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Title: The Fifth Wheel - A Novel
Author: Prouty, Olive Higgins, 1882-1974
Language: English
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THE FIFTH WHEEL
[Illustration: "'Why, Breck, don't be absurd! I wouldn't _marry_ you for
anything in the world'"--_Page 24_]
THE
FIFTH WHEEL
_A NOVEL_
BY
OLIVE HIGGINS PROUTY
AUTHOR OF
"BOBBIE, GENERAL MANAGER"
[Illustration]
_WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY
JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG_
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1916, by_
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_Copyright, 1915, 1916, by_
THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING COMPANY
_All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages._
DEDICATED
TO
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. RUTH VARS COMES OUT 1
II. BRECKENRIDGE SEWALL 10
III. EPISODE OF A SMALL DOG 18
IV. A BACK-SEASON DÉBUTANTE 27
V. THE UNIMPORTANT FIFTH WHEEL 36
VI. BRECK SEWALL AGAIN 44
VII. THE MILLIONS WIN 50
VIII. THE HORSE-SHOW 56
IX. CATASTROPHE 69
X. A UNIVERSITY TOWN 80
XI. A WALK IN THE RAIN 90
XII. A DINNER PARTY 101
XIII. LUCY TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 112
XIV. BOB TURNS OUT A CONSERVATIVE 124
XV. ANOTHER CATASTROPHE 135
XVI. A FAMILY CONFERENCE 142
XVII. RUTH GOES TO NEW YORK 156
XVIII. A YEAR LATER 166
XIX. RUTH RESUMES HER OWN STORY 177
XX. THE FIFTH WHEEL GAINS WINGS 181
XXI. IN THE SEWALL MANSION 198
XXII. THE PARADE 206
XXIII. AN ENCOUNTER WITH BRECK 212
XXIV. THE OPEN DOOR 222
XXV. MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 232
XXVI. THE POT OF GOLD 239
XXVII. VAN DE VERE'S 248
XXVIII. A CALL FROM BOB JENNINGS 258
XXIX. LONGINGS 266
XXX. AGAIN LUCY NARRATES 274
XXXI. RUTH DRAWS CONCLUSIONS 282
XXXII. BOB DRAWS CONCLUSIONS TOO 291
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Why, Breck, don't be absurd! I wouldn't _marry_ you
for anything in the world'" _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
"'Men seem to want to make just nice soft pussy-cats
out of us, with ribbons round our necks, and hear
us purr'" 128
"Straight ahead she gazed; straight ahead she rode;
unafraid, eager, hopeful; the flag her only staff" 170
"I was the only one in her whole establishment whom
she wasn't obliged to treat as a servant and menial" 202
THE FIFTH WHEEL
CHAPTER I
RUTH VARS COMES OUT
I spend my afternoons walking alone in the country. It is sweet and
clean out-of-doors, and I need purifying. My wanderings disturb Lucy.
She is always on the lookout for me, in the hall or living-room or on
the porch, especially if I do not come back until after dark.
She needn't worry. I am simply trying to fit together again the
puzzle-picture of my life, dumped out in terrible confusion in
Edith's sunken garden, underneath a full September moon one midnight
three weeks ago.
Lucy looks suspiciously upon the portfolio of theme paper I carry
underneath my arm. But in this corner of the world a portfolio of theme
paper and a pile of books are as common a part of a girl's paraphernalia
as a muff and a shopping-bag on a winter's day on Fifth Avenue. Lucy
lives in a university town. The university is devoted principally to the
education of men, but there is a girls' college connected with it, so
if I am caught scribbling no one except Lucy needs to wonder why.
I have discovered a pretty bit of woods a mile west of Lucy's house, and
an unexpected rustic seat built among a company of murmurous young pines
beside a lake. Opposite the seat is an ecstatic little maple tree, at
this season of the year flaunting all the pinks and reds and yellows of
a fiery opal. There, sheltered by the pines, undisturbed except by a
scurrying chipmunk or two or an inquisitive, gray-tailed squirrel, I sit
and write.
I heard Lucy tell Will the other day (Will is my intellectual
brother-in-law) that she was really anxious about me. She believed I was
writing poetry! "And whenever a healthy, normal girl like Ruth begins to
write poetry," she added, "after a catastrophe like hers, look out for
her. Sanitariums are filled with such."
Poetry! I wish it were. Poetry indeed! Good heavens! I am writing a
defense.
I am the youngest member of a large grown-up family, all married now
except myself and a confirmed bachelor brother in New York. We are the
Vars of Hilton, Massachusetts, cotton mill owners originally, but now a
little of everything and scattered from Wisconsin to the Atlantic Ocean.
I am a New England girl, not the timid, resigned type one usually thinks
of when the term is used, but the kind that goes away to a fashionable
boarding-school when she is sixteen, has an elaborate coming-out party
two years later, and then proves herself either a success or a failure
according to the number of invitations she receives and the frequency
with which her dances are cut into at the balls. She is supposed to feel
grateful for the sacrifices that are made for her début, and the best
way to show it is by becoming engaged when the time is right to a man
one rung higher up on the social ladder than she.
I had no mother to guide me through these intricacies. My pilot was my
ambitious sister-in-law, Edith, who married Alec when I was fifteen,
remodeled our old 240 Main Street, Hilton, Mass., into a very grand and
elegant mansion and christened it The Homestead. Hilton used to be just
a nice, typical New England city. It had its social ambitions and
discontents, I suppose, but no more pronounced than in any community of
fifty or sixty thousand people. It was the Summer Colony with its
liveried servants, expensive automobiles, and elaborate entertaining
that caused such discontent in Hilton.
I've seen perfectly happy and good-natured babies made cross and
irritable by putting them into a four-foot-square nursery yard. The wall
of wealth and aristocracy around Hilton has had somewhat the same effect
upon the people that it confines. If a social barrier of any sort
appears upon the horizon of my sister-in-law Edith, she is never happy
until she has climbed over it. She was in the very midst of scaling that
high and difficult barrier built up about Hilton by the Summer
Colonists, when she married Alec.
It didn't seem to me a mean or contemptible object. To endeavor to place
our name--sunk into unjust oblivion since the reverses of our
fortune--in the front ranks of social distinction, where it belonged,
impressed me as a worthy ambition. I was glad to be used in Edith's
operations. Even as a little girl something had rankled in my heart,
too, when our once unrestricted fields and hills gradually became posted
with signs such as, "Idlewold, Private Grounds," "Cedarcrest, No
Picnickers Allowed," "Grassmere, No Trespassing."
I wasn't eighteen when I had my coming-out party. It was decided, and
fully discussed in my presence, that, as young as I was, chance for
social success would be greater this fall than a year hence, when the
list of débutantes among our summer friends promised to be less
distinguished. It happened that many of these débutantes lived in Boston
in the winter, which isn't very far from Hilton, and Edith had already
laid out before me her plan of campaign in that city, where she was
going to give me a few luncheons and dinners during the month of
December, and possibly a Ball if I proved a success.
If I proved a success! No young man ever started out in business with
more exalted determination to make good than I. I used to lie awake
nights and worry for fear the next morning's mail would not contain some
cherished invitation or other. And when it did, and Edith came bearing
it triumphantly up to my room, where I was being combed, brushed and
polished by her maid, and kissed me ecstatically on the brow and
whispered, "You little winner, you!" I could have run up a flag for
relief and joy.
I kept those invitations stuck into the mirror of my dressing-table
as if they were badges of honor. Edith used to make a point of having
her luncheon and dinner guests take off their things in my room. I
knew it was because of the invitations stuck in the mirror, and I was
proud to be able to return something for all the money and effort she
had expended.
It appeared incumbent upon me as a kind of holy duty to prove myself a
remunerative investment. The long hours spent in the preparation of my
toilette; the money paid out for my folderols; the deceptions we had to
resort to for the sake of expediency; everything--schemes, plans and
devices--all appeared to me as simply necessary parts of a big and
difficult contest I had entered and must win. It never occurred to me
then that my efforts were unadmirable. When at the end of my first
season Edith and I discovered to our delight, when the Summer Colony
returned to our hills, that our names had become fixtures on their
exclusive list of invitations, I felt as much exaltation as any
runner who ever entered a Marathon and crossed the white tape among
the first six.
There! That's the kind of New England girl I am. I offer no excuses. I
lay no blame upon my sister-in-law. There are many New England girls
just like me who have the advantage of mothers--tender and solicitous
mothers too. But even mothers cannot keep their children from catching
measles if there's an epidemic--not unless they move away. The social
fever in my community was simply raging when I was sixteen, and of
course I caught it.
Even my education was governed by the demands of society. The
boarding-school I went to was selected because of its reputation for
wealth and exclusiveness. I practised two hours a day on the piano, had
my voice trained, and sat at the conversation-French table at school,
because Edith impressed upon me that such accomplishments would be found
convenient and convincing. I learned to swim and dive, play tennis and
golf, ride horseback, dance and skate, simply because if I was efficient
in sports I would prove popular at summer hotels, country clubs and
winter resorts. Edith and I attended symphony concerts in Boston every
Friday afternoon, and opera occasionally, not because of any special
passion for music, but to be able to converse intelligently at dinner
parties and teas.
