The Dark Lady (19 page)

"But why should he call his favorite daughter a poor fool?" David asked.

"We had a different theory in Columbus Repertory," Elesina intervened, her mind suddenly aglow with a happy vision of that time. Why had she ever given up acting? "We claimed there was no fool, that he is really Cordelia in disguise. You see, she knows her father is going to have a bad time, and that's the only way she can stay at court and watch over him."

"And what in the meantime has happened to the real fool?" Irving asked, reacting with a wink to Pemberton's expression of disgust.

"He pined away, don't you remember?" Elesina replied. "He pined away when his lady went to France. Perhaps he died. Cordelia, artfully made up, could easily take them in. Who, after all, recognizes Kent or Edgar in disguise? It wasn't a very observing court. Besides, Lear is half senile."

"There I object!" cried Irving.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" protested Pemberton. "Surely this kind of levity is not fitting in a discussion of the bard."

"But why not, Fred?" Elesina insisted. "The quartos are corrupt. You can tell that from ours. A line might have been dropped that explained the whole thing. And don't Shakespeare's heroines frequently disguise themselves as boys?"

"As boys, to be sure. Not as clowns."

"But they do disguise their sex? How many?"

Pemberton was faintly appeased by this appeal to his scholarship. "Four. Julia, Viola, Rosalind, Portia." He paused. "And Imogen. Five."

"Very well. It was evidently a common stage trick. So Lear in his hour of tribulation on the heath is accompanied by his three truest friends, the three loyal characters of the play, Kent, Edgar and Cordelia,
all
in disguise! I suppose Cordelia confesses it to her father in prison. She would, wouldn't she? Of course, she would! And in the end the brokenhearted old man, leaning over her corpse, moans: 'And my poor fool is hang'd.' Why, it's terrific! Only Shakespeare could have thought of it!"

"I suppose I must take you seriously," the scholar responded now, with a desperate effort at self-control. "Let me see if I can quell this madness. Very well. How do you explain the change in Cordelia from a grave, literal, almost inarticulate character to the uninhibited fantasist that the fool is? Granted she could change her face. Could she change the very essence of her character?"

"She didn't have to!" Elesina fancied herself as Rosalind now, disguised as a boy, following David, a moody Orlando, receiving the confidences of his love, feeling his friendly arm about her shoulders, sensing in his tightening muscles that her attraction has bewildered him, caused him, the great wrestler, to doubt his own masculinity, until, to his joy inexpressible, as his fingers reach guiltily but irresistibly lower, he knows it is a woman he touches. "She's only grave and inarticulate because everyone knows she's Cordelia, because she's always been expected to be Cordelia, the princess. Once nobody knows who she is, she is liberated. The true Cordelia can now express herself in the fool. Can't you see it, Fred? If you were somewhere where nobody knew you were the great Professor Pemberton, mightn't we all have a surprise!"

And she, Elesina, might surprise herself. Why was it not possible to lead different lives? She caught Arthur's eye and glanced at her empty wineglass, which he hastened to refill. How different from her first meal at Broadlawns!

"May I ask my imaginative hostess why Cordelia, having shown such quixotic devotion to her ancient parent, should desert him in his hour of greatest need and allow him to find his own way, mad, to Dover?"

"But she doesn't!" Elesina exclaimed in triumph. "She leaves him when Gloster comes out to rescue him from the storm. She has no way of knowing that Gloster himself is about to be seized and blinded."

"All I can say," protested Pemberton, obviously shaken, "is that the blindness and madness conceived by the bard must have been contagious. Shakespeare has never been the same since Sarah Bernhardt, old and one-legged, insisted on playing Hamlet."

"Or since Charlotte Cushman and her sister played Romeo and Juliet," Irving supplied with a chuckle.

"'The rest is silence.'"

After lunch, when Elesina, still in an exuberant mood, was pouring coffee for her guests in the patio, David approached her.

"Let me ask you something. In a minute I must go to the station with your mother."

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you have lunch in town with me next week?"

"But you're coming out here, aren't you?"

"No, there's something I haven't told you. I'm going to go to work with Schurman and Lister on Monday."

