The arousing of congressional enthusiasm had not been difficult since the Union Pacific through the Crédit Mobilier had already worked out a delicately graduated and extremely successful scale. Five to ten thousand took care of a representative; floor leaders and senators came higher. With this precedent established, Simeon had found that three trips to Washington were sufficient, three trips, filled, of course, by stately interchanges on patriotism, the Winning of the West, and the Expansion of Our Great Nation for the Benefit of the People.
The further negotiations for floating the bond issue through Jay Cooke’s banking house provided exactly the type of problem which Simeon enjoyed. He was, therefore, astonished to find himself remembering Fey’s smile, or the tone of her low, accented voice in the midst of interviews with Mr. Fahnestock, Cooke’s New York partner.
On that Tuesday evening, Simeon, having discreetly walked down Sixth Avenue from his home on Twenty-Ninth, climbed the high stoop and pressed Fey’s bell, had no thoughts for the Gulf and San Diego. His mouth was dry, and he was both apprehensive and exhilarated as he had not been since the unfortunate Bridgeport love-affair.
Fey was startled by the twanging of her bell. She had been having trouble with the baby, who objected to the substitution of cow’s milk for the food she preferred. The strain of moving had affected Fey, who had finally realized that Lucita’s fretful wailings came from hunger.
‘O chiquita, who can that be?’ she said wearily to the baby as the bell clamored again. ‘ Do be good and go to sleep, naughty one!’
She put the baby in the cradle, hastily rearranged the front of her long ruffled woolen wrapper, stuffed loosened strands of hair into her net, and ran downstairs.
Dios! Mr. Tower! she thought, peering through the stained-glass side-light. She hesitated, thinking of the wailing baby, the cold cluttered rooms upstairs—and herself in dishevelment—face shiny and tired, the rumpled wrapper and her feet! Not bare fortunately, though that was still the only way they were entirely comfortable, but stockingless and covered only by shapeless little kid slippers.
On the other side of the door she saw Simeon’s outline raise the walking-stick and push her bell again.
Fey took a deep breath, shrugged her shoulders, and opened the door.
‘Come in, Mr. Tower,’ she said. ‘It is nice that you come to see me. I’m sorry that I am not dressed for visitors.’
For a moment Simeon was shocked. His image of Fey was a brilliant and sophisticated one, always exquisitely groomed. ‘If my call is not convenient, I can come another time,’ he said stiffly, fingering his mauve gloves and trying not to stare.
‘I am happy to have you come up, if you will take me as I am—me and Lucita,’ said Fey, smiling, and there was emphasis in her tone. It intimated, ‘You had better know all about me, since we are going to know each other so well.’
Simeon felt a quick masculine recoil; he had not thought about the future of their scarcely achieved relationship, nor had he admitted to himself that it would have a future. But her voice awakened the usual tremor of excitement. He bowed and followed her upstairs, thinking with astonishment that she was much younger than he had realized. He had assumed her to be in the twenties. This little figure, smaller than ever without heels, was almost that of a child.
And it was almost as to a child that he cried out, ‘My dear girl, this is a terrible way to live, you must get a servant and enough heat!’
‘I don’t know how to get a servant, yet,’ answered Fey, laughing at his appalled face. ‘ And this is more luxury, though maybe not comfort, than I have ever had. It’s warmer in the bedroom, shall we sit in there?’
He gave her a quick glance, and saw that she spoke as usual without self-consciousness.
The bedroom was much warmer, for Fey had finally learned how to manage its coal fire, but it was not cozy. The ceiling was too high, a draft blew from the window and under the door, and the draperies and rug, once respectively gold and figured ivory, had long merged into a faded drab.
Simeon looked around for a place to put his hat, stick, and coat.
‘On the bed, I guess,’ said Fey calmly, and Simeon cleared his throat and complied. Ladies did not receive men in bedrooms—unless. But he wasn’t sure. From the beginning he hadn’t been sure about Fey. Now she was composedly tidying her hair and powdering her face in front of the walnut mirror. Even Pansy had never let him see her do that.
