The Trespassers (47 page)

So here she was. She wasn’t happy, no, but she was at peace again.

And about one thing, she knew triumph. Yes, triumph, for the long, stubborn battle had at last been won. And she and the Vederles were the victors.

The letters that had been kept from her until she was at home again, her next letters to Washington, her telegrams and cables, and finally her long-distance telephone calls direct to the Visa Division in Washington—they had threaded in and out of everything she had done in the last eight weeks.

And at last, the cable announcing the visas had come from Dr. Vederle. And even that cable had distress and disappointment in it.

ZURICH WRITES ALL GRANTED VISAS BUT NOT BEFORE MAY, JUNE, MAYBE MUCH LATER, HAVING NO QUOTA NUMBERS EARLIER. OUR APPLICATIONS MADE APRIL THIRTY-EIGHT. CONSULATE SHOULD HAVE RESERVED NUMBERS. SWISS PERMITS EXPIRING ONCE MORE. CAN YOU ONCE AGAIN HELP US?

That was when she had telephoned Washington, instead of writing. She was infuriated and showed it. Every conceivable thing to plague them had happened or been made to happen in this “Vederle case.” On the telephone, and then a few days later, Washington had been helpful, even sympathetic and regretful. But the explanation of “May, June, maybe much later” seemed airtight.

“The reason why the Consul General,” the letter read in part, “cannot give an absolute guaranty that visas will be issued to an applicant on a certain date and must base his estimate upon the indications at the time of his report is due to the fact that there are a number of factors in a visa case which cannot be determined precisely in advance, as, for example, the possibility which always exists that prior applicants who previously have been unable to qualify for visas have procured evidence adequate to establish their qualification under the law, and, as prior applicants, they must be considered before persons who apply after them.”

Who knew how many thousands, she mused, how many tens and scores of thousands of Germans and Austrians had registered with all the American Consulates long before that April day over a year ago when the Vederles had first applied? She remembered that Larry Meany had once told her the number of German-Austrian visas in the U.S. quota—about 27000, he had said. But he had also explained that this was split among all the consulates, and that each one could issue only ten per cent of their small total in any one month.

She had written all this to Ascona. She had gone to the Swiss Legation in New York, and then passed their message along to Dr. Vederle, too. With the letter from Zurich announcing that their visas would be granted, the Swiss authorities would extend their permits once again. Even that much of a document from the American Consulate, had power.

And then she knew, intuitively and positively, that the Vederles’ hope lay with the new quota year and not before. She knew, as certainly as if she could see the official ledgers, that there were no more visas left for May and June. Ten per cent a month for ten months—that must leave May and June blank. Even this she had written them; and urged them to stretch their thin, depleted patience for just a few weeks more.

A few days ago, she had cabled:

ARRIVING NORMANDIE MAY 23. MAY I VISIT YOU?

Their reply had lifted her spirits and filled her with pride. They had become so close. They trusted each other, they knew they could count on each other. They were friends; without faces yet, they knew everything that mattered about one another.

She was eager to meet them, to look into their faces and know them. They didn’t suspect it, but they had played a tremendous part in her widening world. They had made her see her own heartbreak as a symbol of the heartbreak of countless others. That was a great opening of horizons; in a different way, it was a tight link between her and the others. The link was firm now; it would not shatter. The horizons were clear now; they would not dim.

Long before, Vera Marriner had lain in a more positive sunshine than this one now warming her; she had lain on hot white sand and browsed through her memories as if she were browsing through some dim library open only to herself. She knew then that one volume was still missing and would be missing until she herself could formulate its contents. Some instinct told her then that not until she knew what in life mattered most to her would she be able to shape this ghostly volume into a substance.

Now she began to see some rough outlines for it. In the costly, indelible inks of the last terrible months, she had been sketching in its main points. She knew now some of the things that did matter to her, that would always matter as long as she were to live.

It was sketchy yet, this new awareness; it wasn’t graced by a formal pattern. But it had to do with that flashed parallelism that united her with all the others. Always she would be on the side of the betrayed and abandoned; she would fight with them because she knew what they felt. The ones rejected by some new regime, the others misused by some old economy, still others wounded and hurt by the strong and the many—with these she would instinctively and forever stand.

