The Hearth and Eagle (40 page)

“I don’t know anything about this kind of thing, of course,” said Evan as they hurried along together. “She didn’t have much of a fall, but she’s been looking very bad. Still, maybe that’s natural.”

“Oh, certainly. I think so. Quite, quite,” said the young doctor nervously. He had had very few obstetrical cases, and those had all been husky Irish girls who did the business themselves in an hour or two. He was disappointed in the shabby loft after he had climbed all those flights. Mr. Redlake’s speech had been cultivated and he had hoped for a rich patient. Still, one would do one’s best.

At the end of his quick self-conscious examination, he was not at all sure what his best should be. The girl didn’t look right, that was certain, her color was bad, her heart beat irregularly and there certainly seemed to be a lot of edema, even her hands were swollen.

Still she seemed to be in no particular pain, and smiled at him feebly before she again shut her eyes.

He decided to go home and look in his textbooks. Before leaving he opened his bag and poured out a placebo, of colored peppermint water, told Evan in a loud confident voice to keep her in bed and not to worry, said he would return in the evening, and departed.

Hesper opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow. “Evan—” she whispered—“I’m an awful bother to you. I’m sorry.”

He pulled the stool over to the bedside and took her hand. “You’re going to be all right, Hesper,” he said levelly. “I’ll take care of you.” She lay looking up at his averted face. She saw how thin it had grown; the bones of his cheeks and jaws pushed out the dark skin. There were lines she had never noticed before on either side of his mouth and between his eyebrows. His brooding gaze was fixed on the wall beyond the bed.

She made no sound, but the tears ran from her eyes and down her cheeks. Tears of pity for Evan, for the feeble thing that fluttered inside her, and for herself.

That day and the next, he tended her, bringing food from the outside, performing the most intimate duties with a matter-of-fact efficiency. By the next evening, and the undecided young doctor’s third visit, the need for diagnosis had passed since Hesper had gone into active labor. Doctor Stone watched her for a few minutes, then with a sensation of relief sent Evan for a midwife.

The woman was fat, she arrived wheezing and panting from the climb, flung her bonnet in the corner, examined Hesper, vouchsafed the young doctor a glance of utter contempt, and rolled back her sleeves.

“You’d best bestir yourself, me fine young cub, and lend me a ’and ’ere, if you don’t want to lose ’em both.”

Doctor Stone started and flushed. “Labor appears to me quite normal,” he said stiffly. “Unfortunately it has come on so early, of course. But she had a slight fall.”

“Fall, me foot. It’s ’er kidneys ’as backed up, as anyone without a finemedical degree Id know. She’ll go into fits next, lessen me luck is in. ’Ave you no chloroform in that shiny new bag?”

Doctor Stone threw Evan a miserable look, and followed the midwife behind the baize curtain.

Evan stood in the painting corner by his easel. On the rack there was a half-finished sketch of three young ladies in a rowboat, ordered by
Hearth and Home
for their May issue. He stood looking at the sketch in the dim light. From behind the baize curtain by the bed there came dreadful sounds; the figure of the doctor and midwife hunched like monstrous dwarfs passed and repassed through the lamplight.

Evan’s face contorted. He kicked the easel. It swayed and fell sideways against the wall. He turned and ran, coatless, down the stairs into the bitter January night.

The baby was a girl, and it never breathed at all, nor did the doctor and midwife pay much attention to it. A seven-months baby had little chance at best. They had their hands full with Hesper, and when it appeared that she was out of danger, both claimed the credit, credit really due to the sturdy young body, strengthened by years of healthy living and healthy ancestors.

Hesper recovered rapidly, the midwife sent a daily woman in to nurse and cook for three weeks, and at the end of this period Hesper’s body felt normal. The binding had come off the breasts, which had been agonizingly distended with milk for which there was no use. Her face and hands and feet returned to their natural fine-boned thinness, her white skin and flaming hair regained their brilliance.

During the weeks of the daily nurse’s reign, Evan kept away during the daytime, returning late at night and lying carefully on his side of the bed so as not to disturb her. At seven in the morning, he was already dressed and waiting. The instant the nurse came he went out. The halffinished sketch for
Hearth and Home
remained untouched on the easel.

