H—
It’s been an awful week, and I find
myself, at the end of it, tired
of chasing you. If you want a
divorce, you shall have it, and I
won’t even be difficult.
— P
HENRY HAD WAITED ON THE STOOP OF NO. 17 Gramercy Park in all kinds of weather, but none so fine as this. He was still wearing the mourning band for his father, and he had dressed, in a dark jacket and bowler, thinking more of serious topics than of the sunshine. Diana had told him, through notes written in her lovely scrawl, that he was welcome to come by her home anytime, and to hell with what everybody thought, but he had had so many things to see to that it wasn’t until Sunday that he found the time. It did not occur to him, until he was standing at the door with his finger on the bell, that it had been almost a year since he had lingered on the same spot, waiting to reluctantly propose to the older sister of the girl he would come to love. His father had insisted upon it, and told him that Sunday was the Hollands’ day for receiving social visits — if he had not obeyed, who could guess what might have been.
A slight girl with big teeth appeared on the other side of the glass. In the moment before she accepted his hat, he mistook her for the maid who had intruded on him and Diana the first night they lay together. He wondered what that girl had traded for her secret, and where she was now, and if she would have been shocked to hear that Penelope Hayes, who had once paid a no doubt dear price for the information, had now become indifferent to her marriage. Or so said the note, folded up in his pocket, which he’d now read countless times.
“Is Miss Diana in?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied hesitantly. “And Mrs. Holland and Miss Edith Holland, as well,” she added, as though in warning.
“Could you please tell them that Mr. Henry Schoo—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Schoonmaker.” She bowed her head awkwardly, as though she regretted the confession, and then walked to the pocket door, which groaned as she pulled it back. He waited to hear her announce him, and then stepped into the small, old-fashioned parlor where the Holland women received.
“Why, Henry,” said Mrs. Holland, rising from her place by the window.
Edith, positioned closer to the dusty mantle, stood also, and Diana, who was tucked into the pillows of the Turkish corner, pushed herself up on her elbows, appearing a little breathless and rosy as always. The mistress of the house had not spoken in a particularly warm tone. Henry knew from the way she hesitated — she kept the full length of a Persian carpet, from which years of traffic had mostly worn away the pattern, between them — that she had heard the unpleasant stories about his affair with Diana. Of course she didn’t convey this in any overt manner.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” she went on coldly.
“We all are,” said Diana’s aunt, in a voice that sounded meek in contrast to that of her late brother’s wife.
“And I am very sorry I wasn’t able to attend the funeral,” Mrs. Holland continued, ignoring the other lady. “But I thought Diana would make a suitable emissary for our family.” She sniffed, and then he realized that she hadn’t known Diana would attend, and that if she had had her way none of the Hollands would have come anywhere near the Schoonmakers while rumors about them were in circulation.
Diana was watching with dewy, dark eyes, which darted between Henry and her mother. So she had gone without her mother’s permission to see his father put in the ground. To his surprise, he found that it was possible for him to love her even more, when he thought of the courage and carelessness that had been required for her to stand there, still and sincere, in the background, but close enough for him to sense her presence.
“I understand, of course, these are not difficult times for me alone,” he replied. “We have all lost. Although I hear that things are better in the life of Elizabeth — while our engage ment did not end as planned, I hope you know I am very happy for her.”
“Thank you.”
“It was a great comfort to me that the Hollands were represented at my father’s funeral — I know he would have liked it — and Miss Diana, in particular, was a sight for sore eyes after my many months at war, and after this very sudden tragedy.”
Mrs. Holland briefly closed her black eyes, acknowledging this lie, and then refocused them on her guest with even greater fierceness. Henry, however, did not flinch. He had struck his own tone, and he found that he was able to stand before this imposing little doyenne with the full confidence of any very capable man of his class.
“I wonder if you might let her walk about the park with me? She always says the most comforting things, and I do not have many comforts these days.”
Diana had already come to her feet. Pale pink seersucker covered her still faintly brown chest and arms — it was almost a surprise to see her in a proper dress like that, after their time away, as well as to notice that her rich brown hair had grown long enough to curl under her ears. She never could be hemmed in by her clothes, and the vivacity and girlishness that he had always adored in her was evident in the way the fabric conformed to her movements.
