NEVER ASK THE EiND ! I lsi" BEL PAT~RSON ! I I NEW YORK 1933 THE LITERARY GUILD Copyright, 1933 By Isabel M. Paterson Published by William Morrow & Co. Printed in the U. S. A. TO ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING FOR HER. LONG-SUFFERING SYMPATHY lVilliom, lend m.e 10UT hunting knife; This house is hollow to defend. My fathers led a dolorous tife: Never ask the end. From tf. ·Ltnnent from the Breton. ELINOR WYLIE CHAPTER I "HE'LL hate having me wished on him. You can say I had another engagement." Marta thought, if it were anyone but Pauline she would drive me mad. But she was always like that, and somehow one doesn't mind her moods and nerves. It's her voice, so light and quick and gay, no matter what she says it sounds rather amusing. Not a nagging voice, there's something witty in JUSt the tone of it. That hasn't changed. Like a breeze fluttering a curtain; most people's minds are shut-dead air. She was perfectly beautiful~ though I don't believe she knew it. Nattier painted the type over and over; I must find a Nattier for her; there should be one in the Louvre. The same delicate long nose and clove-pink mouth, that lift of the upper lip, and the unbroken line of her cheek and chin, drawn with one stroke. Her shoulders were perfect; I never saw a more beautiful body. Not even Alma. Except her hands and feet; Alma has such pretty bare feet. Keith was the only other person I ever knew who had smooth shapely feet like a child. Wasted on a man ... Only her back is as lovely as ever. The in- 2 NEVER ASK THE END nocent and the beautiful h(Jv~ no ~nemy but time. Her hair seems even blacker, Indian black. It's the Scotch blood; her eyes are the color of cairngorms, and the classic almond shape; but you can see she's cried so nluch •.• By her mouth, the contour of her face­ Isadora Duncan's face went like that. It's queer; the children, too .•. I wouldn't; I ran away. When you're the odd one of nine, that's enough; you can't go on with it. But then you run into something else. Maybe it all comes to the same thing in the end; what­ ever you do, you're just yourself; though I'd sooner have gone on the street-no, but a scrubwoman, any kind of work· ... "Don't be a goop. He invited you; said he'd be de­ lighted," Marta repeated. "Why should he? A middle-aged woman from the Middle West." Accuracy was sacrificed to the phrase. "Well, Russ is a middle-aged man from the Middle West," which was true. ((Wait and meet him. Then if you'd rather not come, you can make your own excuse. You'111ike Russ. He's nice." "He's your friend; it's you he wants to see." "We belonged to the same crowd. But he was Nonie Macray's beau,' ,not mine. I haven't seen him for six years. He went to China for the company, and after­ ward they sent him over here. He told Nonie to tell me to look him up; that's all." She thought: neither of us ever said a word about that night coming back from Brooklyn, in Alma's car. NEVER ASK THE END 3 It was disgraceful ... I wonder if he did go to the Waldorf next morning? For breakfast~ at twelve o'clock ... I didn't; I was afraid he wouldn't be there. And if he had, I wouldn't have known what ... Alma said he wouldn't. I suppose Alma could hear the non­ sense we talked; Nonie had a pretty good idea of it, I'm sure. It doesn't matter now. Good heavens, it's seven, no, over eight years ago. When he took me home from Alma's, months afterward, he asked me if I wanted supper at a restaurant. I meant to explain, find out-what was I going to explain? that I did mean it or didn't? both-I wished we were friends-but we just made conversation, hardly looked at one another; it seemed to me that whatever I said would make it worse, for maybe te hadn't even remembered it next morning, or would rather not be reminded. And that was the only time we met except in a crowd. Well, one does a lot of fool things, and it's so long ago .•. He's probably got a girl over here; why not? ... I'd better hurry. She had nothing to wear, after ten days in Paris. It was ridiculous, 'insane. The new styles were impos­ sible; just her luck. She would have to give away that purple flowered mistake. There was nothing for it but her old white one, washed to a rag. And the straw hat, all wilted by the sea-air. White looks cool and clean, at least.... My face, she mused before the mirror, is a wreck. Not the kind that wears well after thirty. From five to twenty-five there was hardly any differ- ... NEVER ASK THE END ence-that old photograph, all the family in a row, and me scowling in cross-barred muslin and a broken-necked carnation pinned to it, with mamma holding up my head ... When I had any color it wasn't too bad, a moon face, but I was always pale. Alma)s features are modelled right on the bone; that's why she stays so young. I don't think I look as old as Pauline; but then I wouldn't think so. People don't see themselves; they don't want to. The lines around my eyes come out when I laugh. And under my chin-l wonder if they really can do anything-not that stretched, mummy effect-I guess not .•• I hate growing old. I hate it. Death is nothing. I wasn't beautiful like Pauline, but sort of a cute snub-nosed brat. Since I've had some­ thing to eat my figure is better-it never was much and legs are so important-but if I put on any more I'll probably have a double chin; I simply can't endure it. Pauline was already dressed, in navy georgette, the type of gown that abounds at women's club receptions; she had no sense of her own style. She put on her hat and walked about restlessly. The telephone buzzed. "Yes, please ask Mr. Girard to come up." Hearing the click of the elevator grille, Marta ran out, knotting her sash hurriedly. She did want to meet him alone, though there was no reason. Only for a minute. Pauline would never have forgiven her for a solitary evening. Besides, it would be mean. You could always manage Pauline with a little patience, saying very well but wait and see, try it, then if you don't want to you needn't ... NEVER ASK THE END 5 If she hadn't been like that, worn me down when I wanted to brood over my broken heart, I'd never have married Keith .•.I lost my head, went cuckoo sud­ denly ... Dusk had crept through the hall; perhaps it was that that made such a friendly atmosphere, through which they moved toward one another, making it natural and simple for him to put his arm around her, while she lifted her face spontaneously for his light kiss. "I'm so glad to see you," the words chimed as· they spoke at once. "Nonie said you'd got fat," she exclaimed, "but you haven't." Then she was sorry; she shouldn't have quoted NO,nie. It sounded catty. No, he was just perceptibly heavier; he walked like a tired man, but he had not thickened at the waist-line. Of middle 'height, with the smooth unrevealing features of the business man, there was nothing distinctive about him except that his eyes should have been dark, and they were not. His mouth was expressive in its reserve; the full lips closed firmly, sensual and sweet •.. She thought, he has a cold, isn't feeling very well ..• She made- the introduction with the brevity char­ acteristic of a nation without titles or labels, which has almost dropped the last perfunctory honorific, leaving everything to private judgment. Pauline Gardiner, Russell Girard, Marta Brown ••• As is, no commit­ tals ... Pauline sat down with decision. She had always the air of a great lady, wherever she had got it. She be- 6 NEVER ASK THE END longed wonderfully with the traditional French in­ terior, the brocaded armchairs, tall windows, and heavy crimson damask curtains. I don't, thought Marta, slip­ ping on her rings and despairing over her hat; but where would I? ... No, they had not dined in the Bois; it would be heavenly. Pauline had almost per­ ished of the heat. "If I tell her again it's nothing to New York, she'll kill me. You tell her how much hotter it is in Italy." He had come up from Milan. He smiled, and refrained. "I'm ready," Marta an­ nounced, and sprung a friendly trap. "Now you are coming, Pauline? ... She was fussing about being gooseberry." "Of course she is coming," Russ said in his kind, grave VOIce. "Try to stop me," Pauline said. Armenonville? They had been there for ices. "But we passed a place called l'Ermitage," Marta stumbled over the pronunciation, "that looked even better.