Since the morning after the birth they had made no reference to the baby. At that time, Doctor Stone had met him on the landing with the tragic news, and had been shocked to have Mr. Redlake interrupt his laborious preamble.

“You mean the baby’s dead?” said Evan and at the doctor’s reluctant nod, he had added something under his breath that sounded like “Thank God.” He had gone to his wife, and kissed her on the forehead. She had raised weighted lids, looking up at him steadily. “There isn’t any baby, Evan.”

“I know. You’ve had a bad time, Hesper. Try not to worry about anything.”

Doctor Stone, hovering in the background, was puzzled. The words and sentiment were adequate for the circumstances, but somewhere there was a lack. It occurred to him that Mr. Redlake’s attitude toward the girl might have been that of any sympathetic friend. You’d never think him part of an intimate mutual tragedy. He’s a queer duck. Noaccount artist, thought Doctor Stone, staring at the cluttered loft and wondering about his fee. Then the obvious explanations for all that puzzled him flew into his mind, and he flushed at his own lack of sophistication. Of course, they aren't married. What a fool I am, he thought, and adopted toward Evan a cold truculence. He presented his bill to date at once, and was somewhat disgruntled to have it paid at once and in cash. Apparently the artistic temperament and irregular morals did not extend to money matters. So Doctor Stone felt disapproving pity for Hesper, congratulated her on her complete recovery, and disappeared forever from the Fourth Street loft. Twenty years later, when Doctor Stone had become a fashionable doctor, he told the story quite differently, and with it bedewed lovely eyes and brought lumps to manly throats at many a Gramercy Park dinner party.

To Hesper, neither doctor, midwife nor daily nurse ever emerged sharply from the gray blur. She followed their commands and allowed them to do what they liked to her body while her spirit withdrew itself to a small shut room and waited.

On Thursday the fourteenth of February a brilliant sun sparkled off the snow and through the skylight which had become a rectangle of blue. Hesper got up early, made coffee and fried bacon, finding zest in these tasks so long suspended. Evan too seemed to share the buoyancy of the day. He ate his breakfast leisurely and showed no signs of going out as usual.

“You look well,” he said, wiping his mouth and smiling at Hesper. “Do you feel all right now?”

She nodded. “Never better.” She straightened, throwing back her head and shoulders. The sunlight touched her hair to fire and her body, more slender than it had ever been, seemed to glow through the faded calico wrapper. “I’d forgotten what it felt like to be healthy,” she said, laughing. Her eyes met Evan’s enigmatic gaze. She took a step toward him. Of their own accord her arms lifted, palms outstretched, and her heart began to beat fast.

“Would you like to go out?” he said, still sitting at the table. “I believe there’s a minstrel show over at the Olympic today. Poor girl, you’ve had a thin time of it in New York.”

Her arms dropped, the quick rose spread through her cheeks and died. “Why, of course I would. But, Evan, we couldn’t afford it, could we?”

“I’ll manage,” he said. From somewhere far off she heard the warning bell, and she silenced it angrily. I’ve no cause for sick fancies now, she thought. Why must I forever be fretting when he doesn’t act as I expect? He’s been good to me, and now he’s planned this outing to give me pleasure.

She dressed herself in the warm blue serge gown he had bought for her in October, thinking what joy it was to have it fit again. She filled her mind with small satisfactions. The blue plush bonnet was becoming, the snow-packed streets were gay with sleigh bells, and in some shop windows there were racks of gawdy valentines.

They lunched at a small café to which neither had been before. She finished everything and a second helping which Evan indulgently ordered for her. She tried not to notice that he ate almost nothing.

The minstrel show was a delight; the end men in absurd pink and blue checked costumes, their enormous mouths left white on the blackened faces, cracked very funny jokes. Pretty broad too. Even Evan laughed at the one about the red-skinned man whose mother had been frightened by an Indian. And most of the songs were funny too, and of a rhythm that set your feet tapping. Until just before the end, when the lights faded on the stage and all the minstrels disappeared except a quartette who put their heads close together and began to sing in murmuring harmony.