It was not until I had been out two seasons that I met Breckenridge
Sewall. When Edith introduced me to society I was younger than the other
girls of my set, and to cover up my deficiency in years I affected a
veneer of worldly knowledge and sophistication that was misleading. It
almost deceived myself. At eighteen I had accepted as a sad truth the
wickedness of the world, and especially that of men. I was very blasé,
very resigned--at least the two top layers of me were. Down underneath,
way down, I know now I was young and innocent and hopeful. I know now
that my first meeting with Breckenridge Sewall was simply one of the
stratagems that the contest I had entered required of me. I am convinced
that there was no thought of anything but harmless sport in my
encounter.
Breckenridge Sewall's mother was the owner of Grassmere, the largest and
most pretentious estate that crowns our hills. Everybody bowed down to
Mrs. Sewall. She was the royalty of the Hilton Summer Colony. Edith's
operations had not succeeded in piercing the fifty thousand dollar
wrought-iron fence that surrounded the acres of Grassmere. We had never
been honored by one of Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall's heavily crested
invitations. We had drunk tea in the same drawing-room with her; we had
been formally introduced on one occasion; but that was all. She imported
most of her guests from New York and Newport. Even the Summer Colonists
considered an invitation from Mrs. Sewall a high mark of distinction.
Her only son Breckenridge was seldom seen in Hilton. He preferred
Newport, Aix les Bains, or Paris. It was reported among us girls that he
considered Hilton provincial and was distinctly bored at any attempt to
inveigle him into its society. Most of us had never met him, but we all
knew him by sight. Frequently during the summer months he might be seen
speeding along the wide state road that leads out into the region of
Grassmere, seated in his great, gray, deep-purring monster, hatless,
head ducked down, hair blown straight back and eyes half-closed to
combat the wind.
One afternoon Edith and I were invited to a late afternoon tea at
Idlewold, the summer residence of Mrs. Leonard Jackson. I was wearing a
new gown which Edith had given me. It had been made at an expensive
dressmaker's of hers in Boston. I remember my sister-in-law exclaimed as
we strolled up the cedar-lined walk together, "My, but you're stunning
in that wistaria gown. It's a joy to buy things for you, Ruth. You set
them off so. I just wonder who you'll slaughter _this_ afternoon."
It was that afternoon that I met Breckenridge Sewall.
It was a week from that afternoon that two dozen American Beauties
formed an enormous and fragrant center-piece on the dining-room table at
old 240 Main Street. Suspended on a narrow white ribbon above the roses
Edith had hung from the center light a tiny square of pasteboard. It
bore in engraved letters the name of Breckenridge Sewall.
The family were deeply impressed when they came in for dinner. The
twins, Oliver and Malcolm, who were in college at the time, were
spending part of their vacation in Hilton; and my sister Lucy was there
too. There was quite a tableful. I can hear now the Oh's and Ah's as I
sat nonchalantly nibbling a cracker.
"Not too fast, Ruth, not too fast!" anxious Alec had cautioned.
"For the love o' Mike! Hully G!" had ejaculated Oliver and Malcolm,
examining the card.
"O Ruth, tell us about it," my sister Lucy in awed tones had exclaimed.
I shrugged. "There's nothing to tell," I said. "I met Mr. Sewall at a
tea not long ago, as one is apt to meet people at teas, that's all."
Edith from the head of the table, sparkling, too joyous even to attempt
her soup, had sung out, "I'm proud of you, rascal! You're a wonder, you
are! Listen, people, little sister here is going to do something
splendid one of these days--she is!"
CHAPTER II
BRECKENRIDGE SEWALL
When I was a little girl, Idlewold, the estate of Mrs. Leonard Jackson
where I first met Breckenridge Sewall, was a region of rough pasture
lands. Thither we children used to go forth on Saturday afternoons on
marauding expeditions. It was covered in those days with a network of
mysteriously winding cow-paths leading from shadow into sunshine, from
dark groves through underbrush and berry-bushes to bubbling brooks. Many
a thrilling adventure did I pursue with my brothers through those
alluring paths, never knowing what treasure or surprise lay around the
next curve. Sometimes it would be a cave appearing in the dense growth
of wild grape and blackberry vines; sometimes a woodchuck's hole; a
snake sunning himself; a branch of black thimble-berries; a baby calf
beside its mother, possibly; or perhaps even a wild rabbit or partridge.
Mrs. Leonard Jackson's elaborate brick mansion stood where more than
once bands of young vandals were guilty of stealing an ear or two of
corn for roasting purposes, to be blackened over a forbidden fire in
the corner of an old stone wall; and her famous wistaria-and-grape
arbor followed for nearly a quarter of a mile the wandering path laid
out years ago by cows on their way to water. What I discovered around
one of the curves of that path the day of Mrs. Jackson's garden tea
was as thrilling as anything I had ever chanced upon as a little girl.
It was Mr. Breckenridge Sewall sitting on the corner of a rustic seat
smoking a cigarette!
I had seen Mr. Sewall enter that arbor at the end near the house, a long
way off beyond lawns and flower beds. I was standing at the time with a
fragrant cup of tea in my hand beside the wistaria arch that forms the
entrance of the arbor near the orchard. I happened to be alone for a
moment. I finished my tea without haste, and then placing the cup and
saucer on a cedar table near-by, I decided it would be pleasant to
escape for a little while the chatter and conversation of the two or
three dozen women and a handful of men. Unobserved I strolled down
underneath the grape-vines.
I walked leisurely along the sun-dappled path, stopped a moment to reach
up and pick a solitary, late wistaria blossom, and then went on again
smiling a little to myself and wondering just what my plan was. I know
now that I intended to waylay Breckenridge Sewall. His attitude toward
Hilton had had somewhat the same effect upon me as the No Trespassing
and Keep Off signs when I was younger. However, I hadn't gone very far
when I lost my superb courage. A little path branching off at the right
offered me an opportunity for escape. I took it, and a moment later fell
to berating myself for not having been bolder and played my game to a
finish. My impulses always fluctuate and flicker for a moment or two
before they settle down to a steady resolve.
I did not think that Mr. Sewall had had time to reach the little path,
or if so, it did not occur to me that he would select it. It was
grass-grown and quite indistinct. So my surprise was not feigned when,
coming around a curve, I saw him seated on a rustic bench immediately in
front of me. It would have been awkward if I had exclaimed, "Oh!" and
turned around and run away. Besides, when I saw Breckenridge Sewall
sitting there before me and myself complete mistress of the situation,
it appeared almost like a duty to play my cards as well as I knew how. I
had been brought up to take advantage of opportunities, remember.
I glanced at the occupied bench impersonally, and then coolly strolled
on toward it as if there was no one there. Mr. Sewall got up as I
approached.
"Don't rise," I said, and then as if I had dismissed all thought of him,
I turned away and fell to contemplating the panorama of stream and
meadow. Mr. Sewall could have withdrawn if he had desired. I made it
easy for him to pass unheeded behind me while I was contemplating the
view. However, he remained standing, looking at me.
"Don't let me disturb you," I repeated after a moment. "I've simply
come to see the view of the meadows."
"Oh, no disturbance," he exclaimed, "and say, if it's the view you're
keen on, take the seat."
"No, thank you," I replied.
"Go on, I've had enough. Take it. I don't want it."
"Oh, no," I repeated. "It's very kind, but no, thank you."
"Why not? I've had my fill of view. Upon my word, I was just going to
clear out anyway."
"Oh, were you?" That altered matters.
"Sure thing."
Then, "Thank you," I said, and went over and sat down.
Often under the cloak of just such innocent and ordinary phrases is
carried on a private code of rapid signs and signals as easily
understood by those who have been taught as dots and dashes by a
telegraphic operator. I couldn't honestly say whether it was Mr. Sewall
or I who gave the first signal, but at any rate the eyes of both of us
had said what convention would never allow to pass our lips. So I wasn't
surprised, as perhaps an outsider will be, when Mr. Sewall didn't raise
his hat, excuse himself, and leave me alone on the rustic seat, as he
should have done according to all rules of good form and etiquette.
Instead he remarked, "I beg your pardon, but haven't I met you before
somewhere?"
"Not that I know of," I replied icily, the manner of my glance, however,
belying the tone of my voice. "I don't recall you, that is. I'm not in
Hilton long at a time, so I doubt it."
"Oh, not in Hilton!" He scoffed at the idea. "Good Lord, no. Perhaps I'm
mistaken though. I suppose," he broke off, "you've been having tea up
there in the garden."
"I suppose so," I confessed, as if even the thought of it bored me.
He came over toward the bench. I knew it was his cool and audacious
intention to sit down. So I laid my parasol lengthwise beside me,
leaving the extreme corner vacant, by which I meant to say, "I'm
perfectly game, as you see, but I'm perfectly nice too, remember."