It would need a stand, it would need a fight, through the horrible war that was surely coming this year or next or next, and then on afterward when the immediate battle was won. All the ones who had ever hungered for security, who had seen their beloved children cheated of a chance for growth and opportunity and health, all the millions who yearned and were denied—these millions would be allies in every land, across every border, and she one small fighter with them.

She had bought her uniform with the coin of her own agony; she had forged her weapons from the steel of her own despair. Now she knew, and whenever and wherever the armies fought, she would be fighting, too. This was the lifetime in which the hottest of the battles would rage. You could feel it everywhere, in every nation, the new excitement rising in the blood of those who had been poor long enough, cheated long enough, treated long enough as if they were interlopers and trespassers on the earth that belonged to them because they were its children.

She had never understood “The meek shall inherit the earth,” and she had always resisted the counsel of acceptance that lay tacit within it. Now she heard from somewhere the rebuttal, rising like a battle hymn all over the world. The meek would never inherit the earth. But the earth’s people were not going to be meek much longer. If there were to be another war, it would be
their
war and they would win their war and their earth as well.

The sky domed up into blue infinity, the ocean sparkled, and Vera Marriner lay back in the warming sun and felt herself united now not only with the Vederles and with Bronya but with all the unknown millions behind and beyond them.

At the San Francisco airport, a shining silver plane flew in from the south and circled for its landing. Ann Willis watched through the window for her first sight of Beth Crown.

She had left Fred in Los Angeles for this two-day visit. During their last trip West, she had been unable to accept Beth’s invitation to visit her; she was determined to work in a week end with her this time.

It had been several months since Beth had written. But even the short, stilted letters that had come during the first weeks after the divorce had shown that she was not “getting over it,” as women of livelier temperaments did. She knew that Beth had gone home to her parents in Minnesota for the holidays, and then back to the small flat she had taken in San Francisco. And when she herself had written she had obeyed Beth’s instructions, “Don’t ever write me about Jasper; I’ll get over the divorce faster if I forget him completely.”

Almost as soon as she was out of the airplane, Ann knew that Beth had not forgotten him at all. The too-thin face and neck, the somber eyes, the low voltage of Beth’s whole personality told her that she still resisted, six months after the event, the divorce she had never wanted.

It was a day of mellow May sunshine, and as they drove off together in Beth’s roadster, Ann remembered that this very morning the
Normandie
had docked, and Vee was already in Paris. These two women who had loved Jasper Crown—how different they were and how different the ways in which they each met the disaster they had come upon through him. Vee would finally step clear of whatever remnants of grief still remained, step clear forever, and one day find love and happiness again. But Beth?

Beth had chosen San Francisco merely because her girlhood friends, Sammy and Liz Dales, lived there; they had never known much about her years with Jasper and wouldn’t remind her of them. Liz Dales ran a decorating business, and Beth had taken a job with her. She didn’t want to go back to New York for another few months. By then it would be easier to face everybody.

It wasn’t until they were both ready for bed, in Beth’s apartment that night, that their talk dipped below surfaces it had clung to all day.

“I just can’t seem to get used to it,” Beth said, with no transition from the thing she had been saying a moment before. “I’m not one of these modern women, I know it, but I can’t get over the awfulness of being divorced. I never will.”

Her voice was colorless, her whole being hurt and muffled. Ann knew there was no possible way to change her attitudes; they were too basic.

“Out at the ranch in Reno,” Beth went on, “I used to wonder about some of these women. Couldn’t they see that any marriage is better than no marriage? That being divorced and publicly discarded is worse than anything that can go wrong in marriage?”

“Oh, Beth, you don’t
really
believe that—” She clipped off the rush of disagreement. There was no use and it would only upset Beth. She felt out of sorts with her, and for a swift moment, she wished she had not come. But that was bad of her; they had been friends for so many years.

“Yes, I really do.” Beth looked at her searchingly. “I wouldn’t have gone to Reno, except that Jas told me in advance and that forced me.”

