gertie embroidered, patted her hair, smoothed her waist, looked cheerful, rocked, and spoke; embroidered, patted her hair, smoothed her sleeve, looked amiable, rocked, and spoke--embroidered, pat----
At a quarter to ten Carl gave himself permission to go. Said he: ”I'll have to get on the job pretty early to-morrow. Not much taking it easy here in New York, the way you can in Joralemon, eh? So I guess I'd better----”
”I'm sorry you have to go so early.” Gertie carefully stuck her embroidery needle into her doily, rolled up the doily meticulously, laid it down on the center-table, straightened the pile of magazines which Carl had deranged, and rose. ”But I'm glad you could drop up this evening. Come up any time you haven't anything better to do.
Oh--what about our tramp? If you know some place that is better than Bronx Park, we might try it.”
”Why--uh--yes--why, sure; we'll have to, some time.”
”And, Carl, you're coming up to have your Christmas turkey with us, aren't you?”
”I'd like to, a lot, but darn it, I've accepted 'nother invitation.”
That was absolutely untrue, and Carl was wondering why he had lied, when the storm broke.
Gertie's right arm, affectedly held out from the elbow, the hand drooping, in the att.i.tude of a refined hostess saying good-by, dropped stiffly to her side. Slowly she thrust out both arms, shoulder-high on either side, with her fists clenched; her head back and slightly on one side; her lips open in agony--the position of crucifixion. Her eyes looked up, unseeing; then closed tight. She drew a long breath, like a sigh that was too weary for sound, and her plump, placid left hand clutched her panting breast, while her right arm dropped again.
All the pa.s.sion of tragedy seemed to shriek in her hopeless gesture, and her silence was a wail m.u.f.fled and despairing.
Carl stared, twisting his watch-chain with nervous fingers, wanting to flee.
It was raw woman, with all the proprieties of Joralemon and St.
Orgul's cut away, who spoke, her voice constantly rising:
”Oh, Carl--Carl! Oh, why, why, why! Oh, why don't you want me to go walking with you, now? Why don't you want to go anywhere with me any more? Have I displeased you? Oh, I didn't mean to! Why do I bore you so?”
”Oh--Gertie--oh--gee!--thunder!” whimpered a dismayed youth. A more mature Hawk Ericson struggled to life and soothed her: ”Gertie, honey, I didn't mean----Listen----”
But she moaned on, standing rigid, her left hand on her breast, her eyes red, moist, frightened, fixed: ”We always played together, and I thought here in the city we could be such good friends, with all the different new things to do together--why, I wanted us to go to Chinatown and theaters, and I would have been so glad to pay my share.
I've just been waiting and hoping you would ask me, and I wanted us to play and see--oh! so many different new things together--it would have been so sweet, so sweet----We were good friends at first, and then you--you didn't want to come here any more and----Oh, I couldn't help seeing it; more and more and more and _more_ I've been seeing it; but I didn't want to see it; but now I can't fool myself any more. I was so lonely till you came to-night, and when you spoke about tramping----And then it seemed like you just went away from me again.”