He smiled understandingly, and sat down four feet away from me. He
leaned back nonchalantly and proceeded to test my gameness by a
prolonged and undisguised gaze, which he directed toward me through
half-closed lids. I showed no uneasiness. I kept right on looking
steadily meadow-ward, as if green fields and winding streams were much
more engrossing to me than the presence of a mere stranger. I enjoyed
the game I was playing as innocently, upon my word, as I would any
contest of endurance. And it was in the same spirit that I took the next
dare that was offered me.
I do not know how long it was that Breckenridge Sewall continued to gaze
at me, how long I sat undisturbed beneath the fire of his eyes. At any
rate it was he who broke the tension first. He leaned forward and drew
from his waistcoat pocket a gold cigarette case.
"Do you object?" he asked.
"Certainly not," I replied, with a tiny shrug. And then abruptly, just
as he was to return the case to his pocket, he leaned forward again.
"I beg your pardon--won't _you_?" And he offered _me_ the cigarettes,
his eyes narrowed upon me.
It was not the custom for young girls of my age to smoke cigarettes. It
was not considered good form for a débutante to do anything of that
sort. I had so far refused all cocktails and wines at dinners. However,
I knew how to manage a cigarette. As a lark at boarding-school I had
consumed a quarter of an inch of as many as a half-dozen cigarettes. In
some amateur theatricals the winter before, in which I took the part of
a young man, I had bravely smoked through half of one, and made my
speeches too. What this man had said of Hilton and its provincialism was
in my mind now. I meant no wickedness, no harm. I took one of the
proffered cigarettes with the grand indifference of having done it many
times before. Mr. Sewall watched me closely, and when he produced a
match, lit it, and stretched it out toward me in the hollow of his hand.
I leaned forward and simply played over again my well-learned act of the
winter before. Instead of the clapping of many hands and a curtain-call,
which had pleased me very much last winter, my applause today came in a
less noisy way, but was quite as satisfying.
"Look here," softly exclaimed Breckenridge Sewall. "Say, who are you,
anyway?"
Of course I wasn't stupid enough to tell him, and when I saw that he was
on the verge of announcing his identity, I exclaimed:
"Oh, don't, please. I'd much rather not know."
"Oh, you don't know then?"
"Are you Mr. Jackson?" I essayed innocently.
"No, I'm not Buck Jackson, but he's a pal of mine. I'm----"
"Oh, please," I exclaimed again. "Don't spoil it!"
"Spoil it!" he repeated a little dazed. "Say, will you talk English?"
"I mean," I explained, carelessly tossing away now into the grass the
nasty little thing that was making my throat smart, "I mean, don't spoil
my adventure. Life has so few. To walk down a little path for the
purpose of looking at a view, and instead to run across a stranger who
may be anything from a bandit to an Italian Count is so--so romantic."
"Romantic!" he repeated. He wasn't a bit good at repartee. "Who are
you, anyway?"
"Why, I'm any one from a peasant to an heiress."
"You're a darned attractive girl, anyhow!" he ejaculated, and as
lacking in subtlety as this speech was, I prized it as sign of my
adversary's surrender.
Five minutes later Mr. Sewall suggested that we walk back
together to the people gathered on the lawn. But I had no intention
of appearing in public with a celebrated person like Breckenridge
Sewall, without having first been properly introduced. Besides, my
over-eager sister-in-law would be sure to pounce upon us. I
remembered my scarf. I had left it by my empty cup on the cedar
table. It seemed quite natural for me to suggest to this stranger
that before rejoining the party I would appreciate my wrap. It had
grown a little chilly. He willingly went to get it. When he
returned he discovered that the owner of the bit of lavender silk
that he carried in his hand had mysteriously disappeared. Thick,
close-growing vines and bushes surrounded the bench, bound in on
both sides the shaded path. Through a network of thorns and
tangled branches, somehow the owner of that scarf had managed to
break her way. The very moment that Mr. Sewall stood blankly
surveying the empty bench, she, hidden by a row of young firs, was
eagerly skirting the west wall of her hostess's estate.
CHAPTER III
EPISODE OF A SMALL DOG
During the following week Miss Vars often caught a fleeting glimpse of
Mr. Sewall on his way in or out of town. She heard that he attended a
Country Club dance the following Saturday night, at which she chanced
not to be present. She was told he had actually partaken of refreshment
in the dining-room of the Country Club and had allowed himself to be
introduced to several of her friends.
It was very assuming of this modest young girl, was it not, to imagine
that Mr. Sewall's activities had anything to do with her? It was rather
audacious of her to don a smart lavender linen suit one afternoon and
stroll out toward the Country Club. Her little dog Dandy might just as
well have exercised in the opposite direction, and his mistress avoided
certain dangerous possibilities. But fate was on her side. She didn't
think so at first when, in the course of his constitutional, Dandy
suddenly bristled and growled at a terrier twice his weight and size,
and then with a pull and a dash fell to in a mighty encounter, rolling
over and over in the dirt and dust. Afterward, with the yelping terrier
disappearing down the road, Dandy held up a bleeding paw to his
mistress. She didn't have the heart to scold the triumphant little
warrior. Besides he was sadly injured. She tied her handkerchief about
the paw, gathered the dog up in her arms, turned her back on the Country
Club a quarter of a mile further on, and started home. It was just then
that a gray, low, deep-purring automobile appeared out of a cloud of
dust in the distance. As it approached it slowed down and came to a full
stop three feet in front of her. She looked up. The occupant of the car
was smiling broadly.
"Well!" he ejaculated. "At last! Where did you drop from?"
"How do you do," she replied loftily.
"Where did you drop from?" he repeated. "I've been hanging around for a
week, looking for you."
"For _me_?" She was surprised. "Why, what for?"
"Say," he broke out. "That was a mean trick you played. I was mad clean
through at first. What did you run off that way for? What was the game?"
"Previous engagement," she replied primly.
"Previous engagement! Well, you haven't any previous engagement now,
have you? Because, if you have, get in, and I'll waft you to it."
"Oh, I wouldn't think of it!" she said. He opened the door to the car
and sprang out beside her.
"Come, get in," he urged. "I'll take you anywhere you're going. I'd be
delighted."
"Why," she exclaimed, "we haven't been introduced. How do I know who
you are?" She was a well brought-up young person, you see.
"I'll tell you who I am fast enough. Glad to. Get in, and we will run up
to the Club and get introduced, if that's what you want."
"Oh, it isn't!" she assured him. "I just prefer to walk--that's all.
Thank you very much."
"Well, walk then. But you don't give me the slip this time, young lady.
Savvy that? Walk, and I'll come along behind on low speed."
She contemplated the situation for a moment, looking away across fields
and green pastures. Then she glanced down at Dandy. Her name in full
appeared staring at her from the nickel plate of the dog's collar. She
smiled.
"I'll tell you what you can do," she said brightly. "I'd be so grateful!
My little dog has had an accident, you see, and if you would be so
kind--I hate to ask so much of a stranger--it seems a great deal--but if
you would leave him at the veterinary's, Dr. Jenkins, just behind the
Court House! He's so heavy! I'd be awfully grateful."
"No, you don't," replied Mr. Sewall. "No more of those scarf games on
me! Sorry. But I'm not so easy as all that!"
The girl shifted her dog to her other arm.
"He weighs fifteen pounds," she remarked. And then abruptly for no
apparent reason Mr. Sewall inquired:
"Is it yours? Your own? The dog, I mean?"
"My own?" she repeated. "Why do you ask?" Innocence was stamped upon
her. For nothing in the world would she have glanced down upon the
collar.
"Oh, nothing--nice little rat, that's all. And I'm game. Stuff him in,
if you want. I'll deliver him to your vet."
"You will? Really? Why, how kind you are! I do appreciate it. You mean
it?"
"Of course I do. Stuff him in. Delighted to be of any little service.
Come on, Towzer. Make it clear to your little pet, pray, before starting
that I'm no abductor. Good-by--and say," he added, as the car began to
purr, "Say, please remember you aren't the only clever little guy in the
world, Miss Who-ever-you-are!"
"Why, what do you mean?" She looked abused.
"That's all right. Good-by." And off he sped down the road.
Miss "Who-ever-you-are" walked the three miles home slowly, smiling
almost all the way. When she arrived, there was a huge box of flowers
waiting on the hall-table directed to:
"Miss Ruth Chenery Vars
The Homestead, Hilton, Mass.
License No. 668."
Inside were two dozen American Beauty roses. Tied to the stem of one was
an envelope, and inside the envelope was a card which bore the name of
Breckenridge Sewall.
* * * * *
"So _that's_ who he is!" Miss Vars said out loud.
I saw a great deal of the young millionaire during the remainder of the
summer. Hardly a day passed but that I heard the approaching purr of his
car. And never a week but that flowers and candy, and more flowers and
candy, filled the rejoicing Homestead.
I was a canny young person. I allowed Mr. Sewall very little of my time
in private. I refused to go off alone with him anywhere, and the result
was that he was forced to attend teas and social functions if he wanted
to indulge in his latest fancy. The affair, carried on as it was before
the eyes of the whole community, soon became the main topic of
conversation. I felt myself being pointed out everywhere I went as the
girl distinguished by the young millionaire, Breckenridge Sewall. My
friends regarded me with wonder.
