The Wharton Plot, page 5
THE HUSBAND’S STORY
The explosive story of one woman’s ruthless desire for fame at her husband’s expense!
THE EXCITING NEW NOVEL FROM DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS
The publisher had even paid for the cover to be featured, and it was quite the cover. A beautiful drawing of a louche brunette in a splendid hat, picking daintily at her purse, placed cunningly at the intersection of her thighs. Only the awareness that it would frighten Choumai prevented her from tearing the newspaper to shreds. This—she wrung the paper as if it were Charles Scribner’s neck—this was precisely the sort of advertising she had wanted for Fruit of the Tree. How dare they blame her for poor sales—how dare they? She had labored over it, finished it, delivered it to excellent reviews, all so the laggards of Scribner’s could drop it into a few bookstores in Outer Mongolia and other far-flung, sparsely populated regions, settle back into their leather armchairs, and say with a yawn, The public just wasn’t interested, I’m afraid.
The shrill command of the telephone interrupted her mental tirade. Snatching it off the table, she said, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Wharton? I am dreadfully sorry to telephone, I know it’s your writing time.”
“Mr. Brownell,” she said, surprised.
“I wanted to tell you before you read it in the papers.”
She went still. Teddy had done something. Been strange in public. The newspapers had gotten hold of it …
“It’s David Graham Phillips.” In his agitation, Brownell overexplained. “The writer who joined us when we had tea. He was rude, you didn’t like him…”
He had written something about her, she thought. Wealthy women who ride in motorcars and divorce their husbands because they think too much and love too little. The ridiculous bombastic advertisement caught her eye; yes, she could see it: His Agony, the story of a good man ruined by an ambitious woman. For a moment, she contemplated the unspeakable pleasure it would give her to club Mr. Phillips over the head with the telephone in her hand.
Then she heard Brownell say, “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“What?” Brownell must be speaking in metaphor.
“He was shot yesterday,” he told her. “Outside the Princeton Club.”
Bewildered, she called to mind the full arrogant figure of the man: dark hair, cleft chin, blazing eyes. That person, dead? He seemed entirely unkillable.
“The Princeton Club?” she echoed. “Isn’t that Stanford White’s old house.”
“… I believe so.”
She was being idiotic—she did realize that. Focusing on the things that could not matter less because the word shot left a gaping, ragged hole in her understanding of things and it was difficult to see anything clearly except tiny, irrelevant fragments. She struggled to put the matter squarely before her: David Graham Phillips, yes, she saw him clearly now drumming his middle finger on the tearoom table. That deeply unpleasant man was dead. And it wasn’t disease or a motor accident.
Someone had killed him. His life had ended. On her birthday, of all days.
Finally, an intelligent question came to her. “Who shot him?”
“What?” Brownell was still a bit lost. “Oh! They don’t know. The fellow ran off.”
“And no one stopped him?” At last certain of the rightness of her reaction, she let her voice rise. “Have we truly reached the point where one man might shoot another outside the Princeton Club in New York City and just walk away?”
Alarmed, Choumai skittered to the end of the bed.
“I … I don’t know,” said Brownell. “In any event, I wanted you to hear it from me. I understand the funeral will be held tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Yes, why?”
Tomorrow, she had promised to spend the day with Teddy. A thing she wished very much not to do. She could not admit to herself that the funeral of Mr. Phillips provided an excuse for postponing their journey and that the prospect of not being with Teddy unleashed a feeling of relief so intense it bordered on the physical. But she was aware that she would rather spend the afternoon with the corpse of a man she detested rather than her living, breathing husband.
She asked, “Will it be open to the public?”
“I should think so. He was well regarded, with many friends within the literary community.”
“So it wouldn’t be awkward if I attended.”
She felt the astonishment over the line. Then Brownell said, “Forgive me, I thought you despised the man.”
“Despise,” she said airily, implying he was overstating things.
“You said you wouldn’t forgive me until next year.”
