Part 22

But it is also more than probable that somewhere far back in the dark recesses of her consciousness, there were memories which kindled as she grew older, new fires of resentment against the Mills and the Town and all the things they stood for ... memories of her mother’s open hatred for the Harrisons and Judge Weissman, memories of a terrible night when men and women were shot down under the dead trees of the park, memories of an heroic, unattainable figure, wounded and bloody, but undefeated ... a figure which doubtless grew in fascination as it receded into the past. It is true, too, that there is sometimes greater peace, even greater happiness, in renunciation than in fulfilment. What has never been a reality, may remain a fine dream. Krylenko had never been more than this.

And so the affair ran on until one evening in September Eustache, the farmer’s boy, brought back from Meaux a small envelope bearing the post mark of the Town and addressed in the scrawled, illiterate handwriting of old Hennery. It recounted briefly the end of the house of Cypress Hill. It had caught fire mysteriously in the night and before dawn nothing remained save a hole in the ground filled with the scorched and blackened fragments of fine old carpets, mirrors, jade, crystals, carved chests and old chairs, all the beautiful things which encumbered the site of the proposed railroad station.

The mulatto woman, Hennery wrote with difficulty and the most atrocious spelling, swore that she saw two men running away from the house after the fire began. The police, he added, had been able to find no trace of them.

And the following day Lily received a polite letter from Folsom and Jones giving her a brief account of the catastrophe. They also mentioned the story told by the mulatto woman. They believed, however, that it was simply the crazy imagining of a demented old woman.

“Perhaps now,” the letter concluded, “Miss Shane would desire to rid herself of a property that could no longer hold her even by ties of sentiment.”

LXVIII

Lily did not sell and for a time the letters of Folsom and Jones ceased to arrive regularly. Since all her property in the Town was sold save the site of the house at Cypress Hill, there remained no cause for correspondence. Her money she invested through the American banks in Paris. She heard nothing more of the Town until November when she returned to the city. The prospect of a winter in Paris appeared to revive her spirits, and she went, as usual, to hear Ellen play her first concert of the season. That year Lilli Barr played a new Poem with the Colonne Orchestra under the bâton of the elegant Gabriel Pierné. The performance was not a great success. There was too little sympathy between the scholarly soul of the conductor and the vigorous, barbaric temperament of the pianist. Yet it was Ellen who came off best, bearing all the laurels, with all the simpering critics trotting attendance. “Mlle. Barr,” they said, “has the perfect temperament for it ... the superb adjustment of soul and intellect indispensable to the interpretation of such febrile music. It is music which requires a certain coldness of brain, a perception delicate and piercing ... a thing of the nerves.” And so they ran on, wallowing in their delight for the _mot juste_, praising more extravagantly than was either honest or in good taste. One or two saw an opportunity in the praise of hitting a back handed slap at the conductor and his orchestra.

It was M. Galivant, critic of the Journal des Arts Modernes, who hit upon the phrases “febrile music” and “delicate perception.” He showed Lilli Barr the article in the salon after the concert, with the keys of the great piano barely cool from her hot fingers.

“Pish! Tosh!” she remarked to Lily who waited for her in the dressing room. “Did you see what Galivant has written? It’s too exquisite for me. To hear them talk, you’d think I took the veil for months at a time just to meditate what my music is all about. I know what it’s about and I don’t want praise that’s written before they hear me play, just because I help their modern music along. Nerves! Nerves! I haven’t got such things!”

Yet she was, as always after a concert, tense and nervous, filled with a terrible energy which would not let her sleep until dawn. To-night she wore a long tight gown of cloth of silver, without sleeves and girdled by a single chain of rhinestones. With her dark hair drawn tightly back, she resembled a fine greyhound--lean, muscular, quivering.

“At least they liked it,” said Lily, “judging from the applause.” She sat waiting in a long cloak of black velvet, held together with silver clasps.

There was a sudden knock at the door and Lily murmured “Come in.” It was the porter, a lean, sallow, man with a stoop and enormous black mustaches.