Before a month had passed a paragraph appeared in a certain periodical
in regard to the exciting affair. I burst into flattering notoriety.
What had before been slow and difficult sailing for Edith and me now
became as swift and easy as if we had added an auxiliary engine to our
little boat. We found ourselves receiving invitations from hostesses who
before had been impregnable. Extended hands greeted us--kindness,
cordiality.
Finally the proud day arrived when I was invited to Grassmere as a
guest. One afternoon Breck came rushing in upon me and eagerly explained
that his mother sent her apologies, and would I be good enough to fill
in a vacancy at a week-end house-party. Of course I would! Proudly I
rode away beside Breck in his automobile, out of the gates of the
Homestead along the state road a mile or two, and swiftly swerved inside
the fifty thousand dollar wrought-iron fence around the cherished
grounds of Grassmere. My trunks followed, and Edith's hopes followed
too!
It was an exciting three days. I had never spent a night in quite such
splendid surroundings; I had never mingled with quite such smart and
fashionable people. It was like a play to me. I hoped I would not forget
my lines, fail to observe cues, or perform the necessary business
awkwardly. I wanted to do credit to my host. And I believe I did. Within
two hours I felt at ease in the grand and luxurious house. The men were
older, the women more experienced, but I wasn't uncomfortable. As I
wandered through the beautiful rooms, conversed with what to me stood
for American aristocracy, basked in the hourly attention of butlers and
French maids, it occurred to me that I was peculiarly fitted for such a
life as this. It became me. It didn't seem as if I could be the little
girl who not so very long ago lived in the old French-roofed house with
the cracked walls, stained ceilings and worn Brussels carpets, at 240
Main Street, Hilton, Mass. But the day Breck asked me to marry him I
discovered I was that girl, with the same untainted ideal of marriage,
too, hidden away safe and sound under my play-acting.
"Why, Breck!" I exclaimed. "Don't be absurd. I wouldn't _marry_ you for
anything in the world."
And I wouldn't! My marriage was dim and indistinct to me then. I had
placed it in a very faraway future. My ideal of love was such, that
beside it all my friends' love affairs and many of those in fiction
seemed commonplace and mediocre. I prized highly the distinction of
Breckenridge Sewall's attentions, but marry him--of course I wouldn't!
Breck's attentions continued spasmodically for over two years. It took
some skill to be seen with him frequently, to accept just the right
portion of his tokens of regard, to keep him interested, and yet remain
absolutely free and uninvolved. I couldn't manage it indefinitely; the
time would come when all the finesse in the world would avail nothing.
And come it did in the middle of the third summer.
Breck refused to be cool and temperate that third summer. He insisted on
all sorts of extravagances. He allowed me to monopolize him to the
exclusion of every one else. He wouldn't be civil even to his mother's
guests at Grassmere. He deserted them night after night for Edith's
sunken garden, and me, though I begged him to be reasonable, urging him
to stay away. I didn't blame his mother, midsummer though it was, for
closing Grassmere, barring the windows, locking the gates and abruptly
packing off with her son to an old English estate of theirs near
London. I only hoped Mrs. Sewall didn't think me heartless. I had always
been perfectly honest with Breck. I had always, from the first, said I
couldn't marry him.
Not until I was convinced that the end must come between Breck and me,
did I tell the family that he had ever proposed marriage. There exists,
I believe, some sort of unwritten law that once a man proposes and a
girl refuses, attentions should cease. I came in on Sunday afternoon
from an automobile ride with Breck just before he sailed for England and
dramatically announced his proposal to the family--just as if he hadn't
been urging the same thing ever since I knew him.
I expected Edith would be displeased when she learned that I wasn't
going to marry Breck, so I didn't tell her my decision immediately. I
dreaded to undertake to explain to her what a slaughter to my ideals
such a marriage would be. Oh, I was young then, you see, young and
hopeful. Everything was ahead of me. There was a splendid chance for
happiness.
"I can't marry Breck Sewall, Edith," I attempted at last. "I can't marry
any one--yet."
"And what do you intend to do with yourself?" she inquired in that cold,
unsympathetic way she assumes when she is angry.
"I don't know, yet. There's a chance for all sorts of good things to
come true," I replied lightly.
"You've been out three years, you know," she reminded me icily.
The Sewalls occupied their English estate for several seasons. Grassmere
remained closed and barred. I did not see my young millionaire again
until I was an older girl, and my ideals had undergone extensive
alterations.
CHAPTER IV
A BACK-SEASON DÉBUTANTE
Débutantes are a good deal like first novels--advertised and introduced
at a great expenditure of money and effort, and presented to the public
with fear and trembling. But the greatest likeness comes later. The
best-sellers of one spring must be put up on the high shelves to make
room for new merchandise the next. At the end of several years the once
besought and discussed book can be found by the dozens on bargain
counters in department stores, marked down to fifty cents a copy.
The first best-seller I happened to observe in this ignominious position
was a novel that came out the same fall that I did. It was six years old
to the world, and so was I. I stopped a moment at the counter and opened
the book. It had been strikingly popular, with scores of reviews and
press notices, and hundreds of admirers. It had made a pretty little
pile of money for its exploiters. Perhaps, too, it had won a few
friends. But its day of intoxicating popularity had passed. And so had
mine. And so must every débutante's. By the fourth or fifth season,
cards for occasional luncheons and invitations to fill in vacancies at
married people's dinner parties must take the place of those feverish
all-night balls, preceded by brilliantly lighted tables-full of
débutantes, as excited as yourself, with a lot of gay young lords for
partners and all the older people looking on, admiring and taking mental
notes. Such excitement was all over with me by the time I was
twenty-two. I had been a success, too, I suppose. Any girl whom
Breckenridge Sewall had launched couldn't help being a success.
During the two or three years that Breck was in Europe I passed through
the usual routine of back-season débutantes. They always resort to
travel sooner or later; visit boarding-school friends one winter;
California, Bermuda or Europe the next; eagerly patronize winter
resorts; and fill in various spaces acting as bridesmaids. When they
have the chance they take part in pageants and amateur theatricals,
periodically devote themselves to some fashionable charity or other,
read novels, and attend current event courses if very desperate.
I used to think when I was fifteen that I should like to be an author,
more specifically, a poet. I used to write verses that were often read
out loud in my English course at the Hilton High School. And I designed
book plates, too, and modeled a little in clay. The more important
business of establishing ourselves socially interrupted all that sort of
thing, however. But I often wish I might have specialized in some line
of art. Perhaps now when I have so much time on my hands it would prove
my staunchest friend. For a girl who has no established income it might
result in an enjoyable means of support.
I have an established income, you see. Father kindly left me a little
stock in some mines out West, stock or bonds--I'm not very clear on
business terms. Anyhow I have an income of about eight hundred dollars a
year, paid over to me by my brother Tom, who has my affairs in charge.
It isn't sufficient for me to live on at present, of course. What with
the traveling, clothes--one thing and another--Edith has had to help out
with generous Christmas and birthday gifts. This she does lavishly.
She's enormously rich herself, and very generous. My last Christmas
present from her was a set of furs and a luxurious coon-skin motor coat.
Perhaps I wouldn't feel quite so hopeless if my father and mother were
living, and I felt that my idleness in some way was making them happy.
But I haven't such an excuse. I am not necessary to the happiness of any
household. I am what is known as a fifth wheel--a useless piece of
paraphernalia carried along as necessary impedimenta on other people's
journeys.
There are lots of fifth wheels in the world. Some are old and rusty
and out of repair, and down in their inmost hubs they long to roll off
into the gutter and lie there quiet and undisturbed. These are the old
people--silver-haired, self-effacing--who go upstairs to bed early
when guests are invited for dinner. Some are emergency fifth wheels,
such as are carried on automobiles, always ready to take their place
on the road, if one of the regular wheels breaks down and needs to be
sent away for repairs. These are the middle-aged, unmarried aunts and
cousins--staunch, reliable--who are sent for to take care of the
children while mother runs over to Europe for a holiday. And some are
fifth wheels like myself--neither old nor self-effacing, neither
middle-aged nor useful, but simply expensive to keep painted, and very
hungry for the road. It may be only a matter of time, however, when I
shall be middle-aged and useful, and later old and self-effacing; when
I shall stay and take care of the children, and go upstairs early when
the young people are having a party.
A young technical college graduate told me once, to comfort me, I
suppose, that a fifth wheel is considered by a carriage-maker a very
important part of a wagon. He tried to explain to me just what part of a
wagon it was. You can't see it. It's underneath somewhere, and has to be
kept well oiled. I am not very mechanical, but it sounded ignominious to
me. I told that young man that I wanted to be one of the four wheels
that held the coach up and made it speed, not tucked out of sight,
smothered in carriage-grease.
It came as a shock to me when I first realized my superfluous position
in this world. The result of that shock was what led me to abandon my
ideals on love in an attempt to avoid the possibility of going upstairs
early and having dinners off a tray.
