How Like a God

VII

He became suddenly aware that his hand was again in his overcoat pocket, closed tightly over the butt of the revolver His hand came out and the revolver with it, and he stood there with his forearm extended, the weapon in plain sight, peering around, downstairs and up, like a villain in a melodrama. If the door of the landing had at that instant opened and one of the art students had appeared, he would probably have pulled the trigger without knowing it.

His hand returned to his pocket and then came out again, empty, and sought the railing as he mounted another step, and then stopped once more.

Oh you would, would you, he said to himself, and he felt his lips twist into a grimace that tried to be a smile. No you don’t, this time you go ahead, if it’s only to point it at her and let her know what you think she’s fit for.

You go ahead...

You said that to yourself, over and over again, that night in Cleveland when Lucy was going away. Go ahead, go ahead, you repeated, what are you waiting for?

But you did neither. You dangled on the peg of your irresolution and cried like a baby.

She had not been back long, it was towards the end of October, when one evening you were dining at Winkler’s Restaurant and she suddenly said:

“It looks as if I’m going to New York soon. Mereczynski has opened a studio there and Mr. Murray says he can get him to take me. I don’t know if I’m worth it; I’ve written Father about it.”

You felt at once that she intended to go, that she would go. You were panic-stricken; not till that moment had you been aware that underneath her simplicity and her quietness was a strength which made her immeasurably your superior. Had you misjudged also your own importance to her?

“How soon would you go?”

“I don’t know, probably a couple of weeks, as soon as Mr. Murray can make the arrangements. If I am to go at all it might as well be at once.”

“In two weeks,” you said, and then were silent. When you spoke again, it was almost desperately.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you to marry me. Of course you know that. If you go to New York that will be the end of it.” You hesitated, then finished more desperately and rapidly: “Unless you’ll promise to marry me before you go.”

But Lucy laughed! And said:

“Well, you did ask me after all.”

“I’ve wanted to since the first day I saw you,” you declared. “I took it for granted you knew. But I’ve never known what to say to you. I don’t know even now how you feel about me—”

She stopped smiling, and her voice was more serious than you had ever heard it:

“I don’t either. I never have known how we feel about each other. I like you so much, much more than I’ve ever liked anyone, but there’s something in you I don’t like, and I don’t know what it is. Though if you’d asked me last summer I’m pretty sure I’d have said yes.”

She was to take a sleeper on a Wednesday night. On the Tuesday evening you dined again at Winkler’s. After dinner you drove her home and, arriving there and observing that it was only ten o’clock, it was suggested that you stay a while. Finding the library and parlor occupied by Aunt Martha and a bridge party, Lucy said you could find refuge in her room, and ran upstairs ahead of you.

She had some snapshots, taken during your summer visit, which you had not yet seen, and you helped her dig them out of the trunk; and she sat cross-legged on the bed, propped against the pillows, while you sat beside her and took the pictures from her one by one. You hardly saw the pictures.

A picture fell from your fingers into her lap. You reached for it together, and your hand closed upon hers. She looked at you, and her eyes widened and her face became suddenly still as marble. You leaned forward and kissed her. You kept your lips on hers, put your arms tight around her.

“My love, O Lucy my love,” you gasped. “Kiss me, please kiss me.”

She was silent, but she kissed you, again and again. She held you close with strong and urgent arms. “My love, my dear love,” you whispered. Awkwardly your rough embrace tightened around her. She shivered, suddenly and violently, withdrew herself, pushed you away.

“I think you tore my dress,” she said, feeling at it.

You swung yourself around, got onto your feet, on the floor, and stood there, betrayed and ridiculous, fumbling in your pocket for your cigarette case. She too got up and without saying anything went to the dressing-table mirror and twisted herself about.

“I’m sorry if I tore it,” you said from across the room.

She came over and stood in front of you, quite close, and put her hands on your shoulders. She tried to smile and you tried to look at her troubled eyes.

“I’m almost crying,” she said. “I can’t figure it out. It’s not the dress, or that I’m afraid of anything we might do. But something was wrong. It was just no good!”

“I’m sorry,” was all you could say. “I’m awfully sorry, Lucy.” As she stood there with her hands still on your shoulders you thought to take her again in your arms, but she moved away and began picking up the scattered pictures.

The following summer you took your vacation early in order to spend two weeks at home while Jane was there. You had of course mentioned Lucy in letters, but at arm’s length, making phrases. Now you spoke of her in detail and with feeling; you gave Jane to understand that it was a case of a grand passion unaccountably thwarted by the tragic vagaries of obscure fate.

“I certainly intended to ask her to marry me,” you declared. “It seemed foreordained. She clearly expected it too. Surely we were made for each other if any two people ever were. And yet it was no go, there was something somewhere that made it impossible. I honestly think I was in love with her — I must have been. Yet somehow unconsciously I must have felt that it wouldn’t work, at least that marriage wouldn’t. Remember she’s a musician, she’s an artist, she has that temperament. Maybe—”

To your shocked surprise Jane laughed. She said suddenly:

“Are you going to marry Erma?”

You were a little startled. “Not that I know of,” you replied. “No, not even if I wanted to, which I don’t. She’s a grand lady, much too grand for me.”

“Not too grand to put you in control of her property.”

You laughed. “I’m not in control of anything. She can recall that piece of paper whenever she wants to, which might be day after tomorrow. No, she’s out of my class.”

“You’ll marry her, you’ll see.”