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In: Novels·American Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #64282.
The opening · free to read
About twenty-five years ago, Pedro Gonzola bought that handsome brown stone residence at the corner of Twelfth Street and Fifth Avenue, and presented it to his bride on their wedding day. As the name implied, they were of Spanish origin, and known as devout Catholics, supporting the Church spiritually and materially.
Shortly before Julie was born, her father died suddenly, stricken down with heart failure. The young widow was stunned by the loss of her handsome adoring husband; her uncontrollable grief nearly cost her the life of her coming child, who suffered from her mother’s anguish--at least that’s what the good Dr. McClaren said.
After her great misfortune Mrs. Gonzola gave up the world and devoted herself to her religion and the care of her little daughter. Julie was sent to the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Seventeenth Street. The Sisters educated her under the personal supervision of her mother; their reports were satisfactory; the child was docile and receptive, but inclined to emotional exaggeration; she would remain in the chapel long after the other children had left, and once they found her prostrate before the Virgin in a state of ecstatic self-oblivion, which ended in a fit of hysteria. There was no cause for worry, as otherwise she was “full of life” and a general favorite. Mrs. Gonzola tried conscientiously to impress her daughter with the dignity of her wealth, social position, and family distinction; but as the girl grew into a woman, there was an ever-present irritating sense of failure.
Julie Gonzola at sixteen, with her brilliant exotic beauty, was a mystery to her friends, her mother, herself. She was acutely conscious of strange emotions, which she instinctively concealed; hers was a nature of unexpected impulses, tragic possibilities, baffling secrets. She came of an old stock on her father’s side, and on her mother’s she could look down a long corridor, where she saw shadowy forms, which frightened her. She was different from her girl friend, who was care-free, bubbling, sparkling, dashing along like a brook which overflows its bounds out of sheer rapture.
Maud Ailsworth lived down the street. There were no complications in her life. She ruled her mother, who was an invalid, and physically her inferior. Maud romped all day long in the street with the boys. Mrs. Gonzola never allowed Julie to do that; she was very indulgent in her way, denying the girl nothing--but freedom. Julie was outwardly submissive; she was sorry for her mother, who sat alone in her room crying, silent iron tears of impotent despair.
There were two boys in the street whom Maud liked; as she grew older she determined to marry one of them, but she found to her great disappointment they were both hot after Julie. Floyd Garrison, a pretty boy of an old American family, was very well brought up; Martin Steele was a mongrel, a brute, a ruffian, but there was something very likable about him. Maud looked on, watched them wrestling for the privilege of carrying Julie’s books when she came from school, with her maid. There were fist fights for her as children, rivalry as youths, and bitterness as men. But Maud wasn’t discouraged; Julie couldn’t marry both of them; there would be always one left for her. Then she had Tom Dillon in reserve; he was common, but she owned him; he was her slave.
Julie was afraid of Martin Steele; he had bad manners and a violent temper. He was always mussing up her hair, and winding her curls around his fingers. Floyd was too polite to do that. There was a party at Maud Ailsworth’s; Tom Dillon, that mischievous imp, put out the lights. The boy next to Julie kissed her, pressing her to him with terrible force; it was Martin. After that, he kissed her whenever he found her alone, and he managed it often. She liked his hot unboyish kisses.
The Garrisons had lived four generations in a little wooden house in East Twelfth Street, “a very pretty shanty” Martin called it, set back, with a garden, and a wooden fence to protect the lawn and flowers from passing vandals.
A portrait of the ancestor who founded the family fortune hangs today in our Museum. “Yan Geritsen, baker,” endowed with business sagacity, bought land under water in New Amsterdam for “thirty cents,” left it to his son, with orders not to sell. Succeeding generations drained and developed it. The name smelt of newly baked bread; it gradually evolved itself into Garrison. They were one of the fast disappearing families, who remained as they began--modest and thankful. They brought up their son with a sense of responsibility, as trustee for the coming son. There were no girls as far back as could be remembered; each family branch had one son. Floyd’s father, “Jimmy” Garrison, married a school marm. He became acquainted with her in Boston. She was very poor, but descended from the Aldens. Prudence Alden was a pale silent girl with a hidden fountain of irrepressible love in all its rare purity. Young Garrison’s friends couldn’t see what he saw in her.
Garrison had never been in business; he disliked the everlasting talk about money which was rapidly becoming God under the title of the “Almighty” dollar. He had many acquaintances and one faithful friend, Colonel Garland, a Southern gentleman, who had made a reputation “up North” as a corporation lawyer, when trusts were springing up over night like toadstools. The Colonel retained his sombrero, his soft accent, his passionate devotion to a few friends, and many women. When Jimmy Garrison put the administration of his estate into Colonel Garland’s hands, it was intact, just as his father had left it.