When my brother Alec married Edith Campbell, and Edith came over to our
house and remodeled it, I didn't feel supplanted. There was a room built
especially for me with a little bath-room of its own, a big closet, a
window-box filled with flowers in the summer, and cretonne hangings that
I picked out myself. My sister Lucy had a room too--for she wasn't
married then--and the entire attic was finished up as barracks for my
brothers, the twins, who were in college at the time. They were invited
to bring home all the friends they wanted to. Edith was a big-hearted
sister-in-law. To me her coming was like the advent of a fairy
godmother. I had chafed terribly under the economies of my earlier
years. It wasn't until Alec married Edith that fortune began to smile.
One by one the family left the Homestead--Lucy, when she married Dr.
William Maynard and went away to live near the university with which
Will was connected, and Oliver and Malcolm when they graduated from
college and went into business. I alone was left living with Alec and
Edith. I was so busy coming-out and making a social success of myself
that it never occurred to me but that I was as important a member in
that household as Edith herself. I wasn't far from wrong either. When I
was a débutante and admired by Breckenridge Sewall, I was petted and
pampered and kept in sight. When I became a back-season number of some
four or five years' staleness, any old north room would do for me!
I used to dread Hilton in the winter, with nothing more exciting going
on than a few horrible thimble parties with girls who were beginning to
discuss how to keep thin, the importance of custom-made corsets, and
various other topics of advancing years. I soon acquired the habit of
interrupting these long seasons. I was frequently absent two months at a
time, visiting boarding-school friends, running out to California, up to
Alaska, or down to Mexico with some girl friend or other, with her
mother or aunt for a chaperon. Traveling is pleasant enough, but
everybody likes to feel a tie pulling gently at his heartstrings when he
steps up to a hotel register to write down the name of that little haven
that means home. It is like one of those toy return-balls. If the ball
is attached by an elastic string to some little girl's middle finger how
joyfully it springs forth from her hand, how eagerly returns again! When
suddenly on one of its trips the elastic snaps, the ball becomes
lifeless and rolls listlessly away in the gutter. When my home ties
broke, I, too, abandoned myself.
I had been on a visiting-trip made up of two-week stands in various
cities between Massachusetts and the Great Lakes, whither I had set out
to visit my oldest brother, Tom, and his wife, Elise, who live on the
edge of one of the Lakes in Wisconsin. I had been gone about six weeks
and had planned not to return to Hilton until the arrival of Hilton's
real society in May.
When I reached Henrietta Morgan's, just outside New York, on the return
trip, I fully expected to remain with her for two weeks and stop off
another week with the Harts in New Haven. But after about three days at
Henrietta's, I suddenly decided I couldn't stand it any longer. My
clothes all needed pressing--they had a peculiar trunky odor--even the
tissue paper which I used in such abundance in my old-fashioned tray
trunk had lost its life and crispness; I had gotten down to my last
clean pair of long white gloves; everything I owned needed some sort of
attention--I simply must go home!
I woke up possessed with the idea, and after putting on my last really
respectable waist and inquiring of myself in the mirror how in the world
I expected to visit Henrietta Morgan with such a dreary trunkful of
travel-worn articles, anyhow, I went down to the breakfast table with my
mind made up.
Henrietta left me after breakfast for a hurried trip to town. I didn't
go with her. I had waked up with a kind of cottony feeling in my throat,
and as hot coffee and toast didn't seem to help it, I made an
examination with a hand-mirror after breakfast. I discovered three white
spots! I wasn't alarmed. They never mean anything serious with me, and
they offered an excellent excuse for my sudden departure. It didn't come
to my mind that the white spots might have been the cause of my sudden
longing for my own little pink room. I simply knew I wanted to go home;
and wake up in the morning cross and disagreeable; and grumble about
the bacon and coffee at the breakfast table if I wanted to.
While Henrietta and her mother were out in the morning, I clinched my
decision by engaging a section on the night train and telegraphing
Edith. Although I was convinced that my departure wouldn't seriously
upset any of the small informal affairs so far planned for my
entertainment, I was acquainted with Mrs. Morgan's tenacious form of
hospitality. By the time she returned my packing was finished, and I was
lying down underneath a down comforter on the couch. I told Mrs. Morgan
about the white spots and my decision to return home.
She would scarcely hear me through. She announced emphatically that she
wouldn't think of allowing me to travel if I was ill. I was to undress
immediately, crawl in between the sheets, and she would call a doctor. I
wasn't rude to Mrs. Morgan, simply firm--that was all--quite as
persistent in my resolve as she in hers.
When finally she became convinced that nothing under heaven could
dissuade me, she flushed slightly and said icily, "Oh, very well, very
well. If that is the way you feel about it, very well, my dear," and
sailed out of the room, hurt. Even Henrietta, though very solicitous,
shared her mother's indignation, and I longed for the comfort and relief
of the Pullman, the friendly porters, and my own understanding people at
the other end.
So, you see, when in the middle of the afternoon I was summoned to the
telephone to receive a telegram from Hilton, I wasn't prepared for the
slap in the face that Edith's message was to me.
"Sorry," it was repeated. "Can't conveniently have you until next week.
House packed with company. Better stay with the Morgans." Signed,
"Edith."
CHAPTER V
THE UNIMPORTANT FIFTH WHEEL
Better stay with the Morgans! Who was I to be bandied about in such
fashion? Couldn't have me! I wasn't a seamstress who went out by the
day. House packed with company! Well--what of that? Hadn't I more right
there? Wasn't I Alec's own sister? Wasn't I born under the very roof to
which I was now asked not to come? Weren't all my things there--my bed,
my bureau, my little old white enameled desk I used when I was a child?
Where was I to go, I'd like to ask? Couldn't have me! Very well, then, I
wouldn't go!
I called up my brother Malcolm's office in New York. Perhaps he would be
kind enough to engage a room in a hospital somewhere, or at least find a
bed in a public ward. "Sorry, Miss Vars," came the answer finally to me
over the long distance wire, "but Mr. Vars has gone up to Hilton,
Massachusetts, for the week-end. Not returning until Monday."
I sat dumbly gazing into the receiver. Where could I go? Lucy, I was
sure, would squeeze me in somewhere if I applied to her--she always
can--but a letter received from Lucy two days before had contained a
glowing description of some celebrated doctor of science and his wife,
who were to be her guests during this very week. She has but one guest
room. I couldn't turn around and go back to Wisconsin. I couldn't go to
Oliver, now married to Madge. They live in a tiny apartment outside
Boston. There is nothing for me to sleep on except a lumpy couch in the
living-room. Besides there is a baby, and to carry germs into any
household with a baby in it is nothing less than criminal.
Never before had I felt so ignominious as when, half an hour later, I
meekly passed my telegram to Mrs. Morgan and asked if it would be
terribly inconvenient if I did stay after all.
"Not at all. Of course not," she replied coldly. "I shall not turn you
out into the street, my dear. But you stated your wish to go so
decidedly that I have telephoned Henrietta's friends in Orange to come
over to take your place. We had not told you that tickets for the
theater tonight and matinée tomorrow had already been bought. The
friends are coming this evening. So I shall be obliged to ask you to
move your things into the sewing-room."
I moved them. A mean little room it was on the north side of the
house. Piles of clothes to be mended, laundry to be put away, a mop
and a carpet sweeper greeted me as I went in. The floor was untidy
with scraps of cloth pushed into a corner behind the sewing machine.
The mantel was decorated with spools of thread, cards of hooks and
eyes, and a pin-cushion with threaded needles stuck in it. The bed
was uncomfortable. I crawled into it, and lay very still. My heart
was filled with bitterness. My eyes rested on the skeleton of a
dressmaker's form. A man's shirt ripped up the back hung over a
chair. I staid for three days in that room! Mrs. Morgan's family
physician called the first night, and announced to Mrs. Morgan that
probably I was coming down with a slight attack of tonsilitis. I
thought at least it was diphtheria or double pneumonia. There were
pains in my back. When I tried to look at the dressmaker's skeleton
it jiggled uncomfortably before my eyes.
I didn't see the new guests once. Even Henrietta was allowed to speak
to me only from across the hall.
"Tonsilitis _is_ catching, you know, my dear," Mrs. Morgan sweetly
purred from heights above me, "and I'd never forgive myself if the
other two girls caught anything here. I've forbidden Henrietta to see
you. She's so susceptible to germs." I felt I was an unholy creature,
teeming with microbes.
The room was warm; they fed me; they cared for me; but I begged the
doctor for an early deliverance on Monday morning. I longed for home. I
cried for it a little. Edith couldn't have known that I was ill; she
would have opened her arms wide if she had guessed--of course she would.
I ought to have gone in the beginning. I poured out my story into that
old doctor's understanding ears, and he opened the way for me finally.
He let me escape. Very weak and wobbly I took an early train on Monday
morning for Hilton. At the same time I sent the following telegram to my
sister-in-law: "Arrive Hilton 6:15 tonight. Have been ill. Still some
fever, but doctor finally consents to let me come."
Six fearful hours later I found myself, weak-kneed and trembling, on the
old home station platform. I was on the verge of tears. I looked up and
down for Edith's anxious face, or for Alec's--they would be disturbed
when they heard I had a fever, they might be alarmed--but I couldn't
find them. The motor was not at the curb either. I stepped into a
telephone-booth and called the house. Edith answered herself. I
recognized her quick staccato "Hello."