“Well, I forgive you now,” she said promptly. “And I want to attend the funeral.”
When she had hung up the phone, she smoothed Choumai’s fur and apologized for her loss of temper. She thought of calling White to take him for a stroll. Then remembered White had taken Teddy for a stroll and would not be back for some time. She thought of tomorrow’s funeral. Had she brought anything suitable? Yes—thank God it was winter. Her wardrobe for the trip was mostly dark and somber.
There was, however, something else she needed. Someone else. She couldn’t attend the funeral on her own. She needed someone to go with her.
No. She had written badly enough for one day. Be truthful, she told herself. Be precise.
She needed him.
There were others she could ask. But Henry had had enough of funerals lately, and Walter would only ask why she wanted to go and then tell her that she shouldn’t.
Which brought her to Morton Fullerton. The man for whom the desire to do something was reason enough to do it; in fact, the best reason of all.
She smoked two cigarettes before calling. She lifted the receiver, then set it down again. Several times, causing the hotel operator to become sharp with her. Did Mrs. Wharton wish to make a call? Mrs. Wharton, Edith answered, would make such calls as she wished in the time she wished to make them.
She smoked another cigarette. Asked Choumai if he thought she was making a mistake. The dog regarded her gravely, which she thought meant yes.
Rapidly, she stubbed out the cigarette, took up the phone, and informed the snipe at the switchboard that she wished to be connected. Giving the number, she waited.
As she so often did with him, she considered her voice. She should sound … light. But not overly so. She should give the impression that there was a purpose to the call. And he would hear the falseness of overt gaiety. She knew that much from past failures. It struck her, how carefully she chose her words now with the man she had once considered a twin soul. But so much depended on the right words.
At one point, she had believed all you had to do was express need and the other person would respond—in honor of what had been shared, if nothing else. And when the response was silence, you were forced into the dreadful, grinding cycle of But he said he loved me. If he loves me at all, he must care that I am unhappy. I will ask this way. I will ask that way. I will withdraw. I will be candid. I shall be distant. I shall be passionate. Something, something I do or say, will bring him to me. You gathered the courage to say things you had spent a lifetime not saying. But still, he did not answer. Which brought the terror that you had been wrong to say those things or said the wrong things. Been difficult and blaming. Small wonder he stayed away! And so, the apologies, the begging, the demonstrations that you knew you were impossible, not lovable, how tremendous of him to even try to love you. The subversive, selfish hope that self-abasement would bring him back …
A woman’s voice. “Yes, hello?”
She felt it as a blow, just above her sternum, slightly to the left; the heart, of course. From there, the misery worked a slow, tortuous path down her middle, digging deep into her belly and collapsing her until she was unable to breathe.
She cut the connection.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The service was held at Calvary Episcopal Church, not far from where David Graham Phillips had lived and died. The church had sanctified the arrivals, couplings, and departures of many of the city’s most celebrated residents. Eleanor Roosevelt had been baptized there, her famous uncle standing as godfather. William K. Vanderbilt had married Alva Smith at Calvary. J. P. Morgan worshiped there—indeed it was known as Morgan’s church—but so did Mrs. Margaret Sanger. In short, it served both the affluent and the earnest, the first being encouraged to financially enlarge the second, the latter encouraged to spiritually enlarge the former.
Edith had attended the church as a girl. It was an unlovely building of brown sandstone with a dingy circular stained glass window above the entry. George Templeton Strong had called it a “miracle of ugliness,” and he had been right to do so. But the sight of it brought back strong memories: the sun burning the back of her neck, the wondrous smell of old books, the feeling of hard wood beneath her thighs, and the voice, vigor, and splendid hair of Reverend Washburn. Oh, how she had adored the Reverend Washburn. He had a daughter Emelyn, six years older than she, and he let the girls spend hours reading Dante in the church library.
Now she said, “‘Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.’”