"David! Why? Oh, dear boy, not that you shouldn't go to work whenever you want—of course, you should—the cataloguing was only a filler, I know—but why so suddenly and so mysteriously?"

"That's what I want to tell you. If you'll lunch with me."

She refused to acknowledge the implications of his penetrating stare. "Well, of course, I'll lunch with you. Why not? I ought to go to town more often anyway." She handed a cup of coffee to Fred Pemberton as he came up. "How about the Colony? Next Tuesday? At one?"

"No, it must be at a restaurant of my choosing."

She shrugged and turned her attention to the next guest.

"Please, Elesina!"

"Of course, dear. Of course. Send me a card or telephone me where to meet you. Oh, Miss Beggs, would you ask the Judge if he wants coffee?"

When she looked up again, David was gone. Across the patio she saw her mother watching her. She smiled at her, very sweetly.

When Elesina arrived at the West Side address which David had given her, she discovered a small and rather dirty French restaurant, obviously selected more for its obscurity than its cuisine. But the table in the back yard where David was waiting for her was shaded by an umbrella and isolated beside a pleasantly plopping fountain. Immediately she felt the happiness trying to push out of her, as if it were smothering. When her cocktail was placed before her, she looked at it doubtfully. Was it really necessary for her happiness? Couldn't she be happy without smoking and drinking? Did it matter? She took a sip.

"That's heavenly. I suppose I care too much for alcohol. You don't, do you, David?"

"Not really."

"I sometimes don't drink, but I'm always very much aware of it. In my less happy days I drank too much. But I'm happier now."

"Are you really, Elesina? So am I!"

"The job's going well then?"

"Oh, the job. I wasn't thinking of that. It's only my second day. I was thinking of real happiness."

"I thought you were too worried about things in Europe."

"That was before you. Think of it! You've blotted out Hitler."

Elesina looked into those somber, staring eyes. Their blue seemed oceanlike, ominous. He did not once blink. She shivered and looked away. She took a quick sip of her drink. God, he was what she had fantasized! Here it was, love.

"Where is this going to get us, David?"

"Where do we want to get?"

"We're not alone in the world, you know."

"All I know is that I want to make love to you. If you won't let me, I'll have to go away. I can't stand it."

"But where do we come out?"

"I don't care."

"You don't care about your father?"

He gave a little groan. "I don't care about anything the way I care about you. I'd take you away from here. He'd get over it. Mother could come back and look after him."

She looked at his tightly clenched fist that rested on the table and remembered what her own mother had said.

"Think of the scandal, David," she murmured. "It would kill him."

"No, no, he's tougher than you think. And he's old. Old people don't feel the way we do. I'd take you far away from the scandal, anywhere you want. We'd get married and..."

"Married!"

"Of course. You're not really married to him, you know. Not legally. Mother never consented to the divorce."

Elesina was shocked by the rapidity of her cooling off. She sat for a moment in silence, taking in the full impudence of his remark. Their positions seemed suddenly reversed. David was now the one to be generous, to be willing to wed his father's whore!

"I don't quite like your saying that," she said in a dryer tone.

"Well, it's true! Anyway, what does it matter? You can get a divorce if you think it looks better. The whole business of you and Dad was a ghastly mistake, a nightmare. You were lonely, grateful—oh, I can see it. But must our lives be ruined because of a moment's folly?"

"
Our
lives? I didn't know my life had been ruined."

"Elesina!"

"Well, I didn't, David."

"You mean you don't care?"

"You might have asked me that before."

"But I couldn't feel what I'm feeling if you didn't care!" he burst out. "I know that, Elesina! You wouldn't be here. A man
knows.
When it's as bad as this."

She smiled and just touched his clenched fist to show he was forgiven. Instantly her hand was seized in a grip that hurt.

"Please, David." He released her. "Of course, I care about you. I'm not going to be coy about it. But I can't tell you how much yet. I don't know myself. And when we leave here, I'm going in my own taxi. I need time to think this out."

"And what do I do in the interim?"

"That's going to be your affair."

"Will you expect me to come out to Broadlawns as I've been doing?"

"I shall hope so."