I replied, "Hello, that you, Edith?"
"Yes. Who is this?" she called.
"Ruth," I answered feebly.
"Ruth! Where in the world are you?" she answered.
"Oh, I'm all right. I'm down here at the station. Just arrived. I'm
perfectly all right," I assured her.
"Well, well," she exclaimed. "That's fine. Awfully glad you're back! I
do wish I could send the limousine down for you, Ruth. But I just can't.
We're going out to dinner--to the Mortimers, and we've just _got_ to
have it. I'm awfully sorry, but do you mind taking the car, or a
carriage? I'm right in the midst of dressing. I've got to hurry like
mad. It's almost half-past six now. Jump into a taxi, and we can have a
nice little chat before I have to go. Got lots to tell you. It's fine
you're back. Good-by. Don't mind if I hurry now, do you?"
I arrived at the house ten minutes later in a hired taxicab. I rang the
bell, and after a long wait a maid I had never seen before let me in.
Edith resplendent in a brand new bright green satin gown was just coming
down the stairs. She had on all her diamonds.
"Hello, Toots," she said. "Did you get homesick, dearie? Welcome. Wish I
could kiss you, Honey, but I can't. I've just finished my lips. Why
didn't you telegraph, Rascal? It's a shame not to have you met."
"I did," I began.
"Oh, well, our telephone has been out of order all day. It makes me
tired the way they persist in telephoning telegrams. We do get the
worst service! I had no idea you were coming. Why, I sent off a
perfect bunch of mail to you this very morning. You weren't peeved,
were you, Toots, about my telegram, I mean? I was right in the midst
of the most important house-party I've ever had. As it was I had too
many girls, and at the last minute had to telegraph Malcolm to come
and help me out. And he did, the lamb! The house-party was a
screaming success. I'm going to have a regular series of them all
summer. How do you like my gown? Eighty-five, my dear, marked down
from a hundred and fifty."
"Stunning," I replied, mingled emotions in my heart.
"There!" exclaimed Edith abruptly. "There's your telegram now. Did you
ever? Getting here at this hour!"
A telegraph boy was coming up the steps. I was fortunately near the
door, and I opened it before he rang, received my needless message
myself, and tore open the envelope.
"You're right," I said. "It is my telegram. It just said I was coming.
That's all. It didn't matter much. Guess I'll go up to my room now, if
you don't mind."
"Do, dear. Do," said Edith, "and I'll come along too. I want to show
you something, anyhow. I've picked up the stunningest high-boy you
ever saw in your life. A real old one, worth two hundred and fifty,
but I got it for a hundred. I've put it right outside your room, and
very carefully--oh, _most_ carefully--with my own hands, Honey, I just
laid your things in it. I simply couldn't have the bureau drawers in
that room filled up, you know, with all the house-parties I'm having,
and you not here half the time. I knew _you_ wouldn't mind, and the
high-boy is so stunning!" We had gone upstairs and were approaching it
now. "I put all your underclothes in those long shallow drawers; and
your ribbons and gloves and things in these deep, low ones. And then
up here in the top I've laid carefully all the truck you had stowed
away in that little old white enameled desk of yours. The desk I put
up in the store-room. It wasn't decent for guests. I've bought a new
one to take its place. I do hope you'll like it. It's a spinet desk,
and stunning. Oh, dear--there it is now ten minutes of seven, and I've
simply got to go. I promised to pick up Alec at the Club on the way. I
don't believe I've told you I've had your room redecorated. I wish I
could wait and see if you're pleased. But I can't--simply can't! You
understand, don't you, dear? But make yourself comfy."
She kissed me then very lightly on the cheek, and turned and tripped
away downstairs. When I caught the purr of the vanishing limousine as
it sped away down the winding drive, I opened the door of my room. It
was very pretty, very elegant, as perfectly appointed as any hotel
room I had ever gazed upon, but mine no more. This one little sacred
precinct had been entered in my absence and robbed of every vestige of
me. Instead of my single four-poster were two mahogany sleigh beds,
spread with expensively embroidered linen. Instead of my magazine cut
of Robert Louis Stevenson pinned beside the east window was a signed
etching. Instead of my own familiar desk welcoming me with bulging
packets of old letters, waiting for some rainy morning to be read and
sentimentally destroyed, appeared the spinet desk, furnished with
brand new blotters, chaste pens, and a fresh book of two-cent stamps.
All but my mere flesh and bones had been conveniently stuffed into a
two-hundred and fifty dollar high-boy!
I could have burst into tears if I had dared to fling myself down upon
the embroidered spreads. And then suddenly from below I heard the
scramble of four little feet on the hardwood floor, the eager, anxious
pant of a wheezy little dog hurrying up the stairs. It was Dandy--my
Boston terrier. Somehow, down behind the kitchen stove he had sensed
me, and his little dog heart was bursting with welcome. Only Dandy had
really missed me, sitting long, patient hours at a time at the
living-room window, watching for me to come up the drive; and finally
starting out on mysterious night searches of his own, as he always
does when days pass and I do not return. I heard the thud of his soft
body as he slipped and fell, in his haste, on the slippery hall floor.
And then a moment later he was upon me--paws and tongue and half-human
little yelps and cries pouring out their eloquence.
I held the wriggling, ecstatic little body close to me, and wondered
what it would be like if some human being was as glad to see me as
Dandy.
CHAPTER VI
BRECK SEWALL AGAIN
As I stood there in my devastated room, hugging to me a little scrap of
a dog, a desire to conceal my present poverty swept over me, just as I
had always wanted to hide the tell-tale economies of our household years
ago from my more affluent friends. I did not want pity. I was Ruth, of
whom my family had predicted great things--vague great things, I
confess. Never had I been quite certain what they were to be--but
something rather splendid anyhow.
We become what those nearest to us make us. The family made out of my
oldest brother Tom counselor and wise judge; out of my sister Lucy chief
cook and general-manager; out of me butterfly and ornament. In the eyes
of the family I have always been frivolous and worldly, and though they
criticize these qualities of mine, underneath their righteous veneer I
discover them marveling. They disparage my extravagance in dressing, and
then admire my frocks. In one breath they ridicule social ambition, and
in the next inquire into my encounters and triumphs. A desire to remain
in my old position I offer now as the least contemptible excuse of any
that I can think of for the following events of my life. I didn't want
to resign my place like an actress who can no longer take ingénue parts
because of wrinkles and gray hairs. When I came home that day and
discovered how unimportant I was, how weak had become my applause,
instead of trying to play a new part by making myself useful and
necessary--helping with the housework, putting away laundry, mending,
and so on--I went about concocting ways and methods of filling more
dazzlingly my old rôle.
Although my fever had practically disappeared by the time I went to bed
that night, I lolled down to the breakfast table the next morning later
than ever, making an impression in a shell-pink tea-gown; luxuriously
dawdled over a late egg and coffee; and then lazily borrowed a maid
about eleven o'clock and allowed her to unpack for me. Meanwhile I lay
back on the couch, criticized to Edith the tone of gray of the paper in
my room, carelessly suggested that there were too many articles on the
shelf from an artistic point of view, and then suffered myself to be
consulted on an invitation list for a party Edith was planning to give.
The description of my past two months' gaieties, recited in rather a
bored and blasé manner, lacked none of the usual color. My references to
attentions from various would-be suitors proved to Edith and Alec that I
was keeping up my record.
One Saturday afternoon not long after my return to Hilton, Edith and I
attended a tea at the Country Club. The terrace, open to the sky and
covered with a dozen small round tables, made a pretty sight--girls in
light-colored gowns and flowery hats predominating early in the
afternoon, but gradually, from mysterious regions of lockers and
shower-baths below, joined by men in white flannels and tennis-shoes.
Edith's and my table was popular that day. I had been away from Hilton
for so long that a lot of our friends gathered about us to welcome me
home. I was chatting away to a half dozen of them, when I saw two men
strolling up from the seventeenth green. One of the men was
Breckenridge Sewall. I glanced over the rim of my cup the second time
to make certain. Yes, it was Breck--the same old blasé,
dissipated-looking Breck. I had thought he was still in Europe. To
reach the eighteenth tee the men had to pass within ten feet of the
terrace. My back would be toward them. I didn't know if a second
opportunity would be offered me. Grassmere, the Sewall estate, was not
open this year. Breck might be gone by the next day. I happened at the
time to be talking about a certain tennis tournament with a man who
had been an eye-witness. I rose and put down my cup of tea.
"Come over and tell me about it, please," I said, smiling upon him.
"I've finished. Take my chair, Phyllis," I added sweetly to a young
girl standing near. "Do, dear. Mr. Call and I are going to decorate
the balustrade."
I selected a prominent position beside a huge earthen pot of flowering
geraniums. It was a low balustrade with a flat top, designed to sit
upon. I leaned back against the earthen jar and proceeded to appear
engrossed in tennis. Really, though, I was wondering if Breck would
see me after all, and what I should say if he did.