“There is a gentleman to see Madame l’artiste,” he said.

Ellen turned. “Who is it?”

The man grimaced. “How should I know? He says he knows you.”

A shadow of irritation crossed Ellen’s smooth brow. “If he wants to see me, tell him to send in his name.” And then to Lily as the porter withdrew, “You see what fame is. The porter doesn’t even know my name. He calls me Madame l’artiste ... Madame indeed! He hasn’t even bothered to read the bills.”

The fellow returned again, this time opening the door without the courtesy of a knock.

“His name, Madame, is ’arrisong.”

Ellen pursed her lips thoughtfully and struck a match on the sole of her slipper, holding the flame to the cigarette in her strong slim fingers.

“Harrison?... Harrison?” she repeated, holding the cigarette between her lips and the lighted match poised. “I don’t know any Harrison.... Tell him to come in.”

The stranger must have been waiting just outside the door, for at the word he stepped timidly inside. He was dressed in black and wore a derby hat set well on the back of his head. Over one arm hung an umbrella. He was rather sallow and macabre despite his plumpness. There was the faint air of an undertaker about him. He might have been any age.

As he advanced he smiled and, observing Lily, his countenance assumed an expression of surprise. Ellen gave no sign of recognition. It was Lily who stirred suddenly and stood up, her face glowing with a genuine spontaneous pleasure.

“Willie Harrison!” she cried. “Where have _you_ come from?”

At the sound of his name Ellen’s smooth brow wrinkled in a slight frown. “Willie Harrison,” she murmured, and then joined Lily in welcoming him.

For a moment he stood awkwardly regarding the two women. Then he said, “I came to your concert, Ellen.... I saw it advertised in the Herald. I knew you were Lilli Barr.” He chortled nervously. “Funny how famous you are now! Nobody ever would have thought it!”

The sight of Willie appeared suddenly to loosen all Ellen’s taut nerves. She sat down, leaned back in the chair, and laughed. “Yes. I fooled them, didn’t I?” she said. “I fooled them.” And a sort of grim satisfaction entered her voice.

Lily was smiling now, out of sheer pleasure at the sight of Willie. It amused her probably more than anything that could have happened to her at that moment.

“But what on earth are you doing in Paris?”

From the tone of her voice, it was clear that she regarded his presence as a sort of miracle.... That Willie Harrison should have had the energy to cross the Atlantic and wander about alone in Paris.

Willie sat down, rather stiffly, and told his story. He was with a Cook’s party. His tour included London, Paris, the château country and Switzerland. He was leaving shortly.

“It’s been a wonderful trip,” he remarked, his plump face all aglow. “I’d no idea how much country there was over here.”

“Yes,” said Ellen, “there’s a good deal, taking it all in all.” She said this with an undisguised air of patronizing him. It was she who was great now, she who held the whip hand. She was no longer an awkward girl in a home-made ball gown so unpretentious that men like Willie Harrison failed to notice her.

But Willie failed to understand. He was childishly excited over Paris. “It’s a great city!” he observed, fingering nervously the ruby clasp of his watch chain. “A great city!”

Lily stood up suddenly.

“Willie,” she said, “come home and have supper with us.” And turning to Ellen she added, “Paul will be waiting for us. He must be there already.” And to Willie, “Paul is Monsieur Schneidermann, a friend of Ellen’s and mine.”

Willie rose. “I don’t know,” he said timidly. “Maybe you aren’t prepared for me. Maybe I’d be in the way. I didn’t mean to force my way in on anything when I called. It was just for the sake of old times.”

Lily, moved toward the door trailing the magnificent cloak of black and silver. She thrust her arm through his. “Come along, Willie,” she said. “No nonsense. Why, we grew up together.”

And they went out, Ellen following them in her plum-colored wrap, to the motor which bore on its polished door the crest of the Baron.