"Elesina—darling—how long do you think we can go on like that?"

"I don't know, David," she replied, almost with impatience. "But it's something I'm going to find out. No, don't do that." She withdrew her hand again from his. "Let me order our lunch. You've made your declaration. You've given me a lot to think about. And I shall think about it. Never fear. But until I have, let us talk about other things. Now tell me all about your job."

David protested furiously, but when he saw at last that she really meant it, he had to do as she wished, and for the rest of the meal they talked about his law firm, his prospects there, the possibility of war in Europe. When they parted it was agreed that he would come to Broadlawns for the weekend, but that he would not expect either an answer or even any further discussion of the subject.

Yet Elesina knew on Friday night, as soon as she saw the expression with which David greeted the unwelcome sight of a half-dozen weekend guests assembled in the patio, including the all-observing Ivy Trask, that he had nonetheless hoped for a quicker solution. As he leaned down to give her a family kiss on the cheek he murmured:

"You didn't tell me you were having a crowd."

"It was to make things more cheerful for you, dear," she responded in a normal voice that carried to Ivy's ears. "It would be so dull for a hardworking young man to come out from the city to an empty house." And she honored him with her most brilliant, her most defiantly artificial smile.

She did not exchange another word with him that evening, but she observed him covertly. He was sullen and silent and drank steadily. Ivy devoted herself to him, but with little result.

"If I were you, I'd lock my door tonight," she said to Elesina after dinner, when they were standing for a moment alone in the parlor. "I don't like David's mood."

Two hours later, in her nightgown, Elesina went to her door to implement Ivy's advice, but as her fingers touched the key there was a soft knock. She opened, and was not surprised to find David standing before her. He was still in evening clothes, but his tie was untied and his eyes had a reddish gleam.

"I want to give you a kiss good night."

"David, go to bed!"

His toe was in the door. He stepped in now and seized her shoulders. He kissed her lips, hard, too hard, painfully. Then he started to pull her robe off.

"Elesina?"

It was Irving's voice! With all her strength she shoved David off. "Get back!" she hissed as she went to the door. "Yes, darling?"

The nurse was wheeling her husband's chair down the corridor. "I just wanted to say good night," Irving's voice quavered. He seemed very tired.

"Good night, my love. Sweet dreams!"

Closing the door, she turned on the still sullen David. "It's like a French farce," she snarled. "Get out! And stay out!"

When he had gone and she had turned the key in the lock, she stood by the window until her heart had resumed its normal beat. The danger had been too great. The risk could not be repeated. For what she had now learned was that David
wanted
to precipitate a crisis. He wanted to force her hand. Consciously or not, he was still revenging his old bitch of a mother.

Ivy Trask had agreed to take a six months' leave of absence from
Tone
to try out Elesina's proposal. Irving, obliged to recognize what now seemed to be turning into permanent invalidism, had at last reluctantly consented, not only that she should be housekeeper of Broadlawns, but managing secretary of the Stein Foundation as well. He was quite docile now. Elesina was in charge of everything, and Ivy was Elesina's first minister.

Ivy was too accustomed, however, to the persistent irony of life to be surprised to discover a hard little lump in the core of her new apple of content. She might even have probed for it had it not so promptly made itself manifest. It was the sudden change in Elesina's mood. The year that had followed her marriage had been marked by an uninterrupted spell of good humor. Elesina had dazzled everybody with the easy charm of a manner that nothing seemed able to ruffle. It was true, of course, that little had occurred to ruffle it, but Ivy knew that a bad temper will never lack occasions to make a scene. Elesina appeared to have disposed of hers. But now she would let whole meals go by, uttering hardly a word. She was irritable with the servants and even snapped at old Arthur for being slow to replenish her wineglass. Ivy reproached her for this when he had hurried off to get the bottle.

"It shouldn't be that important to you to wait a minute for a sip of Vouvray. You've had a glass already."

"Which is why I want another. I can't agree with you, Ivy, that it's not important. I think it's most important. There are two kinds of people, the slaves and the free. The free, like you, don't smoke or drink or make love. But the rest of us are addicts; we're always hooked on nicotine or drugs or alcohol or sex or something."