He crossed the room and sat down in a mohair armchair before the fire. The chair creaked, and as if in answer there came a tiny bubbling sound from behind the big brass bed. He looked around startled.
‘That’s my baby,’ explained Fey, smiling. ‘For you she has stopped yelling. Don’t you want to see her?’
Simeon did not. It annoyed him that Fey should have a baby, and before this he had been able to ignore it.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Fey, watching him. ‘ But I want you to see her, please.’
Jove, she does understand, thought Simeon. He would have resented this perception from anyone else; half his financial success resulted from his ability to hide his thoughts, but Fey’s intuition was deeply flattering.
They stood together and looked down into the cradle. ‘So—my Lucita,’ said Fey, ‘here is Mr. Tower, do you like him?’
The baby’s solemn blue eyes traveled from her mother’s face to the other strange rectangle near it. She examined the pinkish blur, the glint from the firelight on the blond mustache and light pomaded hair, then her wandering gaze was caught by Simeon’s blue eyes, amused and admiring.
Lucita gave a delighted gurgle and reaching up a plump hand broke into an enchanting smile.
‘So she likes you,’ laughed Fey.
‘It’s an extremely pretty baby,’ said Simeon, gratified in spite of himself. He put his arm quickly around Fey’s shoulders. ‘Do you also like me, F-Fey? ’ He had never before used her Christian name.
She looked up at him under her lashes; her body, without moving, gave the impression of yielding against him. His hand closed on the soft bones of her shoulder. The warm scent of her body mingled with the odor of her perfume—frangipani, the red jasmine.
‘I like you very much, Simeon.’ She escaped from him gently and sat down in the other chair by the fire. ‘More than any other man.’
As always, her timing with Simeon was as perfect as it was instinctive. Always she saved him from self-consciousness and the deeply hidden fear of inadequacy, before his male pride made it necessary to put himself to the test. Each time his confidence increased, and Fey’s attraction for him strengthened.
He sat down in the other fireside chair. ‘It’s pleasant here,’ he said, looking across at her. She was curled up in the chair, her feet tucked under the edge of her robe for warmth, her head turned in delicate profile while she gazed thoughtfully at the ruddy coals. He had not considered the room pleasant before, he would physically have been far more comfortable in Pansy’s snug domesticity, or even in his own great paneled library.
‘I wonder if I’m falling in love with you, Fey,’ he added, astonished.
She turned her head. Her gray eyes contemplated him with indulgence and faint amusement. ‘Yes, I think you are,’ she said, her lips curving. ‘Didn’t you know?’ There was neither conceit nor coquetry in this. Strange that her utter lack of conventional pretenses should lie in a nature and appearance so feminine.
‘I haven’t thought much about love,’ he said slowly. ‘Oh, there was a girl once, when I was very young——’ His expression did not change, but Fey saw a nearly imperceptible tension flow over him. His eyes shifted from her to the grate.
She made a soft gesture. ‘ And that experience was unpleasant, and it still distresses you.’
His head snapped up. He had long ago managed to forget in consciousness the exact dénouement of that long-buried episode. ‘We were unsuited to each other,’ he said stiffly. ‘Her parents disapproved of me. I hadn’t made money then.’
‘So ’—said Fey?
??‘you parted.’ She smiled into his defensive face. ‘ And since then, many women have been after you, but you do not love?’
‘No. I guess not. Of course——’ He paused, considering. What was it about her that made it a voluptuous pleasure to have her know things he had always hidden? ‘Of course, there has been someone.’
Fey nodded. ‘Of course. A mistress. I have seen her.’
‘The devil you have!’ Simeon uncrossed his legs. He caught his mustache with his lower teeth. ‘I don’t know how you know so much about me, and I don’t know why I don’t mind. I’ve kept Pansy pretty dark. I’m not a man like Fisk or Tweed. I like appearances kept decent.’
Fey gave him her composed, considering look, seeing beneath his words, feeling the uncertainty, the thirst for approval which had driven him to achievement.
‘So rich,’ she said softly, with an undertone of gentle raillery, ‘and yet you mind what people think. What more is it you want?’
