Chapter XXVI

The morning after Easter, Edith returned to her studies with a light heart. She was full of joy about the new hospital. Furthermore the personal had begun to run in the newspapers, and she would keep it there till it met Elsie’s eye, if it took five years and each year cost her an Easter dress and a summer vacation. She would see this thing through.

Once more, as she bent above her microscope, God seemed to be answering her. The nucleus of every cell divided with a purpose, even if with no other than that of distributing the chromosomes equally among the daughter cells, and beyond that she was willing to trust God. She even became rather enthusiastic about pushing the physico-chemical theory of life to its logical conclusion. Even if somebody should actually find the formula, somewhere among those frightfully complex colloids, no formula could explain the spiritual effort by which it was found.

Tuesday evening, April 21, she was at home, and reading Haldane on respiration. He thought it inexplicable by mechanics, and she agreed, but she was looking for flaws in the argument, and quite willing to trip him up.

Then the door opened, and Bobbie bowed with exaggerated politeness. “Aunty Highbrow, telephone wants you.”

Five minutes later, Drummond’s excellent Swedish chauffeur was startled out of his evening smoke. And thirty minutes later he had been dismissed by Miss Bridgman, with the information that she would not be home till morning.

They were sitting together—Edith and Elsie—on the couch in Elsie’s front room, and their arms were intertwined as completely as the mechanics of the situation would permit.

“I’ve read that personal every day for nine days and I just couldn’t stand it any longer.”

“I’m terribly glad that you couldn’t.”

“He’s a foreigner, Edith. And enough like Marie to be her brother.”

“Most of us are foreigners. Has he gone back home?”

“Yes, he went yesterday.”

Elsie disengaged her left hand and held it before Edith’s eyes. “You see, I haven’t disgraced you. That ring is as real as anybody’s.”

Another kiss, ending with a sigh of relief. “I’m not heroic, Elsie. I was perfectly certain you had no ring, and I couldn’t make up my idiot mind whether to blame you or not.”

“Now don’t you scold yourself, Edith Bridgman. I’ve just been living on your convictions.”

“Why, didn’t he want to marry you?”

Elsie laughed. “It was too funny. I had refused to promise you, and he had refused to promise a man friend of his. But we talked about you—and wanted to please you both. We—we knew you two were older. Where do you think we met?”

“At a socialist meeting, of course.”

“No! At a dance hall.”

“Elsie Shaviro Somebody, I’m ashamed of you. I must kiss you again to prove it.”

“Thank you, ma’am. If I can’t be kissed by my husband, you are the next best. But I was desperate, Edith. I didn’t care what I did. And I went one evening, and it made me sick. There wasn’t a decent man or girl in the place. I was standing to one side when he came through the gate and took a look. I said to myself, Who are you, my young Napoleon Bonaparte? Then something slid up to him and spoke to him. He reached out his finger and touched her lips. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I might get some on my face.’ She slapped him on the cheek and she said, ‘You’re no gentleman.’ He moved his head up and down and said, ‘You have Browning pistol of eye, kiddo. You have shot me up for fair.’ She giggled and took him by the arm. ‘Maybe you don’t think I’m onto you. Browning is a poet. Do you think I’ve got some eyes?’ He looked sober right away. Then he said, ‘When I monkey with slang, it sometimes turns out buzz-saw. I mean you shoot straight when you say I am no gentleman; but you, kiddo, are just poor pitiful she configuration of élan vital. Now go away quick.’ She looked at him, and moved off. Then he took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, and saw me looking at him.”

Elsie stopped, evidently lingering over a happy moment.

“Who spoke first?”

“He did. He walked straight up to me, and he said, ‘Miss Eyeglasses, I want to dance. I do not know anybody. My name is Saadi.’ I said, ‘My name is Elsie, and I want to dance, too.’ We moved out on the floor, and we danced till we reeled. I don’t think we said one word. We had been waiting for each other a thousand years.”

“Didn’t you even discuss élan vital?”

“No. It was weeks before I understood. I didn’t even know it meant vital impulse. And I had never seen the word ‘Saadi’ before. That’s a Persian word.”

“Yes. Persian and Jewess! It’s a real romance.”

“He isn’t exactly a Persian, though he speaks Persian as perfectly as you speak English. He comes from Bokhara. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he had come from the North Pole. He’s the noblest man that ever lived.”