“Let us pull down those old hulks and build up warehouses,” said the Colonel. Garrison refused to consider that.
“The estate was not bought yesterday, for speculation. It has always brought us enough to live on modestly, and something over; if I get four per cent., I’m well satisfied.”
In time, modern buildings were erected on both sides of the Garrison “hulks,” which, although kept clean and in repair, had to be rented below the market value. Conservative policy has its good side; many went under in the frenzy of over-building. In such a young country the cult of silence, material rest, creative thought were as yet unknown; the man who did not create capital was considered an idler; Garrison continued to the end of his peaceful, worryless life, a gentleman.
The first realization of pain was the sudden death of his beloved Prudence; he had to live for his boy and looked about, seeking a sustaining force.
He rigged up a workshop in the top of his house, and took to modeling figures, which were very well done--every-day people he had known, the little Italian shoe boy, the newspaper woman, his friends, idealized of course, his wife in every mood, his boy. He was particularly successful with a smiling old Irishman, a pipe in his mouth, a hod on his shoulder, standing at the foot of a ladder looking upward. He called that figure “the Ancestor,” which title was a secret source of amusement to him, although he was too good-natured to say whose ancestor.
The Steeles lived next door to the Garrisons in an ugly high-stoop, four-story brick mansion, which threw a dark shadow on one side of the little garden, necessitating Garrison to move his flower-beds away.
Martin was five years older than Floyd and twenty years more experienced. He loved Floyd in his way, but love was not an element of his nature. Floyd looked up to him, as a little boy would to an elder one who condescended to be his friend; he was sorry for Martin because Mrs. Steele was only his stepmother, that was what was wrong with him--he never had a “real” mother. Mrs. Steele was born Dolly Winthrop of Boston; she was very tall, very thin, very straight, with small transparent ears lying flat against her head. The only large thing about her was her flow of language--that was tremendous. Mrs. Steele’s “family tree” reposed on the parlor table in a red velvet album--“reposed” is a very inappropriate word, for she never gave the poor thing any rest. She was constantly turning over its pages, adding, multiplying, never subtracting, until it fell quite to pieces, but she convinced the old New Yorkers of her right to be one of them.
The “exclusives” of Massachusetts never forgave Dolly Winthrop’s marriage with “that Steele man” who was fat, florid, wordless, and a widower with a child. There were still spots in the Union where pedigree and culture were of more value than “money”; but Dolly Winthrop had made her calculation and it turned out a good bargain. Her husband and his father devoted all their time to business; they accumulated great wealth, and were not perceptible in her richly woven society tapestry. There was one she couldn’t wipe out--that terrible boy Martin. She tried honestly to make something of him, but he was not to be moulded. She took him to her summer home in Nantucket. The Winthrop Homestead had ship-lamps, a model of the Mayflower, clocks that struck “bells”--numbered hours were disdained; there were also stuffed seagulls which Martin set up as skittles, and a tottering old sailor who took care of the garden and gave the necessary atmosphere. Aunt Priscilla, Mrs. Steele’s maiden sister, lived there all the year. In Nantucket, Martin’s capacity of hatred found fertile soil for expansion; he hated the ocean; its unceasing roar fretted him; he thought of a big sea monster in chains, writhing, howling, foaming at the mouth. He hated Aunt Priscilla, who was Calvinist, Puritan, Patriot, anti-everything else. She took unusual pains to enlighten the “little savage” about the distinguished pedigree of his stepmother’s family. One day she read to him for three hours, in her correct English “twang,” the history of those good old Colonial times, when her direct ancestor was a Judge in Salem. The boy’s eyes took on a glitter which meant mischief.
“I’d like to be a Judge in them times.”
“You mean, you’d like to have been a Judge in those times,” corrected Aunt Priscilla.
“Have been,” mumbled the boy.
Aunt Priscilla was delighted; at last she had awakened the pride of ancestry in that little soul.
“Now tell me, dear, what would you have done if you had been a Judge in Salem.”
“I’d burn you.”
One day Floyd found out there was a mystery on the top floor of the Steele house; it was Martin’s fourteenth birthday. He invited Floyd to ice-cream and cake. “Julie Gonzola was coming.” There was plenty to eat, but Floyd lost his appetite looking at little Julie sitting up on a high chair with all the best things piled before her. She let Martin pile them, but she didn’t touch them--she couldn’t, in a strange house.
Toward evening the maid came to take her home. The two boys stood at the window as she went past enveloped in white furs, her little feet stepping out firmly, her head erect.
Martin’s eyes snapped.
“I’m going to marry Julie.”
“Not if I know it.”
Martin turned and swept the boy with a cold disdain terrible in one so young. It hurt Floyd; he remembered that look, years after. He said nothing, but turned to go.
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