I want to belong, he thought instantly, and as instantly rejected that childish answer. He gave an easy laugh. ‘Why, I suppose I want more money, and a wife and family, leave some permanent mark in the world. The usual things men want.’ Her question disconcerted him. He reached in his breast-pocket and pulled out a Havana cigar. ‘May I?’
‘Oh, please do! ’ cried Fey. ‘ I’m forgetting your comfort. You entertain me so beautifully with champagne and I give you nothing. Wait—we’ll set a better mood.’
Set a better mood, thought Simeon, amused. She used odd phrases, but they were never meaningless. He watched her lazily while she achieved just that. She darted from her chair and, disappearing into the kitchen, brought back a bottle of port and two glasses. She put a fresh shovelful of coals on the fire, and pulled the heavy window curtains which she had previously forgotten. She went to Lucita and, seeing that the baby was fast asleep, carried the cradle into the little dressing-room. Before settling back into her chair, she opened her bureau drawer and poured a dribble of tobacco from a silk pouch into her hand. This she transferred to a small square of white paper and rolled into a cigarette.
‘This shocks you?’ she asked, seeing Simeon’s face. ‘In Santa Fe everybody smokes. I do it seldom. But it’s friendly if we smoke together, don’t you think? ’
Simeon did. He found the experience as delightfully companionable as it was novel. The mingled fragrance of smoke and the warmth of the port—a very inferior port, but this he did not notice—evoked a sensuous haze. Fey leaned over to put her glass on the tray. Her wrapper parted a little and he saw the silhouette of her firm round breasts. He looked away and then back again, but Fey had resumed her former position. ‘Shall I sing to you?’ she asked, and, without waiting for his assent, she leaned her head against the antimacassar, her eyes halfclosed. She sang ‘El Venadito’ in a throaty, caressing voice. It was the same song she had sung for him in the Arcadia nearly a year ago. And she thought, almost awed, of how exactly the prophecy she had made him then had come true.
‘Un día cantaré por te solamente.’ And now she was singing for him alone, and he was as moved by her song now as he had been bored then. She saw that he was not reminded of the Bowery waiter-girl, and she was glad. She suspected which of Simeon’s conventions she must not shock.
Her voice prolonged the last note until it died away and she looked at him seductively but with gentleness too. She waited.
Simeon put his glass and cigar on the tray. His palms were coldly moist. ‘Beautiful,' he said, too loud. He heard his voice, strange, out of key. He cleared his throat. ‘What is it a-b-bout?’ The ludicrous thickening and stumbling of his tongue. Go to her, you fool, he thought, she’s waiting for you. You won’t be ridiculous; you are condescending to her, you’re one of the richest men in the country. You are not too fat, too old for her——
‘It’s about love, of course——’ She threw back her head and laughed softly, showing the long curve of her white throat. Her fingers uncurled and her right hand made an appealing gesture toward him, a gesture of friendship and intimacy.
A vibrant silence filled the little space between them. A glowing coal fell through the bars of the grate making a sharp thud on the hearthstone.
Simeon’s indrawn breath sounded as loud. ‘ Come here, Fey,’ he cried, in a tone almost insulting. ‘ I want you, I need you——’
Fey got up at once and came to him. ‘You need never pretend to me, Simeon,’ she whispered, ‘for I understand.’
His arms closed around her convulsively.
Chapter Thirteen
ON THAT NOVEMBER NIGHT in Fey’s apartment, Simeon’s tentative infatuation had been transformed into a compelling love. Not only had she given him pleasure which he had never before experienced or dared expect, but she had added profound release in creating for him the dear image of a conquering virility. With him her tact and emotional timing were as delicately unerring as her ardor. There was no hypocrisy in this. She was very, fond of him and she wished to please him. Nor was she handicapped by her own blinded passion as she had been with Terry.
She never allowed herself to think of Terry, but sometimes, in the dark hour before waking, memory would jump at her like a cougar bringing a recoil of fear and hatred; completely awake, she would discover this panic limited to her mind while her body had grown heavy with a shameful longing.
As the weeks passed and her attachment to Simeon grew stronger, these moments ceased to assault her and she rejoiced in the victory.