Ann looked away. The very mention of his name stirred the contempt and hatred in her mind.

“You needn’t look away, Ann,” Beth said, a little breathlessly. “I’ve imagined the whole thing through, anyway, and how happy and proud he is, and all of it.
All
of it.”

“All of what? Happy and proud about what?”

“The baby’s born already, isn’t it? I left New York October first, and he knew then—”

“What baby? What are you talking about, Beth? He knew what then?” Her mind snapped to attention.

Beth was staring at her.

“Isn’t Jas married again? Didn’t he get married the day the decree—? He told me I
had
to get it, because he’d been having an affair and they were going to have a baby—” Her voice splintered into the jagged tones of a primitive and terrible jealousy.

Ann tingled with a remarkable excitement. He had told Beth that on October first? But it wasn’t until New Year’s Eve—why, then, he must have—oh, no, it couldn’t be, no, not even Jasper. But that was absurd of her. There was
nothing
he wouldn’t do to get his own way, to force—

“He never married anybody, Beth. There isn’t any baby,” she merely said in a flat and inelastic voice.

“Ann! No—you can’t mean that—he wouldn’t have said—”

Ann shrugged. But her tight lips betrayed the gesture.

“Jasper is not married, Beth. There isn’t any baby.”

Beth had risen to her feet. She stood, thin and older-looking by ten years than she need have been. Her mouth drew out wide into a caricatured line. Ann had never seen her so violent about anything.

“He—then he tricked me. You mean he tricked and cheated me into going to Reno? He told me he’d been to doctors again and that he was all right. I was fool enough to believe that—even though I knew he didn’t really want children, just wanted badges to show the world that he
could—
it was the one thing
he
ever suffered about.”

Yes, Ann thought. And when he gets good and ready, he’ll marry and get himself the badge and have everything just the way he wanted it. But Beth didn’t know that; she never would.

Beth walked about the room. She pounded one fist against the other.

“It was all a lie. He lied to force me. I never would have gone—I wouldn’t be going through this now, this horrible feeling that I’m a divorcée, when the very word makes me writhe. He tricked me, Ann, he got the divorce by fraud. But—but that’s illegal!”

“I don’t know about things like that,” Ann said. “Only a lawyer could tell you about that. I just know he isn’t married and there’s no baby.”

She saw Beth’s eyes go to the telephone.

“Only a lawyer. Yes, I could call Mr. Grosvenor long distance and—”

“Who?”

“My divorce lawyer, in Reno. It’s old Nathan Grosvenor.”

“Hasn’t he a son who once—”

“Yes, yes,” Beth said impatiently. “He was connected with JCN at the beginning. Didn’t I ever mention that? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I could phone him now, old Mr. Grosvenor, I mean, and ask him—”

She went to the telephone this time, and lifted the receiver. Then she looked at her watch and hung the receiver back again.

“No, it’s too late. But in the morning, I’ll find out. He can’t, Ann, Jas
can’t
just cheat and—” A small cry escaped the hand she had pressed to her mouth. “This needn’t have happened to me. I wouldn’t have ever—”

“What would you call him for, Beth? Just to find out if it
was
fraud in a legal sense?”

Suddenly Beth collapsed into a chair. Everything about her seemed to collapse. Her shoulders sank, her hands hung limply at the end of her drooping arms, her voice fell to a whisper. But when she spoke, Ann knew that a hard core of resolve had formed inside her inert body. She had something new to live for now.

“Not
just
to find out, no. You can have a divorce decree set aside if it was obtained by fraud, if you were coerced by fraud.”

“You’d have to prove it, though, wouldn’t you? Not just say he said it, but—prove it?”

For a moment, Beth was caught up by this challenge. Then in the next moment, she went to a small cabinet, unlocked it, and drew out some papers. “I have a letter that proves he said it,” she said while she searched for it. “He sent it with flowers to the airport. ‘Not for my sake, but for the baby’s, I ask you to keep what I told you a secret’—I know it by heart, and how badly he felt that his news the night before had upset me.” She found it, glanced rapidly through it, and then handed it to Ann. “Look at the date. October first.”