Part 14

They stayed out on the porch for a long time, discussing their golf and the long cold drinks. Levering, whose ignorance of the game was abysmal, and whose drink was finished, found himself rather out of this. Sitting as he was in the centre of the group, it seemed as though he were encircled by silence, while beyond there went on a very animated chatter. And as the dusk slid over them he was conscious of being lonelier than he had ever been in his life.

After dinner that night things picked up a bit. They led him to the piano and settled themselves expectantly around the room waiting to be entertained. They were. He sang them new popular songs and old songs that he had written himself, and he “got them” as he always got them at the Club Levering.

He gave them pathos for a finale, “When My Little Baby Boy Lisps His Prayers at Twilight,” and as an encore, “Mamma, Sweet Mamma,” in his rich tenor, “Please don’t hold out on m-e-e.”

Miss Bromley and Mr. Taylor were inspired to do an apache dance. Lady Greville came over to him. “How quaint!” she said in her staccato voice and clipped pronunciation that he found difficult to understand. “Rippin’--teach it me, won’t you?” He made room for her on the piano bench. “See--like this--Ma-ma--sweet Mama--” she picked out the treble with clever trained fingers. In a moment she was playing it very well. “You’re some kid at the piano yourself, ain’t you?” he said enthusiastically, boldly bending his head to look in her eyes. “But you haven’t got it quite. Don’t play it like grand opera--see. It’s got a wow--like this--SWEET MAMA!”

From a corner Constance Corthwaite watched them with amusement. She looked like a cat luxuriously gorging itself with cream. There was on her face exactly that complacent, contented, and cynical expression.

* * * * *

The next morning he came down late. They had kept him at the piano a long time the night before, and besides, not for years had he risen early. He found the house deserted as it had been the afternoon before. Not until the butler told him they were all out riding did he remember dimly that something had been said about riding, that they had suggested he come along.

Out on the porch there were Sunday papers and warm sunshine. Levering settled himself in a comfortable, soft-cushioned wicker chair and picking up a paper turned to the Broadway page, where he found a flattering notice of the Club Levering activities during the past week. Yes, it was a triumph. Such a notice! “Quaintest night club in town.” “Levering’s songs draw the élite.”

Oh! He’d arrived sure enough, and now here he was the guest of honour at the Corthwaites’ house ... kind of a funny way to treat your guest of honour, though, to leave him alone.... But then they knew that an artist had to have time to himself.... Sure, that was it. Levering dropped his paper and lay back comfortably. He closed his eyes and savoured his triumph. He was the Kid himself, and running with all these swells.... Funny kind of a place, though. No dog, no swank ... kind of shabby. Not a patch on lots of places.... And come to think of it, the people ain’t such classy dressers.... Not much jewellery on the dames.... That English duke’s dinner jacket didn’t fit so damn good.... Slow kind of crowd; he didn’t get ’em at all.... Now when he’d sung that nifty song it didn’t go so big ... that Corthwaite dame had acted kinda queer, seemed like she’d almost sneered.... But, foolishness ... she liked him fine, and she liked his stuff, too....

He moved petulantly in his chair.

He wished they’d come back ... this was a bore ... no kind of way to spend Sunday....

He picked up another sheet of the paper, but his attention wandered, and it fluttered from his hand. “What the hell’s the matter with me?”

It was very still out there. Levering had never felt such stillness. It pressed on his eardrums. He could fairly hear the silence. There was no way to escape from one’s self in such quiet. He was acutely uncomfortable. This was nothing like the Lowensteins’ place! Why, Sunday morning at this hour there would be a crowd of good fellows drinking highballs and singing and telling jokes, and the marble pool would be full of people, and like as not someone would climb up one of those Italian statues of old Lowenstein’s and stick a bathing cap on its head. Sure, there’d be things doing all right.

But this stillness that screamed at you, and this funny little garden, and no footman in livery, and no marble statues--hell! This wasn’t such a place, and yet----

The stillness gives you funny ideas!

Now, old Lowenstein, he can’t be all wrong--but Constance Corthwaite’s place can’t be wrong at all. This place is right--for her brand of people. And the house--now, the house must be right, too. It wasn’t what he liked himself, but it was right. It was bound to be right. It wasn’t as if she didn’t always get the best. She could have anything in the world, and she knew what was right--and she had this. And if this was right, the Club Levering was wrong. He turned a little cold at the thought. The club was his creation, it was his dream, it was, in fact, himself, and it was wrong!

He stooped and picked up a sheet of the newspaper and folded it gently and exactly.

Corthwaite--she knows. She’s the kind that don’t make mistakes about houses.

He was not soothed and comforted in the sunlight now. He was acutely and miserably fighting with doubt and distrust. For if the Club Levering was wrong, then he was wrong. He had missed. He was cheated. He was being shown a land that he could never enter, and desolately, and suddenly now, he thought it was the only land worth entering.