Simeon, submerged though he was in love, did not at first think of marrying Fey. A part of him remained objective, and no desire for a woman’s constant presence could offset the detriment which a marriage of that sort would be to his ambition. He longed for acceptance by the Astors, the Livingstons, the Grades, and the Lorillards. He had not yet recovered from the humiliation of being blackballed by the Eastern and New York Yacht Clubs, as Jay Gould had been. He jealously watched August Belmont’s social rise. But Belmont had married Caroline Slidell Perry of unimpeachable connections.
It was the discovery that Fey also was well-born, added to the increasing pressure of his need for her, which changed his mind.
He had avoided questioning her about her past. Though he had become fond of the baby, he loathed being forced to remember that Fey had had a husband, and too, he was afraid of finding out other things which he would prefer to ignore.
On Christmas Eve, however, after a shared bottle of champagne in her apartment, he suddenly felt both relaxed and curious. He had brought her a present, a gold and jeweled bracelet on the pattern of a ‘regard’ ring. The gems artfully separated by a pearl heart stood for their combined initials. A sapphire and a topaz for Simeon Tower, another sapphire carbuncle and diamond for ‘Santa Fe Cameron Dillon.’
‘You’ve an odd name, darling,’ remarked Simeon, watching the bracelet sparkle on her wrist. ‘I never thought about it until I had the jeweler make this up. Where’d the Cameron come from?’
‘From my father,’answered Fey, laughing. ‘Where else? He was a Scottish doctor.’
‘Was he, indeed!’ Simeon was startled. ‘But I thought you were Spanish.’
‘My mother only. My father was a Scot, and I myself, as he impressed on me long ago, am an American, for I was born under this flag.’
‘Why, I suppose you are,’ said Simeon doubtfully. Despite his ownership of the Gulf and San Diego Railroad, he had not yet been west of New Orleans and such necessary map-reading as he had done did not extend north of Texas. The rest of the Southwest was a vaguely Spanish blur.
‘There are a goodish many Camerons in this country/ pursued Simeon. ‘D’you know if you’re related to any?’
Fey shook her head. She began to see the drift of this.
‘None in this country. My father came alone. He was the son of the Laird of Gleekbie, Sir James Cameron, near—I think— Inveraray.’
Simeon sat up. ‘ D’you mean to t-tell me that your grandfather was a baronet? Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘You asked me nothing before. Is it so important?’ But yes, I suppose to him it is, she thought. Stupid of me not to tell him sooner.
‘My mother, too, came of very good Spanish blood/ she said quietly. ‘Her father was a hidalgo.’
He considered this a moment, but a hidalgo meant nothing, and the Spanish side did not interest him. He nodded, crossing his legs, resting his fingertips together and frowning as he did when concentrating on a problem. I’ll cable to Glasgow, he thought, get confirmation.
‘You do not believe me?’ she said, smiling and shrugging. ‘Have you not yet learned, my Simeon, that I tell you the truth, always? ’
Simeon got up restlessly and stood before the fire. ‘I suppose you do. You’re a strange girl, Fey.’ He looked at her, at the brass bed, then down at the faded hearthrug. ‘What would you say if I suggested you get a divorce from that—from Dillon?’
At last! The certainty which had guided all her relationship with Simeon had not failed her.
‘I would say—that I don’t know how it can be done exactly, but I wish it very much.’
He made an impatient gesture. ‘Oh, it’s easy enough to fix. I’ll get hold of Barnard.’
Even Fey knew the name of this accommodating judge, who was Tweed’s tool and who had lately with his patron changed sides in the Erie War, and now twirled the judicial machinery for the benefit of Fisk and Gould.
‘Ah, yes—money...’ murmured Fey. She glanced down at the jeweled bracelet on her wrist.
Simeon watched her and his effort at prudent reserve melted. The childish innocence of her bent head and the white hollows of her neck leading in startling contrast to the line of her seductive breasts, the scent of her hair now decorously netted but which he knew intimately as a wild luxuriance, the wide scarlet mouth which gave and inspired passion, but was now set in her faintly ironic smile—these things stirred him to sudden vehemence.