What I did say was conventional enough--simply, "Why, how do you do," to
his eager, "Hello, Miss Vars!" while I shook hands with him as he stood
beneath me on the ground.
"Saw you on Fifth Avenue a week ago," he went on, "hiking for some place
in a taxi. Lost you in the crowd at Forty-second. Thought you might be
rounding up here before long. So decided I'd run up and say howdy. Look
here, wait for me, will you? I've got only one hole more to play. Do.
Wait for me. I'll see that you get home all right."
Edith returned alone in the automobile that afternoon.
"I'll come along later," I explained mysteriously.
She hadn't seen Breck, thank heaven! She would have been sure to have
blundered into a dinner invitation, or some such form of effusion. But
she surmised that something unusual was in the air, and was watching for
me from behind lace curtains in the living-room when I returned two
hours later. She saw a foreign-made car whirl into the drive and stop
at the door. She saw me get out of it and run up the front steps. The
features of the man behind the big mahogany steering-wheel could be
discerned easily. When I opened the front door my sister-in-law was in
the vestibule. She grasped me by both my arms just above my elbows.
"Breck Sewall!" she ejaculated. "My dear! Breck Sewall again!"
The ecstasy of her voice, the enthusiasm of those hands of hers
grasping my arms soothed my hurt feelings of a week ago. I was led
tenderly--almost worshipfully--upstairs to my room.
"I believe he is as crazy as ever about you," Edith exclaimed, once
behind closed doors. "I honestly think"--she stopped abruptly--"What
if----" she began again, then excitedly kissed me. "You little wonder!"
she said. "There's no one in the whole family to match you. I'll wager
you could become a veritable gateway for us all to pass into New York
society if you wanted to. You're a marvel--you are! Tell me about it."
Her eyes sparkled as she gazed upon me. I realized in a flash just what
the splendid thing was that I might do. Of course! How simple! I might
marry Breck!
"Well," I said languidly, gazing at my reflection in the mirror and
replacing a stray lock, "I suppose I'd rather be a gateway than a fifth
wheel."
The next time that Breck asked me to marry him, I didn't call him
absurd. I was older now. I must put away my dolls and air-castles. The
time had come, it appeared, for me to assume a woman's burdens, among
which often is an expedient marriage. I could no longer offer my
tender years as an excuse for side-stepping a big opportunity. I
musn't falter. The moment had arrived. I accepted Breck, and down
underneath a pile of stockings in the back of my lowest bureau drawer
I hid a little velvet-lined jewel-box, inside of which there lay an
enormous diamond solitaire--promise of my brilliant return to the
footlights.
CHAPTER VII
THE MILLIONS WIN
Some people cannot understand how a girl can marry a man she doesn't
love. She can do it more easily than she can stay at home, watch half
her friends marry, and feel herself slowly ossifying into something
worthless and unessential. It takes more courage to sit quietly, wait
for what may never come, and observe without misgiving the man you might
have had making some other woman's life happy and complete.
I couldn't go on living in guest-rooms forever. I was tired of
traveling, and sick to death of leading a life that meant nothing to
anybody but Dandy. As a débutante I had had a distinct mission--whether
worthy or unworthy isn't the point in question--worked for it hard,
schemed, devised, and succeeded. As Mrs. Breckenridge Sewall I could
again accomplish results. Many women marry simply because they cannot
endure an arid and purposeless future.
Some people think that a girl who marries for position is hard and
calculating. Why, I entered into my engagement in the exalted mood of
a martyr! I didn't feel hard--I felt self-sacrificing, like a girl in
royal circles whose marriage may distinguish herself and her people
to such an extent that the mere question of her own personal feelings
is of small importance. The more I considered marrying Breck the more
convinced I became that it was the best thing I could do. With my
position placed upon my brow, like a crown on a king, freed at last
from all the mean and besmirching tricks of acquiring social
distinction, I could grow and expand. When I looked ahead and saw
myself one day mistress of Grassmere, the London house, the grand
mansion in New York; wise and careful monitor of the Sewall millions;
gracious hostess; kind ruler; I felt as nearly religious as ever
before in my life. I meant to do good with my wealth and position and
influence. Is that hard and calculating?
I accepted Breck's character and morals as a candidate chosen for the
honorable office of governor of a state must accept the condition of
politics, whether they are clean or rotten. Clean politics are the
exception. So also are clean morals. I knew enough for that. Way back
in boarding-school days, we girls had resigned ourselves to the
acceptance of the deplorable state of the world's morals. We had
statistics. I had dimly hoped that one of the exceptions to the rule
might fall to my lot, but if not, I wasn't going to be prudish.
Breck's early career could neither surprise nor alarm me. I, like most
girls in this frank and open age, had been prepared for it. So when
Lucy, who is anything but worldly wise, and Will, her husband, who is
a scientist and all brains, came bearing frenzied tales of Breck's
indiscretions during his one year at the university where Will is now
located, I simply smiled. Some people are so terribly naïve and
unsophisticated!
The family's attitude toward my engagement was consistent--deeply
impressed, but tainted with disapproval. Tom came way on from
Wisconsin to tell me how contemptible it was for a girl to marry for
position, even for so amazingly a distinguished one. Elise, his wife,
penned me a long letter on the emptiness of power and wealth. Malcolm
wrote he hoped I knew what I was getting into, and supposed after I
became Mrs. Breckenridge Sewall I'd feel too fine to recognize him,
should we meet on Fifth Avenue. Oliver was absolutely "flabbergasted"
at first, he wrote, but must confess it would save a lot of expense
for the family, if they could stop with Brother Breck when they came
down to New York. "How'd you pull it off, Toots?" he added. "Hope
little Cupid had something to do with it."
Alec waited until Edith had gone to Boston for a day's shopping, and
took me for a long automobile ride. Alec, by the way, is one of this
world's saints. He has always been the member of the Vars family who has
resigned himself to circumstances. It was Tom who went West and made a
brilliant future for himself; Alec who remained in Hilton to stand by
father's dying business. It was the twins who were helped to graduate
from college in spite of difficulties; Alec who cheerfully gave up his
diploma to offer a helping hand at home. When Alec married Edith
Campbell it appeared that at last he had come into his own. She was
immensely wealthy. Father's business took a new lease of life. At last
Alec was prosperous, but he had to go on adapting and resigning just the
same. With the arrival of the Summer Colony Edith's ambitions burst into
life, and of course he couldn't be a drag on her future--and mine--any
more than on Tom's or the twins'. He acquiesced; he fitted in without
reproach. Today in regard to my engagement he complained but gently.
"We're simple New England people after all," he said. "A girl is usually
happier married to a man of her own sort. You weren't born into the kind
of life the Sewalls lead. You weren't born into even the kind of life
you're leading now. Edith--Edith's fine, of course, and I've always been
glad you two were so congenial--but she does exaggerate the importance
of the social game. She plays it too hard. I don't want you to marry
Sewall. I'm afraid you won't be happy."
When Edith came home that night I asked her if she knew how Alec felt.
"Of course I do. The dear old fogey! But this is the way I look at it,
Ruth. Some people _not_ born into a high place get there just the same
through sheer nerve and determination, and others spend their whole
worthless lives at home on the farm. It isn't what a person is born
into, but what he is equal to, that decides his success. Mercy, child,
don't let a dear, silly, older brother bother you. Sweet old Al doesn't
know what he's talking about. I'd like to know what he _would_ advise
doing with his little sister, if, after all the talk there is about her
and Breck, he could succeed in breaking off her engagement. She'd be
just an old glove kicking around. That's what she'd be. Al is simply
crazy. I'll have to talk to him!"
"Don't bother," I said, "I'm safe. I have no intention of becoming an
old glove."
Possibly in the privacy of my own bed at night, where so often now I lay
wide-awake waiting for the dawn, I did experience a few misgivings. But
by the time I was ready to go down to breakfast I had usually persuaded
myself into sanity again. I used to reiterate all the desirable points
about Breck I could think of and calm my fears by dwelling upon the many
demands of my nature that he could supply--influence, power, delight in
environment, travel, excitement.
When I was a child I was instructed by my drawing-teacher to sketch with
my stick of charcoal a vase, a book, and a red rose, which he arranged
in a group on a table before me. I had a great deal of difficulty with
the rose; so after struggling for about half an hour I got up and,
unobserved, put the rose behind the vase, so that only its stem was
visible to me. Then I took a fresh page and began again. The result was
a very fair portrayal of the articles as they then appeared. So with my
ideal of marriage--when I found its arrangement impossible to portray in
my life--I simply slipped out of sight that for which the red rose is
sometimes the symbol (I mean love) and went ahead sketching in the other
things.
I explained all this to Breck one day. I wanted to be honest with him.
"Say, what are you driving at? Red roses! Drawing lessons! What's that
got to do with whether you'll run down to Boston for dinner with me
tonight? You do talk the greatest lot of stuff! But have it your own
way. I'm satisfied. Just jump in beside me! Will you? Darn it! I haven't
the patience of a saint!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE HORSE SHOW
Conventions may sometimes appear silly and absurd, but most of them are
made for practical purposes. Ignore them and you'll discover yourself in
difficulty. Leave your spoon in your cup and your arm will unexpectedly
hit it sometime, and over will go everything on to the tablecloth. If I
had not ignored certain conventions I wouldn't be crying over spilled
milk now.