Throughout the journey Willie kept poking his head in and out of the closed motor, drinking in the sights along the way ... the hushed, shadowy mass of the Madeleine, the warm glow before Maxims’, the ghostly spaces of the Place de la Concorde, the white palaces of the Champs Elysées. Ellen in her corner remained sulky and taciturn, smoking savagely. Lily talked merrily, pointing out from time to time sights which she deemed worthy of Willie’s appreciation. He seemed not to be listening.

“It’s a wonderful place,” he kept saying over and over again. “It’s a wonderful place.” And a kind of pathetic and beautiful awe crept into his thin voice. It seemed that he had no other words than “wonderful.” He kept repeating it again and again like a drunken man holding a conversation with himself.

At Numero Dix, Rue Raynouard, Willie underwent the experience of every stranger. He entered by the unpretentious door and found himself suddenly at the top of a long, amazing stairway which led down to a drawing-room all rosy with the glow of warm light. Half-way down the stairs candles burned in sconces against the dull paneling. From below drifted the faint sound of music ... a Debussy nocturne being played with caressing fingers in the shadowy, dim-lit spaces of the drawing-room.

“Paul is here,” observed Ellen and led the way down the long stairs.

Lily followed and close at her silver heels Willie Harrison, divested now of his derby and umbrella. Half-way down, he paused for a moment and Lily, conscious that he had ceased to follow her, waited too. As she turned she saw that he was listening. There was a strange blurred look in his pale eyes ... the look of one awaking from a long sleep.

“It’s beautiful,” he said reverently. “My God! It’s beautiful!” A kind of dignity seized him. He was no longer gauche and timid. He stared at Lily who stood with her back to a mirror, the black and silver cloak thrown carelessly back from her voluptuous white shoulders, her handsome head crowned with gold bronze hair. And then all at once the tears shone in his eyes. He leaned against the paneling.

“I understand now,” he said softly. “I understand ... everything. I know now how little I must have counted.... me and all the Mills together.”

And in Lily’s eyes there was mirrored another picture ... that of a vast resounding shed bright with flames and thick with the odor of soot and half-naked bodies ... Willie, eternally fingering the ruby clasp of his watch chain, herself turning the rings round and round on her slim fingers, and in the distance the white, stalwart body of a young Ukrainian steel worker ... a mere boy ... but beautiful. Krylenko was his name ... Krylenko ... Krylenko ... It was a long time ago, more than fourteen years. How time flew!

Lily’s dusky blue eyes darkened suddenly and the tears brimmed over. Perhaps it came to her then for the first time ... a sense of life, of a beautiful yet tragic unity, of a force which swept both of them along helplessly.

All at once she held her handkerchief, quite shamelessly, to her eyes. “We are beginning to be old, Willie,” she said softly. “Do you feel it too?”

And she turned and led the way downwards. The music had ceased and the voices of Ellen and Paul Schneidermann rose in dispute. They were arguing with a youthful fire over the merits of the new concerto.

“Here,” came Ellen’s voice. “This part. It is superb!” And then the sound of a wild, ecstatic sweep of music, terrifying and beautiful. “You understand the strings help a great deal. Part of it lies in the accompaniment.” And she began singing the accompaniment as she played.

But Lily with her companion trooping along behind her, did not interrupt the discussion. They made their way, enveloped in a peaceful silence, into the dining-room where supper waited them--some sort of hot stuff in a silver dish with an alcohol flame burning beneath it, an urn steaming with hot chocolate, a bowl of whipped cream, a few sandwiches--superlatively French sandwiches, very thin and crustless with the faintest edge of buff colored paté showing between the transparent slices of white bread. It was all exquisite, perfect, flawless.

“Sit down,” said Lily, as she flung off the black and silver cloak. “Sit down and tell me all about yourself.”

Willie drew up a chair. “I shan’t be able to stay very late,” he said. “You see, I’m leaving early in the morning.” He watched Lily fumbling with the lamp beneath the urn. She was plumper than he had expected. Indeed she was almost fat. There was a faint air of middle-age about her, indiscernable but unmistakably present.