Edith reached out her foot and touched the magnificent red rug. “You evidently know about Bokhara now. That’s a beauty.”

“Isn’t it! He ransacked the whole town for eastern things. That coffee set over there, with the cunning little cups and the long curving brass spout, came from Bosnia. He knows all about the Balkans. Oh, maybe I haven’t learned things!”

“It’s hard to take it all in, Elsie. Does your mother know? Were you married by the rabbi?”

“My folks know all about it now. Mother was here to see me this morning. She can’t get over the fact that I was married by a justice of the peace, but she’s taking it pretty well. My father is tickled to death that it isn’t worse. He telephoned me about an hour ago that Moslem is a whole lot better than Monzerim.”

“I’m sure it is, Elsie. But ‘monzerim’ is beyond me.”

“It means illegitimates, Edith. Mother—mother explained to me this morning why I’ve been so miserable lately.”

She hid her face on Edith’s breast, and the scarred hand held the dark head close. “Bless your dear heart, girlie! Bless your dear heart.”

Elsie clung to her—crying a little—tears of joy. “Just think, Edith—just think—my dream will come true. It is sure to be a boy.”

“A fighter for the workers,” murmured Edith. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“No.”

“Will you let me send you one?”

“I’ll do anything you say. I want everything to be all right.” She lifted her face and brushed away the happy tears. “I want my boy to be strong and beautiful, like his father.”

She arose and brought a photograph, and Edith studied it. “It is a very unusual face, Elsie. But what long eyes, looking out of the corners. Did you never mistrust him the least bit?”

“Never! His simplest word—why, I’d take my husband’s word against all the bibles in the world. He was always joking, and I did enjoy it so, for I could never make a joke. But when Saadi says he’ll do a thing, he’ll do it even if the sky tumbles down. Yes, and if it tumbled down, he’d catch the birds on his shoulder and pet them.”

“Does he know who’s coming?”

Elsie shook her head. “He never dreamed. And I can’t telegraph him, because I don’t know what steamer he is taking to-morrow. But he will be the gladdest man in Asia when he gets my letter. If I may see your doctor to-morrow, I’ll write to-morrow night. Who is your doctor, Edith?”

Edith hesitated. “Bobbie had a specialist. But I will send you our family physician, Dr. Rowland. I’ll telephone when he can come, and you can have your mother here to meet him. But for goodness’ sake, don’t wait about writing. Do it now, and I’ll mail it when I go out in the morning.”

“All right. But I must go to my bedroom to write, all by my little self.”

And away she went. She was gone for fifteen minutes, while Edith availed herself of the opportunity to pull her wits together, and study the face of Elsie’s husband. Something about the brow made her think of Trench. But there was no resemblance to the doctor’s clear, steady gaze. Presently Elsie returned, radiant at a good task performed, and placed in Edith’s hands the letter, addressed to Mr. Saadi Sereef, Grand Hotel, Tashkent, Turkestan, Russia. Edith put it in her handbag, and they sat down together again.

“Oh, I’m so happy,” sighed Elsie. “And it is so nice to feel that I can pay the doctor. My husband is rich—that is, he seems rich to me after what I’ve gone through. He left me five hundred dollars in gold, and I’ve got a bank account. His father is some sort of nobleman. They call him a Beg.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Edith. “Perhaps that is why he is so much interested in politics.”

“Perhaps. I’m making a big scrapbook of the clippings he collected, though I can’t read half of them. He had a dozen foreign papers sent here, and he’d sit over there and use the shears, and sort of rub his teeth together in tune with them. I can tell you just how much every nation in the world spent on its navy last year. I can tell you the gold reserve in every capital. Saadi is the most practical revolutionist I ever met.”

“I inferred as much, my dear. You said he was like Marie. But I supposed Marie to be very poor.”

“That’s true, but lots of revolutionist girls are rich, Edith, and of noble blood. Saadi is the son of a nobleman, but he was in the Russian revolution. As soon as he gets to Tashkent he is going to take a hand in politics again. I don’t know just what he’s going to do. It is dangerous, but I told him I would be ashamed of him if he didn’t do his duty. I’m not worrying. Nothing will happen to him—he’s too full of resources. And some day he will probably be prime minister of Bokhara, for he is a great friend of the present Emir.”

