Chapter XVII

CHAPTER XV] I "You know, when you ran out on us last night-" Pauline hesitated, bafHed by the difficulty of explain ing that there was nothing to explain. "We thought you'd be back in a minute, and we waited, and then Russ went to look for you." They had drawn apart; the play was over . . . ((1t didn't matter," said Marta. "I was reading." As she used to ... For eighteen years she had wished to make a similar explanation to Pauline. If Pauline would believe her now. . . . "1 must learn to yodel," she remarked, and sprang into the upper berth while it was inclined conveniently. It receded again, and she balanced on the edge, apologizing to Pauline: "Was that your face I stepped on?" By the rolling motion, they guessed the ship was out of the river and breasting the. ChanneL They were un affected, being good sailors by predestination. They had never seen salt water until they were grown. Ad miral Nelson succumbed to seasickness until his last voyag~; what would a vocational director make of that? Marta reflected ironically on the vain and inexN EVE R ASK THE END 209 tinguishable hope of mankind, that ultimately their ephemeral affairs may be regulated by the light of reason. An orderly procession from the cradle to the grave. . . . Utopias chilled her to the marrow. Even if they were workable-but in fact they would be para dises for stuffed shirts, whose sole ability consists in wedging themselves into official positions. Marta yanked furiously at the tucked-in blanket of the berth, and wondered why she chose such inapposite moments for intellectual speculation. There was a deduction, or a premise, she wasn't sure which, to the idea she had been pursuing; she had almost got it. Yes . . , It is absurd to expect man to define his objective, according to his capacities, and govern himself accordingly. How should our artless first ancestor have known that he desired to become an astronomer, a bootlegger, an architect or an aviator? There were no such animals; it was necessary to invent them. There was only an unappeasable passion for the unknown. , • • "1 shall stay in bed for days and days when we get to London,"

she said, giving over her philosophical excursus. «Ernest came near being the death of me. I'm hungry, too; wasn't the dinner vile? No mistaking an English boat." "1 hate the English," Pauline responded, sort ing over a sheaf of letters forwarded from Paris. ('How can I write to a man who calls me Dear Lady?)) "David?" Marta revived inquisitively. "No," said Pauline. "David sticks to the yours received and contents noted style."

210 N EVE R ASK THE END ('Manly and straightforward," said Marta. "You know what he means. Dull without you, love. Does he sign his full name?" Pauline exhibited signs of embarrassment. ,cOh, you know, David isn't his real name; it's a kind of joke." "For heaven's sake," Marta hung over the side of the berth and fixed Pauline with an accusing glance, vertically, like the eye of God. "You can't," she said, "you can't have been stringing that man along for twenty years ~ " Pauline attempted a futile evasion. "But you don't know who he is." "Sure [ do,» Marta affirmed. "Why I didn't spot him sooner-it's Maynard Crockett!" David-Davy Crockett. Pauline's guilt was manifest. "Great snakes," Marta summed up. "1 will say you're both persistent. You win the cuckoo clock. All this time he's been trying to ruin you, and you-" "He isn't trying to ruin me," Pauline protested, with a creditable amount of dignity. «He used to," Marta said. "And you spitting sparks-" Marta checked herself for inac curacy; Pauline's attitude had been averse disdain, the cold shoulder and scornful lip. But did she despise him? Qr was the affront deepened by an unwilling lik ing? It's hard to draw the line between insult and compliment, Marta thought. Is it playing safe that makes the difference? I respected Wint Shelby be cause he never hedged. Didn't even ask what I did N EVE R ASK THE END 211 with his letters. So I burned them. And Floyd ]ernegan used to hand me unsealed notes for Ida.

"You said David stalked along the street like a pair of scissors," Pauline recalled obscurely. "1 must have been giving you moral support," Marta conjectured. ((I'd forgotten-I suppose I did see him occasionally. W.asn't he one of Mrs. Lundy's occasionaIs? The fast crowd. Silverton boiled with scandal; it's comical how the kids now think they're wild. But 1 never heard much about Crockett except from you. Wint Shelby said he was a singed cat. How on earth did you man age, with George?" "Honestly, I didn't," Pauline still defended herself, though her upper lip lifted mirthfully. "There was nothing; where would we ..• At George's funeral itwas perfectly frightful, after what I'd been through, with the family assembled, and his lodge as pall bearers, and a sermon about our departed brother, and I was suffocating with the smell of dye on my crape veil and of the blanket of lilies-lilies-and everyone saying how wonderfully I was bearing up--oh, you can't imagine-but the old lady next door, that George loathed because he said she sat at her bedroom window with opera glasses, well, she invited herself over and told me I must live for my children and trust in the Lord, and my husband would meet me in Heaven.

