The Independent

Playing cards is much as she thought. He had opened the old studio where he and John Poole had worked for over two years and he was working there now, nearly every afternoon and sometimes probably at night. What was he doing? She thought she would ask him, but that evening when he came in she was just coming down the stairs with Elaine, naked, on her arm. She was going to the kitchen to get some olive oil to warm, for she had found the skin dry on the child's arms. Will had come in the front door and stood, drawing his scarf from within the collar of his great coat, staring up at her. His face flashed at her and he said imperiously: "Stand still." She stopped, in amazement, and stood poised on the stairs, the child on her arm, her simple house dress falling against her long limbs, and Will looked up at them with concentration, power in his eyes. After a strange interval he began to fold the silk scarf about his throat, to button his coat, to draw his gloves over his fingers, still staring at them, and then without a word, but with a smile of excitement, he turned and left the house. It was very late when he returned but Ernestine was awake, waiting for him. He came directly to her in her room, and his face was like a drunkard's, flushed and relaxed and happy. He caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately. "Will—where have you been? Why are you so strange?" she asked him. For answer he pressed his lips against her throat, he put her short dark hair back from her brow and stared at her, entranced with what he saw. "You're so lovely," he said, "so beautiful, Ernestine. Not even the old masters have a face as lovely as yours. Your eyes—your eyes are sad, my sweet. Why are you sad?" He ran his fingers over her face, his strong fingers that could touch lightly, wonderfully. Ernestine felt as if her heart would break. "Will—tell me. What ails you?" she implored him. "You haven't noticed me for weeks and weeks—all winter you haven't even seen me, and now—you come in like this." He moved away from her. He was erect, triumphant, under the impulse of strong excitement. "I've done it, Ernestine." "What have you done?" He made a gesture with his fingers—a stroke in the air, either with brush or pencil. "I've made something new and different. Something I've wanted a long time. I'll tell you about it some day, when I'm ready. But now, don't question me. Just love me. As you used to, Ernestine. Can't you come to me as you used to come? My love, and mine alone." He wooed her, and she yielded to him, finding an instant's hurting joy in his old eagerness—his old flaring enthusiasm. This tide of human love was not new to her. Its sameness was like an enchantment. But after he was sleeping by her side, she wept secretly. He was so strange. Even in his ardor, deep honesty warned her that not her beauty, not her love, not her dearness had allured him—he had been impelled toward her by something within himself. His deep and secret springs of artistry were awakening, stirring. Solitary even in his passion and his love. The next morning she rose with her heart hardened with determination, and after he had gone downtown, she hunted out among her possessions the old office key he had given her, so long ago. She took the bus and went back to Erie street, walked the old familiar way again and came to the old office, fitted her key in the lock and opened the door. The office was empty, and she entered and shut the door behind her. The light in the place was fine. A long window crossed the back of the room, and here was slanted table and stool. Ernestine moved to this and calmly, deliberately, she began to hunt for Will's secret. She had no more scruple about it than she would have had if he had been her son and in some trouble she must learn about. In the middle of the drawing board, on white rice paper pinned down with tacks at the corners, was a sketch. Only a few strong lines in charcoal. She saw herself, coming down the stairs, the naked baby on her arm, one hand at the balustrade. The long lines of her limbs bore a subtle and flowing exaggeration. It was beautiful, it was live. It moved and in its motion were poetry and sound. It was new.