Edith caught her breath. A terrible suspicion was slowly forcing the door of her heart, as the veiled figure in Watts’s picture forces its way past the broken-winged love.

Elsie did not notice her agitation. “And then,” continued the girl, “we shall go to Bokhara to live, and I shall be a great lady. Wouldn’t that make you smile, Edith Bridgman? From Ischl’s clothing factory to the palace of Kermineh! But there shall be no nonsense. Saadi and I are both radicals, though he hasn’t much faith in Marx, and we’ll make things hum in Central Asia.”

Edith fought the dreadful sinking sensation within her. She rose and moved round the room, examining here a picture and there a vase, with little mechanical exclamations, as of pleasure. Elsie rose and joined her, and took her through all the rooms of the flat. Had the girl been already a princess in Bokhara, she could have shown no more pride in her palace. Gradually her friend recovered herself. Whatever her doubts, this was not the time to disclose them.

They returned to the front room. “Oh, it’s so good to think that you’re going to stay all night. Saadi wasn’t here more than half the time. He is studying medicine, and couldn’t let on to his friends that he was married.”

More darkness spreading across the horizon, but Edith held her peace, and sent up a little prayer for a level head.

“And now, Edith dear, don’t let’s talk any more for a while, but have some music. It’s a perfectly splendid instrument, and I’m going to play you the first two pieces he brought me. You see, I took a little room by myself right after I first met him, and he had the instrument sent there. That was when you lost track of me. If I had known you a little better, I’d have had you come and chaperon me, but I always thought of you as with me, dear beautiful woman.”

A lump rose in Edith’s throat, and down went her head on Elsie’s shoulder, as if she were begging forgiveness for something. But when Elsie presently proceeded to play Korsakoff’s “Scherazade,” and then Bird’s “Oriental Sketch,” sorrow returned. She understood only too well how the spell of enchantment had fallen upon Elsie in those first days. The man had technically respected her unprotected condition, but he had led her into a fool’s paradise with that subtle, jasmine-sweet music. As the strains ceased, Edith felt that Elsie was very unlikely to see her husband again.

“You say he has gone to Bokhara, dear. What called him home? Was it the politics?”

“I didn’t quite say he had gone to Bokhara. Didn’t you notice the address I wrote on the letter? Tashkent was his mother’s home, and it is about fifteen hours’ ride from Bokhara. His mother has died, and he has to go.”

“Does her dying make any difference to his prospects?”

“Yes. Saadi gets all her money. The poor little socialist girl is going to have money to burn.”

“Why didn’t his mother live in Bokhara?”

“There was some trouble. She was separated from her husband. Saadi didn’t seem to think much of his father, but what do I care, so long as he thinks the whole world of me?”

She sprang up and brought a half-dozen new records, each in its brown paper cover. “Select something more to play, Edith. Oh, here’s the thing. This is the Servian national song, ‘Rise, Servians, Rise.’ It makes you rise all right. Listen!”

She slipped the record into place, and the sprightly military music began. She swayed to it. She began to march alertly through the room. “You should have seen us do this together! He knew the words, and we used to march up and down till the people below rapped on the steam-pipe and we had to be good.—What’s the matter, Edith? Don’t you like such things Sunday evening? I always forget that you’re a Christian.”

Edith smiled, at least with her lips. “I suppose I’m tired. I didn’t have any supper. Will you make me a cup of tea?”

“Will I? I’m awful to forget a thing like that. Why, you poor little rich girl, I’ve got an ice box full of goodies for you. And we’ll have supper right away. No—you aren’t going to help. You sit right there and look at the new records, and pick out something for a tired girl. There’s a lovely one over there somewhere—the last he brought me. It’s called ‘Good night, little girl, good night,’ but I haven’t played it since he went, for it makes me cry.”

Elsie disappeared into the kitchen, and Edith sat perfectly still, gazing at the Bokhara rug, which was red as if with old blood.

Son of a prince—medical student—clandestine marriage—prime minister—dead mother—heir to fortune! It was all a clear case of humbug and treachery. Little had Helena guessed how truly Edith would have to “specialise in desertion.”

Elsie’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Why don’t you play it?”