Oh, the terrible, silent scorn of this house, in its rightness, scorn for him and his land and his dream! Hal Levering was a poet. It seemed to him now that the house behind him had drawn together and was straining to get away from him, just as the people in it strained away from him and left him alone and outside. He tried to reassure himself. There were all kinds of people in the world, and this was America, and he was as good as anybody.

“It ain’t so; I’m as good as any of ’em. What’d they ask me here for if I ain’t? You big clown you, they asked you here to sing your jazz songs, and so’s they could get a good laugh outa you. That’s what it was for, you big dummy. Didn’t you see that Corthwaite girl sneering? Sure you did. But you wouldn’t admit it! These people are right, and you’re wrong, Hal Levering. You’re a Jew. No, that ain’t it either. It’s because you ain’t a Jew--that’s it--because you’re pretending you ain’t. Because you ain’t real. That’s it. They got their own names and their own people and the things they’ve always had, but you--you’re what they call a dirty Jew....

“That’s what it is about them that’s different--it ain’t just that they got different styles in architecture--but they ain’t pretending nothing. They don’t have to.”

He remembered the smile that had curled Constance Corthwaite’s lips the night before. It grew, it spread, the image of curving lips blotted out all the warm world, and he was alone before them, his heart sick with the humiliation of the degraded artist.

Hal Levering rose from his chair, trembling a little, very white, just as the riding party came strolling through the box hedge.

He looked down at them from the steps of the porch. They came toward him like sublime creatures oblivious of his presence and of his pain, ignoring him as they would always ignore him.

They were talking about someone named Coperbesby. He heard Constance Corthwaite’s clear voice say:

“He has the most intense sense of race. A fierce and proud belief in the Jew, and if you don’t understand that he is a Jew, that everything he does is racial and unsullied, you can’t understand his music at all.”

Levering turned and, blundering against the door, went slowly out of the sun, through the big quiet hall and upstairs. His room had been put in order, and he hated to disarrange it, but he had to hurry, hurry so that he could go quickly, and when you pack in a hurry things get mussed up in spite of you.

* * * * *

The first thing his cronies at the club asked him was if he had had a good time at the Corthwaite place.

Bennie Bernstein, the orchestra leader, Mimi Deland, the specialty dancer, and her lean effeminate partner, surrounded him as soon as he appeared that Monday night.

“Did you have a good time?” they asked him.

“Sure, fine, fine.”

Mimi Deland looked at him curiously. “Well, you don’t look it.”

He turned on her furiously. “What do you mean, I don’t look it? What do you want me to do? Sing a song about it?”

She shrugged. “No,” simply. “But don’t chew my ear off.”

“Say, don’t get the week-end habit,” said Bennie jovially. “That bird you had here last night doing your stuff was awful. We wouldn’t keep open a week with him around.”

“Pretty bad, huh?” pleased.

“Lousy!”

It was time for his first song. As he stepped to the door that led him to the spotlights and the applause, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about me getting the week-end habit; I won’t.”

“Gee,” remarked Deland as he slammed the door on them, “I wonder what they did to him. He’s back early, too.”

He finished his song, and Bennie dipped his violin to his orchestra, and they began the opening bars of “Abie’s an Irisher Now.”

At the sound of the first notes, Levering stiffened as though he had been stung; then, turning on his heel, he called harshly, “Don’t play that song to-night--or ever again.” After which he walked stiffly off the floor, refusing his encore, while the music stopped in the middle of a bar, jarred to a silence that held until Bennie shattered it with his music again.

* * * * *

It was several weeks before Constance Corthwaite came again to the Club Levering. She was quite sure, of course, when Hal Levering fled from her house without a word to any of them, that he had somehow realized his position; but that was not what had kept her from the club. She had been away. Now, to-night, she was in town again and a little bored, and as Hal Levering had once amused her she came to his place in the hope that he might again. He was a hired performer; if she had hurt his feelings, well--she was sorry, but she had no intention of staying away as long as he could give her a moment’s entertainment.

The club had not been doing well for the last few weeks. Even Bennie Bernstein’s saucy music did not hold the crowds. The reason, of course, was that another man was in Hal Levering’s place.

Constance Corthwaite listened to one of his colourless offerings, and then called him to her table.

“Where,” she asked, “is Hal Levering? Isn’t he going to be here to-night?”

“Nope, he’s left for good.”

“Really, how disappointing! Where has he gone?”

“Say, lady, you’ll never believe me when I tell you; it’s the funniest thing you ever heard! You know the money he was getting here--fifteen hundred a week and a rake-off, and he part owner at that----”

“Really?”