When my only hope is that 1 may never meet George again, here or hereafter. I'm sure he feels the same. r couldn't face him, with him knowing the lowdown 212 N EVE R ASK THE END on me. For days and days after the funeral) I felt as if he did know; he seemed to be allover the house. In a funny way, really funny, as if it struck him so. And I know exactly what he'd say: '1 always suspected there was something between you and that cagey bastard Crockett 1 '" "Did he suspect?" Marta enquired. ('Not really; there was nothing to suspect," Pauline repeated. ((Once in a long while David phoned to ask how I was. Or if we met by accident. But George was jealous of everybody. With the most ridiculous notions-no woman who smoked a cigarette was straight. Though before we were married, he was one of the wildest .••" "Why did he object to you writing to me'?" Marta asked. "Wasn't I straight?" "He didn't object to you. It was on account of-oh, he thought I might hear from Keith again. Through you. He didn't say so; unless he was very drunk he never mentioned Keith.

That's how J knew. He'd bring up J" K. Hayden, because he knew that was nonsense. I got so I paid no attention. I don't know why men make such a fuss. What does it matter?" She made her airy gesture, brushing her fingertips together, as if dispersing a trace of dust. And that is the truth, thought Marta, with aston ishment. What does it matter? ... It's hard to believe what we know to be true. The realization is like bumping into a solid object. As if we had delusions of godhead . . . When they are past, the heartbreaks N EVE R ASK THE END 213 and triumphs and defeats become equally inconse quential. Whateverhurt too much we refuse to think on: cut our losses. There is no remedy but oblivion. What was just bearable is turned to comedy by dis tance and detachment. The rest is a pathetic treasure such as girls hide away in bonbon boxes: bits of rib bon, fans and favors and snapshots. A silly tune, a phrase of endearment, a day like yesterday.... Even if our whole lives had been different, the sum would be unaltered. Supposing Pauline had married Keith ... Marta said abruptly: "1 always wanted to tell you, Pauline, I never gave Keith any reason to ..• I never thought of him, no more than of Joe Warner.

We were all used to one another." On terms of familiar indifference.. She would have said Keith couldn't be attracted to her: not his type. To her Keith and Joe were on the same footing; they had the run of the house, by Pauline's leave. Her total knowledge of Joe Warner comprised only two items; he was a curly-headed boy who played the piano. And Keith was a boy who called on Pauline. They didn't con cern her, nor disturb her.... One evening a fuse blew out; Keith offered to fix it. By the light of a candle, he succeeded in disconnecting the telephone. On an other occasionthe adjustable gadget of the Chesterfield jammed or broke; Keith and Joe spent severa] hours lying on the floor, with screwdriversand wrenches, re moving quantities of bolts and assorted hardware they couldn't put back again . . . "That Saturday you 21+ N EVE R ASK THE END were away, Keith came to take you motoring-"

"He knew I'd be away," said Pauline. Marta experienced that peculiar arrested sensation, a cessation of time, which came to her with the not in frequent revelation of her own density. She was, indubitably, stupid beyond Pauline's comprehension. • • •Of course, he must have • . • "But I didn't," Marta said. How should she? For Marta, Keith existed only at one remove, as it were in Pauline's mind. Thousands of times Pauline asked,shall I marry him? Shall I give up seeing him? There was no need to answer; she wouldn't have heard. Marta supposed it happened to everyone; the Greeks regarded love as a madness sent by the gods. When it was over one was left empty as a dry cicada shell clinging to a clover stem. Or to a book. . • • Pauline decided to marry Keith. Then she changed her mind. One could not. say she broke the engagement; the term was too definite and limited for their relation, which was anything Pauline chose to make it. Except one thing--she wished the choice to be his. She must have been the only person in the world who possessed any influence over him; but it was of a singular kind) as if she were wind or weather. He was not amenable to the ordinary modes of pressure or persuasion. Per haps not quite human. Even beyond the fact that he had been spoiled by a widowed mother with money, and by other women • . • It may be that a perfect physical endowment is amoral. As if Keith existed in N EVE R ASK THE END 215 a continuous succession of those moments which come to most of us but rarely, lying in the sun, breasting the glassy green curve of a breaking wave, galloping over turf: when the intellectual faculty diffuses into pure being. Morality and the sense of responsibility are intellectual. Keith was as instinctive and indolent as a healthy animal. Not vicious, for his tastes were natural; nor cruel, on the contrary, he avoided painful encounters. It is extremely perplexing that he obeyed the injunction to take no thought for the morrow; that he was like an angel, which is created for pleasure. He was a bad lot.