“In a minute,” answered Edith. She shuffled the records and found the one desired. She took it out and carried it to the instrument and set it in place, though it looked like a great thin passover cake, the charred symbol of Elsie’s sacrifice. A rich baritone began to sing, “I’ve told you the story you asked me to tell.” A father was giving his little daughter a good-night blessing. Edith listened grimly.

“The world is so wide, dearie,
True friends are so rare, dearie,
Who knows what danger may wait for you there!
No matter how well we have guarded the fold,
The wolves will come in somewhere.
But rest you and slumber, and dream if you will,
You’re safe this night, I know—”

She shuddered as the tender words were breathed. To have given Elsie that song as a farewell gift was a bit of oriental cruelty worthy of Satan himself. She slowly clenched her hands, and became aware that one of them was holding the slip from which she had taken the record.

As she smoothed out the heavy brown paper, she extracted from it a piece of lighter colour, apparently the memorandum of sale. No—no! What stared at her! She had a quick eye for that word of words.

Cetinje, April 15, 1914.

Saadi Sereef Dr. Trench, Halsted St., Chicago.

bsvd

MOHAMMED BEG.

It was but the work of an instant to get to her handbag and hide the paper within it. She had no qualm of conscience. She had only a queer little jumble of hope and confidence.

“The needle’s off,” sang Elsie in the distance, and so it was, rasping its way toward the pin at the centre. Edith pushed the little lever, lifted the arm, inserted a new needle, tossed the record to the couch, and restored the Servian piece. She lifted her head and marched down the hall to the kitchen.

“That’s the stuff, Edith. Why, your cheeks are red as fire, and your eyes are snapping like electricity.”

“I could dance,” said Edith. “I’ll put on The Blue Danube, and we’ll take a turn in the kitchen.”

“You won’t find anything about the Danube in _my_ records, thank you. Saadi hates the Austrians, and my family doesn’t love them any too well. Father was born in Galicia.”

“I was only joking, dear. Dr. Rowland wouldn’t let you dance. How good everything looks. Let’s eat in the kitchen.”

“Not much! You’ve got to see all the pretty things I have.”

“And not one from me among them!”

“How do you know? Saadi and I had no end of fun buying our own wedding presents. I bought for all my friends, and he did the same. I have presents from Mr. Wu, and Mr. Becker, and Mr. Chatterjee, and Mr. Deland, and Mr. Ameen, and Dr. Trench.”

“Indeed? Dr. Trench is the man who attended Bobbie.”

“Well, now, Edith, what do you know about that! Isn’t that the funniest coincidence? He is the man whom Saadi refused to promise.”

“Have you met him, Elsie?”

“Goodness, no. Don’t you understand that nobody knows but you and my folks?”

Edith went back to stop the whirling record, and presently returned.

“What did Dr. Trench give you—by proxy?”

“The loveliest set of blue china, just like his own. And that pigeon’s-blood vase that I showed you was from Mr. Wu, and the samovar is from Mr. Becker, and the ivory paper-cutter like lacework is from Mr. Chatterjee. Mr. Ameen is a Persian, and he gave me the silk spread for my table in the sitting-room—only he doesn’t know it. This”—Elsie waved aloft an aluminum frying-pan—“is from Mr. Deland. Saadi says I must call it a spider, ‘because that is what Yankee boy calls it.’”

“And did I really give you something?”

“Yes, Edith, a book. Saadi and I read the last part of it together. I told you I wouldn’t take a dare, and I didn’t. We laughed ourselves sick over some of the things, but Saadi took a great fancy to that third of John. I told him that a friend of mine called it the boldest thing ever written, and he said he’d be damned if it wasn’t. Up to that time Saadi’s favourite author was Haeckel, but he said that Haeckel was insaner than Jesus. It seems that Haeckel wants the southern Slavs wiped out to make room for German culture.”

Edith listened with amazement, but without losing her sense of impending disaster. “Where is that book, dearie?”

“In my bedroom. Saadi used to read it there.”

Edith went into the bedroom and found a thin Oxford bible. Her own card was in it, and she now remembered giving her card to Elsie that first day at the factory. Deeply touched, she turned the pages and found a certain place.

Then she went back to the kitchen. “I should never have given you that; you know that I wouldn’t; but I’ve marked a place in it—one that your people love as much as mine do. It just says, ‘As thy days, so shall thy strength be.’”