“Sure. Well, he came in here one day, nobody expecting it at all, and told ’em he was through--just like that. Through. Told ’em he was going back and be a real Jew, going to give his talent to his people. Can you beat it? They thought he had gone crazy, of course. Fifteen hundred a week and a rake-off--and do you know what he’s done?” The objectionable young man paused dramatically. “Say, he’s studying to be a cantor in a synagogue--can you beat that?--can you?”

* * * * *

It was a year and more before the Club Levering saw its part owner again. A variety of rumours had floated along Broadway--Levering had gone abroad to study, he had taken a position in a synagogue, he was composing highbrow music--but soon the rumours died away, and all that was left of Levering at his old stamping ground was the flashing red and green sign of the club. Business had fallen off; new places had each in turn engaged the fickle attentions of the city’s night-lovers, and the Club Levering was patronized by only a few stragglers. And then the management decided to make one more bid for popular favour with a new revue.

Bennie Bernstein laboured at his piano just as he had the afternoon of Levering’s greatest triumph a year before, but the other performers were new. No one now tried to fill Hal’s shoes; they had to depend on a speeding chorus to cover up a palpable lack. And as Bennie sweated to get the rehearsal into full swing, the service door opened and a familiar voice sang out: “Hel-lo, Bennie, how’ve you been? Making the grade O. K., huh?” It was Hal Levering.

“My--God--Hal!” and Bennie leaped from his stool and seized Levering by the shoulders. The other performers gathered around, and to Hal again was given the once so sweet chorus of praise.

“Cut it out--cut it out. Let’s get to work here. We gotta give ’em something to knock ’em off their chairs!”

Bennie looked at Levering in astonishment. Was he really coming back? It was too good to be true, but here he was, and Bennie ran over to the piano joyfully. His nimble fingers flew up and down the keyboard, and then, triumphantly, he hammered out the first bars of “Abie’s an Irisher Now.” Levering, who had been chatting with the chef, who had come running from the kitchen, whirled about with a white face.

“Bennie!” His voice stopped the music with the player’s hands suspended in the air, such was its savage earnestness. “Never again that number, Bennie. Levering’s a Jewisher now. Don’t forget that, hey?” Hal patted his friend on the shoulder. “S’all right, Bennie, but there’s been some changes made.”

The rehearsal went on under Levering’s direction, and when he was satisfied with it he turned to the piano and handed Bernstein several sheets of manuscript.

“Here’s some new numbers that I’m going to try,” he said.

“Hot dog!” Bernie murmured, as he bent his expert gaze on the neatly written sheets. Then an expression of bewilderment spread over his face. What was this stuff Hal was pulling? He glanced sideways at Levering, who was standing at the edge of the platform, his back turned. With a shake of his head, Bennie played a few bars; then Levering joined in, a new softness, a thrilling timbre, in his rich voice. Again the few in the room stopped their chatter and listened with puzzled expressions, which changed into real wonder and reluctant admiration as Hal sang:

“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, As a seal upon thine arm, For love is strong as death, Jealousy is cruel as the grave. Stir not up nor awake my love Until he please.”

When he had finished, a silence hung over the place. Hal turned to Bennie. “Try the next one,” he said quietly.

And again he sang a verse from the Song of Solomon, set to a wailing accompaniment, that died away to a whisper, rose, swelled, and died away again. It was thrilling, strange, but “Can even Hal Levering get away with that stuff in a night club?” wondered Bennie.

One or two jazz numbers followed, and Hal called off rehearsal. The word spread that Levering was back, and that night, when the lights were dimmed and the chorus twinkled through the opening number, the place was crowded beyond seating capacity.

There was no sight of Levering until after Buck and Wing, those whirling cloggers, had done their turn. Then he appeared, and a burst of applause, punctuated by the staccato click of the little wooden hammers on the tables, showed that he still had a loyal following.

Bennie, at the piano, nervously settled himself, waiting for the noise to cease. Then Hal broke into one of his new songs, those songs that are as famous now as “Eli, Eli.” The reaction of the crowd was amazing. Some wept, some applauded, others sat silent, wondering. It was so unexpected, so sudden, that before they realized it Hal had bowed quietly and left the room.

Later he sang several jazz songs, but after the applause he did not join his patrons at their tables; he left the room in spite of clamorous shouts of “C’mere, Hal,” “Have a lil one with us, Hal?” “Draw up a chair, Hal.”

Sitting at one of the tables were Lord and Lady Greville, Nancy Bromley, and John Taylor. If Levering had noticed the presence of these companions of his week-end at Constance Corthwaite’s, he gave no sign.

“I told Constance he’d be back at it within a year,” remarked Nancy Bromley, when Levering had left the floor and the lights had again been brightened. “A taste of good fortune to a man like that always goes to the head.... Cantor! It is to laugh.”

The others were silent; then Taylor spoke: “That’s not the man we knew, though. Don’t you get the difference? Those first songs were superb. The man who wrote that music is a genius.”