At first Hesper, caught by the slow melody, did not understand the words. She leaned back in her seat, conscious of the nearness of Evan’s arm, and still buoyed by the gaiety which had gone before and the laugh she and Evan had shared.

But the quartette continued and the audience grew very quiet. And now the words came through to her borne on the mournful tune.

Look down, look down, that Lonesome Road,
Hang down your head and sigh.
The best of friends must part some day
And why not you and I?

She turned her head and looked up at Evan’s dark profile beside her in the dim theater. He seemed to be watching the stage.

“What a stupid song!” cried Hesper suddenly.

“You think so?” said Evan. “Then let’s go,” and he rose. They pushed their way to the aisle, and out onto Broadway.

He offered her his arm and she took it silently. They walked back to the lodging house. She preceded him up the stairs and waited for him to unlock the door. She took off her bonnet and shawl, hung them up on the peg, then she put some sticks of wood into the stove.

When she had finished and the stove gave out warmth and crackle, she stood beside it, leaning her back against the wall.

“Evan—” she said. He had been washing his hands. At the tone of her voice, he hung the towel on the washstand and came over to her.

"
You
don’t think that’s a stupid song, do you?” she said. “You think it’s true.”

“You mean that last thing, Lonesome Road? Must I have an opinion about it?”

She made an impatient gesture. “I’m well now. You can stop trying to spare me. It’s all over between us, isn’t it ? I think you gave me a treat today, the way Ma used to make me a special gingerbread man before she took me to the toothpuller.”

“My dear—” He took a step toward her and stopped. “Don’t be bitter, Hesper.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” she persisted. “The Lonesome Road is what you want. What you’ve always wanted.”

He opened his mouth and shut it again, shrugging his shoulders. He walked over to the chair by the table and sat down.

“Look, Hesper, you’re no happier than I am. I can’t be a husband. I can’t even be a lover for long. I knew damn well it wouldn’t work—”

“Then why did you—” her voice thickened, she turned her back to him.

He sighed. “Oh, I suppose because the delusion was beautiful.”

“While it lasted.”

“While it lasted.” His eyes became cold. “I think, whatever my shortcomings, I’ve not earned reproaches.”

No, she thought, he had not earned reproaches. He had warned her first, though she would not listen. And after they knew of the baby’s coming he had forced himself to work he loathed. She thought of the days he had nursed her.

She went and sat in the other chair across the table from him, exactly as they had sat for so many meals here in the loft. “What are you planning, Evan?” she asked very low.

In the moment before he answered she felt a new numbness wrap around her heart. Now there was no more pain. The words of the song began a measured beating in her head. “The best of friends must part some day and why not you and I.” And we weren’t even the best of friends, she thought. Not friends at all.

“I’m going to sail for England, next Thursday, on the
Cedric.”

“Indeed,” she said. “And are you taking someone along to pose for you?”

She raised her head and looked at him. Her hazel eyes steady on his face.

“I am not,” he retorted. “Nor will I ever be tied again—in any way. I shall go to Scotland to paint. Then to France probably.”

“Paris?” she said. “The Bohemian life you mentioned?”

“Perhaps.”

“And what is to become of me?”

“You can’t doubt that I’ve made provision for you. You shall have all I have in the bank, and I’ll send you more when I can. Durand has advanced me money for my trip.”

She said nothing.

Suddenly he put his hand across the table and touched hers. “Don’t look like that, Hesper. You’ll go back to Marblehead. You’re part of it, and it of you, don’t you know that yet?”

She took her hand from under his. The touch had seemed to send fire up her arm and into her breast. The fire consumed the cold numbness. “Why did you touch me, then?” she whispered.

She held herself tight against the chair. Her upturned eyes, no longer steady, searched for his. But they were shuttered against her.

“No, Hesper,” he said. “I’ll not be caught that way again. You saw what happened, though you never rightly understood. I couldn’t paint. My strength went, and all the sureness—the in knowing. I can’t travel two roads at once. Maybe the road I’ve chosen won’t lead anyplace. So be it. I’ve got to follow it.”

The loft gathered itself into silence. “Yes,” she said. “I see.”

He got up and stood beside her, looking down at her. “You’ll be much happier, my dear, believe me.”