Marta had no insight into his character then, and pretended to none. He was not her affair. She had an impression that he wasn't good enough for Pauline. He would never make money. An odd commentary on virtue. And yet money is a measure of worth, of de votion even, since we must exchange for it time and energy, the stuff of life. Blood-money-there is no other kind.... Still, Keith would probably inherit a small competence; and in any event) there was no help for Pauline. Marta was unable to help herself. She had no counsel. Pauline might manage best simply by continuing to see Keith until she tired of him, wore out her illusion. What destroyed one was the desert space of separation ... The situation was unaltered by Pau line's change of mind; Keith called as usual. Marta was reading when Keith came in and asked for Pauline. Apparently at a loose end, he hesitated 216 N EVE R ASK THE END before transferring the invitation to Marta. She quali fied her acceptance with a precautionary lie: she must be back before dinner. Let him off easy. She sup posed he was constrained by courtesy to ask her. A refusal might wear the aspect of a snub. Courtesy be tween them was a barrier, not a means of approach....

She was not unwilling to go; she'd enjoy the ride, though under the necessity of "making conversation." She had never been alone with him before .... Even yet, she was unable to determine whether or not the rest was accident. C.ertainly Keith wasn't re sponsible for the preposterous hats women used to wear, insecurely skewered to a top-knot by lethal pins. In the open car) Marta retained hers only by clutching it with both hands.... The radiator needed water. Or Keith said it did. Marta had heard the name of the roadhouse where they drew up. It was a weather beaten wood-built country hotel, with no visible means of support. One of those left-over monuments of a small town that the railroad~ad taken away. Nice girIs didn't go there. Keith's inflection, when he sug gested she might go in and arrange her hat, was in key with what she had heard ... Beyond the lobby was a public reception room. Keith opened the door for her, and reversed the motion half way, interposing his broad shoulders to screen her from the observation of anyone within. She had a glimpse of several people, and an impression that Keith had rec ognized them. The desk clerk's blank discretion conN EVE R ASK THE END 217 firmed it. Keith was no stranger. The clerk enter tained a hypothesis that there might be a mirror up stairs; and seemed to dematerialize after conducting them to the landing and indicating a room number along the hall. . . . With her hair streaming, her hands full of combs and pins, and Keith leaning against the door-jamb, scrupulously not crossing the threshold, Marta took a malicious advantage of the ambiguous situation. Did she want anything? A cocktail? Keith gri~ned amicably. The suggestion was too suitable to resist. Why not, she said, the drinks are on you.

You're bound over to your best behavior. . . , He fetched the tray up himself. They drank standing, as a stirrup-cup. Only Keith's eyes strayed, drawing hers, to a card tacked on the wall: Rooms must be vacated by eight a. ffi. He set down the glass and said the car ought to be ready .... As they passed the desk, Keith seemed to choke suddenly: Huh! Marta was tying her veil and missed the bewilderment of the clerk; weeks later, Keith told her ... They weren't in the place twenty minutes. Oh, Keith was a bad lot. And she was completely implicated. They hadn't exchanged a word that might not safely have been repeated to Pauline.. . . . Marta was candid with herself even then; she wasn't a nice girl, and didn't want to be. It would have bored her. She used the conventions when they suited her, to serve her own purpose, twisted them deliberately against the original intention of classifying women. It was no218 N EVE R ASK THE END body's business what she was.... She must tell Pauline they'd been motoring, which would deprive the incident of future significance.

So she was reading again the next afternoon, Sunday; and called out, come in, when she heard a knock. Most likely it was Pete Olson. He worked in the office, and lived nearby. He had been asking Marta's advice on the most effective means of disengaging himself from three girls at once. A literary impulse, projecting itself in epistolary form, had triply entangled him. Marta called him Pete because he looked like Struwelpeter. She had cheered him with the assurance that his Dul cineas were either half-witted or trifling with his affec tions ... Since the whole staff was young and mostly unmarried, the office was vitalized by an undercurrent of private lunacy; they were but mad nor'-nor'-west; when the wind was southerly they knew a hawk from a handsaw. They got through a great deal of work, and got away with murder on the side, as a mutual pro tective association. The boss, Floyd Jernegan, had a rare talent for overlooking what did not concern him.

Marta alone was aware that his poker face dissembled a rich appreciation of the sideshow. Marta took a friendly part as a matter of course; the work, the rag ging, belonged to that separate world, and had no con nection with her inner life. She felt she would have died, literally, if the office had known about Chris •.. She confided in Pauline only, who didn't listen, who turned to her a rapt abstracted countenance and transN EVE R ASK THE END 219 posed the theme to Keith. Marta saw the forlorn humor of it. But when she was alone she had to read. ((I never thought of Keith at all," she repeated, and realized that Pauline could not imagine not thinking of Keith. She had thought of nothing else. To Marta, Keith was, until a certain moment) insulated from her attention by those indefinable reasons which primitive peoples recognize by the taboo. An object so awkward that it becomes sacred, to be avoided and ignored with the utmost respect. Relations-in-Iaw, and the hus bands) wives, lovers or friends of one's friends, come in this category. They are bores because of it. When Keith called without Joe, Marta removed herself quietly.