“Changed, nothing! That’s the same old Levering. I’ll prove it to you.” Nancy called a waiter and told him to ask Mr. Levering if he would speak to Miss Bromley.

“What are you going to do?” asked Greville.

“Never mind; you’ll see when he comes,” answered Nancy.

In a few moments Levering appeared and walked through the aisles of tables to where the party was sitting. He did not cross the floor in his old swaggering manner, receiving homage as he went; but with dignity he walked and, reaching the table, bowed quietly to the four people.

“Pull up a chair and have a drink,” invited Taylor.

“No, thank you, just the same. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I am having some people down over the week-end of the twenty-third, Mr. Levering,” said Nancy. “I should like very much to have you come.”

“That is very kind of you, Miss Bromley,” replied Levering quietly; “I should be very glad to come on Saturday evening and entertain your guests. My charge for such an affair is one thousand dollars. I presume you will not want me after eleven-thirty. I must be back in town early, for I sing in a concert Sunday afternoon.”

Nancy’s face was crimson as she answered, “That will be all right, Mr. Levering.” Hal bowed and, turning, walked away.

John Taylor looked with amusement at the discomfited Nancy and then at the proud set of the head of the Jew who was now a Jew, a Prince of Israel, and a verse that he had learned as a child came to him: “For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour.”

BULLDOG

BY ROGER DANIELS

From _Saturday Evening Post_

“Next case!” Judge Barringer was brisk. Word had come to him that the railbirds were plentiful down in the marshes of the Big Swamp and he was going hunting. It was Monday morning, and the police-court docket was an unusually large one even for Monday morning.

Out of the group of Negroes waiting in the prisoners’ pen, a group so large this morning that it overflowed on to the sunny porch beyond, edged a giant Negro in answer to the turnkey’s signal. Rather, he could have been said to plough his way through, for the men and women ranged before him separated as does soft loam under the impelling blade of the ploughshare. Once free of the crowd, the man stepped forward with an easy but awkward shuffle until he stood directly in front of the judge’s desk. At that moment Judge Barringer was intently scanning the docket slip and figuring how soon he would be able to get away.

The prisoner’s massive head might have been chiselled with an ax from a block of black marble, and not too finely chiselled, at that. It had the sheen of black marble, and was square and formidable, that head, viewed from any angle. The jaw was square and protruding, the forehead was square and receding, the nose was broad and flat. Just now the mouth was spread wide across the shining ebony face.

“Mawnin’, Jedge,” the big Negro said with a sheepish grin. “Heah Ah is!”

Judge Barringer’s head jerked up instantly. He was not accustomed to mawkish familiarity from his charges, nor did he fail to administer stinging rebukes, when such were attempted, in the amount of sentence given as well as in verbal reproof to any and all who might presume to take such liberties. But as he took cognizance of the figure that loomed before him, his expression changed. The frown that had furrowed his forehead did not linger. It could not be said that he smiled, but a look of real recognition, kindly and forbearing, came into his eyes. One hardly frowns at an old acquaintance.

“Well, Bulldog,” Judge Barringer said, calling the big Negro by the only name he had, “I haven’t seen you for the longest time. Where have you been hiding?”

Bulldog grinned, even a broader grin than before, so that his white teeth showed in a semicircle. “Same place wheah Ah usually is, Jedge Barringer, Yo’ Honour. Down on the Fahm wiv Cap’n Jim.” The Farm was the chain-gang camp.

“It’s too bad, Bulldog,” the judge said, shaking his head; “you’re big enough to keep out of trouble and mind your own business.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge Barringer, tha’s jes’ what Ah was a-doin’, mindin’ mah business, an’ Ah jes’ gits me into trouble jes’ the same. Seems lak me an’ trouble sticks together lak a pair ob dice.” He grinned again. The grin became infectious and Judge Barringer took it up. Even the stolid fat Sam Perks, the turnkey, grinned. Then came a general titter, to be brought to a sudden halt by the judge’s staccato gavel.

Judge Barringer had suddenly remembered the railbirds and the Big Swamp. He was off for a three-day hunt, and there were several things he must attend to personally before turning over the affairs of court _pro tem._ to the clerk. With still more than half a heavy Monday docket to be heard from, there was no time for amusement this morning.

“Well, where’s the witness against Bulldog? Is the Court to be kept waiting? What has he to say for himself and why isn’t he here?”

The patrolman who had arrested the big Negro stepped forward.

“The witness is still in the hospital, judge,” he said. “Pretty badly done up and they don’t know when he will be out. I guess the case will have to be continued until he can appear.”

“Waste of time,” Judge Barringer said crisply. “I know Bulldog.” He turned abruptly to the big Negro. “Well, what happened this time? Tell us your side of the story.”