“Why,” wondered Walter, standing slim and self-assured beside her, “would anyone murder a novelist?”
There were those who thought Walter Van Rensselaer Berry a snob, and it was true that he liked to say he only associated with those in “your front row in the Four Hundred.” Many of her friends did not care for him, thinking him cold, pretentious, a gossip—worse, an unfriendly gossip, one who could not be relied on to share other people’s follies yet keep one’s own secrets. Those he liked, he liked. Those he did not, he made no effort with.
But what Walter’s grumbling associates failed to understand was that Edith found his elitism liberating. Most of life was spent pretending one liked someone one loathed, lavishly praising a mediocre effort, or remaining silent, tacitly agreeing that one’s point of view had no right to exist. Walter gave himself permission to be right, and he extended that permission to her as well. As a pair, she had noticed, they charmed and excited with their banter. Simply, there was no one else on earth with whom she felt as much herself.
Which was why, after the frustrating call to Mr. Fullerton, she had decided to defy the snide rumormongers of Town Topics and turn to the man she had known for more than a quarter of a century, a man equally at home in Paris, Egypt, or this, one of the most hallowed spots of old New York. Now past the half-century mark, Walter stood with his elegant, long-fingered hands folded on a walking stick and surveyed the crowd outside the church with the studied distaste of someone who had always held himself apart—and above. His gray hair was shot through with the old gold, his large eyes still so absurdly blue, they had caught the heart of Proust. His button shoes shone in the dim winter-afternoon light, his dark frock coat perfectly cut, his frame lithe and long; one would not be surprised to learn that he was very nearly the US tennis champion in 1885.
From the corner of the street, they moved to join the masses of people waiting to enter the church, Walter swinging his stick ever so slightly to clear space around them. There was a hum and hurried shuffle in the crowd as a woman dressed in black arrived on the arm of a man who bore a strong resemblance to David Graham Phillips. She leaned heavily on him, her free hand fitfully touching her lips beneath the lace veil. At the sight of the church, she let out a cry and began to sink to the ground. Others rushed to hold her up. One, a ravishing dark-haired woman, moved with admirable speed and purpose to put her arm around the veiled lady. After a long embrace and sympathetic murmurings in English and French—“You took such good care of Graham, Carolyn,” “He took such good care of me”—the group bustled into the church.
“The widow?” asked Walter.
“He wasn’t married.”
Up the block, Edith saw the hearse. The crowd, sensing its arrival, flowed toward it, among them a willowy young man with long pale hair and a girl with a distinct underbite whose bright, avid expression showed nothing of grief. An older woman used her bulk to work her way closer to the front, and a shabbily dressed man took the cigar from his mouth as he craned to get a better look. Sightseers, Edith thought with distaste. Gawkers drawn by the sensationalism of the murder of a celebrated individual.
As they battled their way to the entrance, Walter wondered, “Will they even let us in?”
“Mr. Brownell has arranged it with Mr. Phillips’s publisher.”
“And who’s that? Drudge, Scullery, and Wastrel?”
She gave him the mildest of glares. “It’s Appleton, and you can stop playing the part of the martyred aristocrat.”
Inside, it was packed. Every pew was filled with people embracing, sharing stories and handkerchiefs. They stood out, Walter so tall, she so elaborately furred and feathered, and Edith suggested they sit at the back. She was intensely curious to see Mr. Phillips’s loved ones, but she was shy about explaining her connection to the murdered man. That morning, she had rehearsed a lofty reply, “I come as a fellow writer.” Now she understood that claims to the universal kinship of artists would not pass muster with this austere, anguished group. And perhaps they shouldn’t. Why was she here? Because she did not care to spend time with her husband. Overdressed, perspiring, Edith suddenly felt herself false. She had sneered at the scandalmongers outside the church, but wasn’t she also indulging in another person’s tragedy for distraction? She was about to urge Walter to stand so they could make a swift escape when the organ sounded and the mourners rose as one. The casket had arrived.