“I do not control my daughter.” Mrs. Holland’s words were dry with just a hint of ire.
“I will have her back to you soon,” he replied. Then he gave a slight bob of the head good-bye.
Diana moved through the clutter of the Holland parlor with great poise, although he knew her well enough by now to see what a struggle it was for her not to rush straight to him. For his part, it took all of his concentration not to smile at the absurd good luck of having had such a beautiful girl fall in love with him. She was prettier every time they met again. He followed her out through the pocket door, and watched as she fastened her flopping straw hat to her head.
Then they began to amble around the park, her arm resting lightly against his. It was just the walk he had done with Elizabeth, the day he had proposed to her, when he still had no idea how delightful her younger sister would prove to be. He had been so awkward then, and he felt so natural now. Of course he was careful not to seem too familiar, since her mother was surely watching from the windows. He wouldn’t have minded if they didn’t say anything, he discovered presently, so long as they could keep moving together through the warm summer air.
As they rounded the northwest corner of the park, she said, in a very proper tone, “What a shame we haven’t seen you much lately, Mr. Schoonmaker,” as though she were amused by the idea of pretending, for the sake of any spies or gossips, that they hardly knew one another. He wanted to share in the game, but he found that it made him a little sad. There wasn’t anything funny to him about their separation. It suddenly seemed to him such a waste of time, to speak this way, all style and subterfuge. “But then I know you must have a lot of business to attend to after this strange turn of events.”
He glanced at her face, mostly covered by the shadow of her hat, and wished that he could show her some real affection. “I miss you,” he replied quietly.
“And I you,” she answered in the same affected tone as before. Then, in a whisper: “You have no idea how.”
“I might agree with you…,” Henry said as they strolled through the open gates and into the verdant park. Gravel scattered under their feet as they passed benches and flowerbeds. “…except that I feel the lack of you so intensely myself.”
Beneath the straw brim, he saw her mouth twist into a smile. This did please him, although the larger part of him needed to look her straight in the face. “Well, very soon, Mr. Schoonmaker, you and I shall be on a ship bound for a country where neither of us will know anyone, and so you shall have me to yourself quite completely.”
Henry’s eyes closed involuntarily. “About that…,” he began.
“Oh, Henry.” Diana stopped and turned, so that she was finally looking straight up and directly at him. “Don’t put it off another week. I couldn’t stand it.”
“But everything is different now!” He had not planned a speech, and now wished he had. Somehow he had believed that Diana would have already come to realize, on her own, what luck had befallen them. His excitement over the neat design of it all was profound, yet he felt uncharacteristically tongue-tied now that he had to make her see. “My father dying so early was tragic, but if one good thing comes of it, let it be that you and I can finally be together. Really together. His political ambitions, his influence — none of it matters anymore. With him gone, with my inheritance secure, there is no reason for me not to divorce Penelope, aside from a few old-fashioned naysayers, who will at any rate be thoroughly demented long before our children take their first steps.” Henry smiled at the thought. “Not even Penelope will stand in our way anymore.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew the crumpled note, which he had fidgeted with on the drive to the Hollands’. She read it, and though it could not have taken her long, still she would not show him her eyes.
“Diana, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? You see — a week ago it was all so complicated. But not today.” He reached for her little hands; he was practically singing this news. “I have my own money now, and my own house. Everyone will do as I say. And they will call you Mrs. Henry Schoonmaker, and you will be the lady of that house.”
Finally she brought her chin up and met his gaze. He was relieved to see her face but was confused by the blankness he found there. The future he was describing was so clear, so brilliant, in his own mind, and yet it had only produced confusion in her features. She seemed to be laboring to understand. The sun was high in the sky, and it strained her eyes.
“That is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked after a moment.
“Henry, I’m sorry but…” She had let go of his hands. “No. That’s not what I want. What I want…what I want…”
There was a storm brewing in her brow, and he realized in the next moment that she couldn’t complete her sentence because she was on the verge of tears. The word no stunned him, clanging in his ears. It was as though great cymbals had clashed beside his head.
“But…,” he began. He didn’t finish. Already she had run from the park, leaving him alone and stunned in the incongruous sunshine.