“What about yourself?” he asked politely. “What has your life been?”

Lily kept on turning and pushing at the silver burner. “My life?” she said. “Well, you see it all about you, Willie.” She made a little gesture to include the long, softly glittering rooms, Ellen, the piano, Paul Schneidermann. “It’s just been this,” she said. “Nothing more ... nothing less. Not much has happened.” For a moment she stopped her fumbling and sat thoughtful. “Not much has happened,” and then after another pause, “No, scarcely anything.”

There was a sudden, sharp silence, filled by the sound of Ellen’s music. She had become absorbed in it, utterly. It was impossible to say when she would come in to supper.

Then Willie, in an attempt at courtliness, strained the truth somewhat. “You don’t look a day older, Lily ... not a day.... Just the same. It’s remarkable.”

His companion lifted the lid of the chafing dish. “Some hot chicken, Willie?” she asked, and when he nodded, “I must say you look younger ... ten years younger than the last time I saw you. Why, you look as though you’d forgotten the Mills ... completely.”

Willie laughed. It was a curious elated laugh, a little wild for all its softness.

“I have,” he said. “You see I’m out of the Mills for good. I’ve been out of them for almost seven years.”

Lily looked at him. “Seven years,” she said, “seven years! Why that’s since the strike. You must have gotten out at the same time.”

“I did,” he replied, “I own some stock. That’s all. Judge Weissman is dead, you know. When mother died, the old crowd went out of it for good. All the Mills are now a part of the Amalgamated.”

LXIX

Thus in a few words, he sketched the passing of one epoch and its succession by another. The day of the small private enterprise in the Town had passed, succeeded by the day of the great corporation. Everything was owned now by capitalists, by stockholders who never saw the Mills, to whom the workers of the Flats were little more than mythical creatures, animated engines without minds or souls, whose only symbol of existence was the dividend twice a year. Machines they were ... machines ... dim machines ... not in the least real or human.

Most of the tale Willie omitted. He did not tell of the monkey-faced little man who came to the Town representing the Amalgamated. Nor did he tell of the monkey-faced man’s address to the Chamber of Commerce in which he talked a great deal of Jesus and declared that religion was what the world most needed, religion and a sense of fellowship between men. He did not tell of how the Amalgamated broke the strike by buying all the wretched houses and turning out the strikers, men, women and children. He omitted the blacklisting, the means by which the strikers were prevented from obtaining work elsewhere. He did not observe that the power which money gave Judge Weissman, himself and his mother, was as nothing compared to the power of the Amalgamated--a vast incalculable power founded upon gold and the possession of property. Nor did he say that the passing of the Mills had killed Mrs. Julis Harrison ... a thing which was as true as truth. These things were to him of no importance. He was now simply “an average citizen” minding his own business.

All Willie said was, “When mother died, the old crowd went out of it for good.”

In the drawing-room Ellen had been completely captured by the concerto. She was playing it all over again, from beginning to end, rapturously, savagely. Schneidermann lay among the cushions of the divan, his lean figure sprawled languidly, his dark eyes closed.

“And what do you do now?” asked Lily. “You must do something to occupy yourself.”

Willie’s plump face brightened. “I have a farm,” he said. “I raise ducks and chickens.” A slow smile crept over Lily’s face. “It’s a success too,” he continued. “You needn’t laugh at it. I make it pay. Why, I made this trip on last year’s profits. And I have a great deal of fun out of it.” He smiled again with an air of supreme contentment. “It’s the first time I’ve ever done what I wanted to do.”

Lily regarded him with a faint air of surprise. It may have been that she guessed then for the first time, that he was not after all a complete fool. He, too, like Ellen, like herself, even like Irene, had escaped in spite of everything.

They had been talking thus for half an hour when Ellen, followed by Paul Schneidermann, joined them. Willie stood up nervously.

