Part 30 (1/2)
When Neale got back to his room, the Gang was not there in full force, only Robertson, the knowing little Soph. and Gregg, drinking beer and smoking their pipes. Neale kept back a grimace of distaste at seeing Robertson, his broad boy's face set in its usual expression of solemn, self-conscious wiseness in the ways of the world. The rest of the Gang found Robertson comic and enjoyed having him around to laugh at, as many people enjoy a visit to the monkey-house in a zoo, and see nothing but the comic in the humanness of simian antics. But he disquieted Neale to his very soul, as another set of people are disquieted and troubled by a visit to the monkey-house and see nothing to laugh at in simian antics.
One evening of little Robertson and his loud-proclaimed disillusion with the world and the human race moved the rest of the Gang to delighted howls of laughter for days afterwards; but though Neale laughed with the rest (n.o.body could help laughing at Robertson, he was such an owl!), it rather took the s.h.i.+ne off Schopenhauer and pessimism, and that was a real privation for a Senior.
As he came in, Gregg was quoting,
”But sweet as the rind was, the core is; We are fain of thee still, we are fain, O sanguine and subtle Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.”
Neale lifted a stein from its hook, poured it full from the pitcher and took a long drink.
”Go ahead, Johnny,” he said, ”sounds lovely--like any other fairy tale.”
”Fairy tale!” cried little Robertson. ”Fairy tale, you blue-nosed Puritan! That's all _you_ know. You've been neglecting your opportunities.”
Neale answered sharply, ”Puritan be d.a.m.ned! I'm no Earl Hall Christer! I know Swinburne enough sight better than you do.”
At the sight of Robertson's round eyes goggling at him under his bulging forehead, he was amused at his own annoyance, and taking another drink went on indifferently, ”All I'm saying is, maybe prost.i.tution was a dainty art in Ancient Greece, or maybe Swinburne knew some high cla.s.s pract.i.tioners, but here in New York, on the Heights--maybe the thought of Becky Blumenthal without her s.h.i.+mmy gives you an aesthetic thrill, but if it does, you've got a stronger stomach than I have. Take it from me, kid, if you want any poetry out of all that, you'd better stick to Swinburne.”
”Yep,” agreed Gregg, ”I'm with you, Crit. I don't like the professionals. They're a mercenary crew. They're 'out for the stuff, and if you ain't got enough, biff, kerslap, out you go!' Why doesn't some gay little lady just looking for a good time give us the high sign, the way they do in books. Does she? She does not!”
The subject of the discussion pleased Robertson immensely, of course, but he was outraged at the middle-cla.s.s narrowness of his elders' views.
He got up languidly, put on his cap, and standing by the door, p.r.o.nounced judgment.
”All women,” said little Robertson the Soph., ”belong to the Trade, more or less, in one way or the other. I won't go so far as to say that every woman has her price, only _I_ have never met one who hadn't!”
Neale and Gregg gazed at him spell-bound. He turned away, calling airily over his shoulder, ”Well, ta! ta! A May night's no time for debates. I'm going out for a stroll on Morningside to prove my theory.”
After they had had their laugh out, Gregg said, ”Doesn't he think he's a h.e.l.ler?”
”Wants _us_ to think so,” grunted Neale. ”Where's all the Gang?”
”Oh, some of them are boning for the exams, and some are chasing chippies, and Billy Peters is off on some of his usual footless fussing.
Been calling on a girl all winter and I don't believe he's even had his arm around her yet, except at dances. The kid!”
Neale filled his pipe, held the match over it and puffed gently until the tobacco glowed an even red all over the top. What would Gregg say, he wondered, to his att.i.tude towards Miss Wentworth? And Gregg himself!
Neale knew perfectly well Gregg wrote long, weekly letters to that innocent-faced up-state girl whose picture stood on the dresser over there. He also knew perfectly well that Gregg was a regular Sir Galahad when it came to her. Oh, Lord! How like that blatant idiot Robertson, they were! It made him feel like a fool kid himself, the bluff they always kept up. Weren't they getting grown-up enough to drop this inside-out hypocrisy?
He kept all this to himself, smoking in thoughtful silence. When the pipe was finished, he yawned and stretched, ”Guess I'll turn in. Going to read all night?”
Gregg looked up from his book, ”I'll put the shade over the light so you can get to sleep. I want to finish this Philosophy A stuff, Plato's Republic. Have you read the last book yet? It's great dope!”
The next day Neale and Miss Wentworth were sitting by their little gipsy fire in a nook among the Palisades, overlooking the river. Luncheon had long been finished, the dishes packed away, and they continued to sit still, Miss Wentworth looking at the view, Neale looking at her and turning over in his mind the problem, ”How can a man with no money, and no prospects of ever earning any, ask a girl to marry him? He can't. But suppose there's a chance that the girl ... well, no matter what she may be thinking, wouldn't it be the decent thing to let her know how he feels? Of course he ought to! What's the answer, then? There isn't any answer.”
”A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Crittenden.”
”I was wondering,” Neale lied glibly, ”whether you didn't know me well enough to stop calling me Mr. Crittenden.”
She met his eyes squarely, ”All right, I'll call you Neale, if you'll call me Martha. I hate formality between friends.”