Eight men carried the coffin, which was adorned with violets. The choice of that small, demure flower—symbolizing modesty, of all things—surprised her. She kept her head lowered as the coffin passed, taking in bursts of sobbing that broke through the mournful wheeze of the organ and the choir’s trills of “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Then, like a child, she peeked. And, like a child, was discomfited to think that Mr. Phillips was in that box. She imagined him, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest, hair too neatly combed and slicked as funeral parlors always seemed to do. The unreality of death struck her. People should not be in boxes, she thought. They should not be put whole into the ground, the earth patted down, a stone marking the space, then left to …
The casket was at the altar. The pallbearers withdrew and the mourners sat. The archdeacon took his place and began to read the service. She heard Walter yawn and nudged him sharply; now was not the time for a display of sophisticated ennui.
At the same time, her attention was less on the well-worn words of solace than on the other mourners. That mystery woman who put such a sad, wistful look in Phillips’s eyes, was she here? Out of habit, Edith began to spin a tale: “The Writer in Love.” She imagined a beautiful woman grieving alone and unacknowledged. But looking around the church, she found no one quite right for the part. There was the veiled, black-clad woman. But her immediate welcome from his friends argued against her being a secret inamorata. Who was she then? Edith looked next at the gentleman who had escorted her into the church. He had the same stern mouth and lowering brow as David Graham Phillips. Almost certainly his brother. Which meant the woman was probably Mr. Phillips’s sister. Edith peered at the people around the siblings but saw nothing resembling a spouse. Was no one in the Phillips family married?
She did find the beauty who had taken charge on the church steps seated a few rows back from the family. Now she fit the bill of hidden beloved nicely, but beside her was a blandly handsome gentleman with a long face and prominent ears, a type Edith knew well from the croquet lawns of Newport. The cut of his suit indicated affluence, as did the gloss of his slightly receding hair. The way he and the lady managed their proximity suggested a connection, yet they seemed from different worlds: she bohemian, he patrician.
“That is William English Walling,” murmured Walter, noting her interest and glad of the chance to gossip. “Old Kentucky family. Inherited wealth and promptly became a socialist. Went to Russia several years ago and brought that back with him.” He nodded to the dark woman.
Edith was always amazed by Walter’s ability to absorb rumor like mist from the air. She was about to ask if he knew anything about the Phillips family when they were shushed from behind by a lady gorgon. Dutifully, Edith gave her attention to the eulogy. The speaker was a tall man with an impressive sweep of white hair and a flowing mustache.
He began: “Without question, David Graham Phillips was the greatest writer of novels in English of our time—and he was one of the best of men.” He bowed his head and his voice became choked. “Even now, I cannot believe he is dead. Just this morning, I looked for him, that tall boyish man, striding down Fifth Avenue, so full of life.”
From the family pew, an agonized wail from Mr. Phillips’s sister. Edith watched as the beauteous Mrs. Walling lifted a gloved hand to her eye. Then, as if sensing Edith’s gaze, she looked in her direction. Caught, Edith hastily turned back to the speaker.
“I have lived in many lands. I have known many men. I never knew a finer man than David Graham Phillips. His was a knightly mind, a paladin character. Men liked him. Women liked him when he liked them.” A ripple of appreciative laughter broke the grief.
“But Truth was his goddess,” thundered the eulogist. “He wrought honestly and only for her. The princes of corruption may believe David Graham Phillips has been silenced, but his truth shall be heard forever throughout this great land!”
The organ boomed and the mourners rose for the hymn. The archdeacon gave the final prayer. “Abide with Me” was sung. The eight pallbearers rose again to take the coffin. Obliged to wait until the Phillips family had left, Edith and Walter watched row after row depart. The church was almost empty when she saw the dark-haired lady with the fine eyes—la Russe, she thought—approach with a quizzical smile. Her lashes were damp from tears, her eyes glassy.