“Paul,” said Lily, “Mr. Harrison--Mr. Harrison, Monsieur Schneidermann.” They bowed. “You are both steel manufacturers,” she added with a touch of irony, “You will find much in common.”

Willie protested. “No longer,” he said. “Now I am a farmer.”

“And I,” said Schneidermann, “have never been. I am a musician....” Ellen laughed scornfully and he turned to her with a curious blushing look of self-effacement, “Perhaps,” he said, “dilettante is a better word.”

For a time they talked--the stupid, polite conversation that occurs between strangers; and then, the proprieties satisfied, Ellen and Paul drifted quickly back into the realm of music. Lily devoted herself to Willie Harrison.

“It was too bad,” he remarked, “about the house at Cypress Hill.”

Lily leaned forward on the table holding up one white wrist to shield her eyes from the light of the candles. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry ... sentimentally, I suppose. I should never have gone back to it. It was perfectly useless to me. But I’m sorry it’s gone. I suppose it, too, was changed.”

“You would never have known it,” said Willie. “It was completely black ... even the white trimmings.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Do you know what they say? They say in the Town that some one was hired to burn it, so that you would be willing to sell.”

For a moment Lily remained silent. Her hand trembled a little. She looked across at Ellen to see whether she had been listening. Her cousin was plainly absorbed in her argument.

“They can have it now,” said Lily, with an intense bitterness. “I begrudge them even the taxes I have to pay on it. But they’ll have to pay a good price,” she added quietly. “I’ll squeeze the last cent out of them.”

It was the end of their conversation, for Willie glancing at his watch, announced that he must leave. Lily accompanied him up the long stairs to the unpretentious door. There he hesitated for a moment on bidding her good night.

“You have changed,” he said. “I can see it now.”

Lily smiled vaguely, “How?”

He fell to fumbling with the ruby clasp. “I don’t know. More calm, I think.... You’re not so impatient. And you’re like a Frenchwoman.... Why, you even speak English with an accent.”

“Oh, no, Willie ... I’m not like a Frenchwoman. I’m still American. There’s a good deal of my mother in me. I’ve realized it lately. It’s that desire to run things. You understand what I mean.... Perhaps it’s because I’m getting to the age where one can’t live upon the food of youth.” She laughed suddenly. “We Americans don’t change. What I mean is that I’m growing old.”

Willie shook hands politely and went out, leaving Lily in the doorway to watch his neat figure, silhouetted against the glow of light from the Café des Tourelles, until he reached the corner and disappeared.

It was the last time she ever saw him so it was impossible for her to have known the vagaries of his progress after he left the door of Numero Dix. Yet this progress held a certain interest. At the corner of the Rue Franklin, Willie hailed with his umbrella a passing taxicab and bade the driver take him to an address in the Rue du Bac. It was not the address of the American Hotel; on the contrary it designated a three story house with a café on the first floor and lodgings above. In one of these lived a discreet lady who frequented the Louvre by day and employed Art as a means of making the acquaintance of quiet gentlemen hanging about the fringes of tourist parties. Indeed, she could have written an interesting compendium on the effect of art and Paris upon the behavior of soberly dressed, mousy gentlemen.

For Willie, with the death of his mother and the passing of the Mills, had begun to live ... in his own awkward timid fashion, to be sure ... but none the less he had begun to live.

As he sped on his way in the crazy taxicab, it became more and more evident that his mood was changed by the encounter with Lily. He sat well back in the cab, quietly, immersed in the thought. The dim white squares, empty and deserted now; the flamboyant houses of the section near the Étoile, the light-bordered Seine, the tall black skeleton of the Eiffel Tower ... all these things now left him, for some strange reason, unmoved. They swept by the windows of the cab unnoticed. Willie was thinking of something else.

As the taxi turned into the ghostly spaces of the Place de la Concord, Willie stirred himself suddenly and thrust his head out of the window.

“Cocher! Cocher! Chauffeur!” he cried suddenly in atrocious French. “Allez a l’hotel Americain.”