I allowed myself to become engaged to Breck; accepted his ring and hid
it in my lowest bureau drawer; told my family my intentions; let the
world see me dining, dancing, theater-ing and motoring like mad with
Breck and draw its conclusions; and all this, mind you, before I had
received a word of any sort whatsoever from my prospective
family-in-law. This, as everybody knows, is irregular, and as bad form
as leaving your spoon in your cup. No wonder I got into difficulty!
My prospective family-in-law consisted simply of Breck's mother, Mrs. F.
Rockridge Sewall--a very elegant and perfectly poised woman she seemed
to me the one time I had seen her at close range, as she sat at the
head of the sumptuous table in the tapestry-hung dining-room at
Grassmere. I admired Mrs. Sewall. I used to think that I could succeed
in living up to her grand manners with better success than the other
rather hoidenish young ladies who chanced to be the guests at Grassmere
the time I was there. Mrs. Sewall is a small woman, always dressed in
black, with a superb string of pearls invariably about her neck, and
lots of brilliant diamonds on her slender fingers. Breck with his heavy
features, black hair brushed straight back, eyes half-closed as if he
was always riding in a fifty-mile gale, deep guffaw of a laugh, and
inelegant speech does not resemble his mother. It is strange, but the
picture that I most enjoyed dwelling upon, when I contemplated my future
life, was one of myself creeping up Fifth Avenue on late afternoons in
the Sewalls' crested automobile, seated, not beside Breck, but in
intimate conversation beside my aristocratic mother-in-law.
As humiliating as it was to me to continue engaged to a man from whose
mother there had been made no sign of welcome or approval, I did so
because Breck plead that Mrs. Sewall was on the edge of a nervous
break-down, and to announce any startling piece of news to her at such a
time would be unwise. I was foolish enough to believe him. I deceived
myself into thinking that my course was allowable and self-respecting.
Breck used to run up from New York to Hilton in his car for Sunday; and
sometimes during the week, in his absurd eagerness, he would dash up to
our door and ring the bell as late as eleven o'clock, simply because he
had been seized with a desire to bid me good-night.
When Edith and I went to New York for a week's shopping we were simply
deluged with attentions from Breck--theater every night, luncheons,
dinners and even breakfasts occasionally squeezed in between. All this,
I supposed, was carried on without Mrs. Sewall's knowledge. I ought to
have known better than to have excused it. It was my fault. I blame
myself. Such an unconventional affair deserved to end in catastrophe.
But to Edith it ended not in spilled milk, but in a spilled pint of her
life's blood.
One night in midsummer when I was just dropping off to sleep, Edith
knocked gently on my door, and then opened it and came in. She was all
ready for bed with her hair braided down her back.
"Asleep?"
"No," I replied. "What's the matter?"
"Did you know Grassmere was open?"
"Why?" I demanded.
"Because, just as I was fixing the curtain in my room I happened to look
up there. It's all lit up, upstairs and down. Even the ball-room. Did
you know about it?"
I had to confess that I didn't. Breck had told me that his mother would
remain in the rented palace at Newport for the remainder of the season,
under the care of a specialist.
"Looks as if they were having a big affair of some sort up there. I
guess Mrs. F. Rockridge has recovered from her nervous break-down! Come,
get up and see."
"Oh, I'll take your word for it," I replied indifferently. But I won't
say what my next act was after Edith had gone out of the room. You may
be sure I didn't immediately drop off to sleep.
I looked for one of Breck's ill-penned letters the next morning, but
none came. No wire or telephone message either. Not until five o'clock
in the afternoon did I receive any explanation of the lights at
Grassmere. Edith had been to her bridge club, and came rushing up on the
veranda, eager and excited. There were little bright spots in the center
of each cheek. Edith's a handsome woman, thirty-five or eight, I think,
and very smart in appearance. She has dark brilliant eyes, and a quality
in her voice and manner that makes you feel as if there were about eight
cylinders and all in perfect order, too, chugging away underneath her
shiny exterior.
"Where's the mail?" she asked of me. I was lying on the wicker couch.
"Oh, inside, I guess, on the hall table. I don't know. Why?"
"Wait a minute," she said, and disappeared. She rejoined me an instant
later, with two circulars and a printed post-card.
"Is this all there is?" Edith demanded again, and I could see the red
spots on her cheeks grow deeper.
"That's all," I assured her. "Expecting something?"
"Have you had any trouble with Breck?" she flashed out at me next.
"What are you driving at, Edith?" I inquired. "What's the matter?"
"Mrs. Sewall is giving a perfectly enormous ball at Grassmere on the
twenty-fourth, and we're left out. That's the matter!" She tossed the
mail on the table.
"Oh," I said, "our invitations will come in the morning probably. There
are often delays."
"No, sir, I know better. The bridge club girls said their invitations
came yesterday afternoon. I can't understand it. We certainly were on
Mrs. Sewall's list when she gave that buffet-luncheon three years ago.
And now we're not! That's the bald truth of it. It was terribly
embarrassing this afternoon--all of them telling about what they were
going to wear--it's going to be a masquerade--and I sitting there like
a dummy! Héléne McClellan broke the news to me. She blurted right out,
'Oh, do tell us, Edith,' she said to me, 'is Mrs. Sewall's ball to
announce your sister's engagement to her son? We're crazy to know!' Of
course I didn't let on at first that we weren't even invited, but it had
to leak out later. Oh, it is simply humiliating!"
"Is she at Grassmere now--Mrs. Sewall, I mean?" I asked quietly.
"Yes, she is. There's a big house-party going on there this very
minute. The club girls knew all about it. Mrs. Sewall has got a niece or
somebody or other with her, for the rest of the summer, and the ball is
being given in her honor. Gale Oliphant, I believe the girl's name is.
But look here, it seems very queer to me that _I'm_ the one to be giving
you this information instead of Breck. What does it all mean anyhow?
Come, confess. You must have had a tiff or something with Breck."
"I don't have tiffs, Edith," I said, annoyed.
"Well, you needn't get mad about it. There must be some reason for our
being slighted in this fashion. I'm sure _I've_ done nothing. It's not
my fault. I wouldn't care if it was small, but everybody who isn't
absolutely beyond the pale is invited."
"There's no use losing your nerve, Edith," I said in an exasperatingly
calm manner.
"Good heavens!" Edith exclaimed. "You seem to enjoy slights, but if I
were in your place I shouldn't enjoy slights from my prospective
mother-in-law, anyhow!"
"You needn't be insulting," I remarked, arranging a sofa-pillow with
care underneath my head and turning my attention to my magazine.
Edith went into the house. The screen door slammed behind her. I didn't
stir, just kept right on staring at the printed page before me and
turning a leaf now and again, as if I were really reading.
Gale Oliphant! I knew all about her. I had met her first at the
house-party at Grassmere--a silly little thing, I had thought her,
rather pretty, and a tremendous flirt. Breck had said she was worth a
million in her own name. I remembered that, because he explained that he
had been rather keen about her before he met me. "That makes my eight
hundred dollars a year look rather sickly, doesn't it?" I replied.
"Yes," he said, "it sure does! But let me tell you that _you_ make _her_
look like a last year's straw hat." However, the last year's straw hat
possessed some attraction for Breck, because during the three years that
Grassmere was closed and the Sewalls were in Europe, Breck and Gale
Oliphant saw a lot of each other. Breck told me that she really was
better than nothing, and his mater was terribly keen about having her
around.
I tried in every way I could to explain away my fears. I mustn't be
hasty. Well-mannered thoughts didn't jump to foolish conclusions. Breck
would probably explain the situation to me. I must wait with calmness
and composure. And I did, all the next day, and the next, and the third,
until finally there arrived one of Breck's infrequent scrawls.
The envelope was post-marked Maine. I opened it, and read:
"DEAR RUTH:
"I am crazy to see you. It seems like a week of Sundays. The
mater got a notion she wanted me to come up to Bar Harbor and
bring down the yacht. I brought three fellows with me. Some
spree! But we're good little boys. The captain struck. Waiting
for another. Won't round up at your place for another week. I'm
yours and don't forget it. It seems like a week of Sundays.
Mater popped the news she's going to open up old Grassmere
pretty soon. Then it will be like a week of holidays for yours
truly, if you're at home to sit in that pergola effect with.
Savvy? Showed the fellows the snapshots tonight but didn't tell
them. Haven't touched a drop for four weeks and three days.
Never did that stunt for any queen before. Good-night, you
little fish. Don't worry about that though. I'll warm you up
O.K. Trust Willie."
I used to feel apologetic for Breck's letters, and tear them up as
quickly as possible, before any one could see how crude and ill-spelled
they were. But I wasn't troubled about such details in this letter. It
brought immense relief. Breck was so natural and so obviously unaware of
trouble brewing at home. Surely, I needn't be alarmed. The invitation
for the masquerade might have been misdirected or have slipped down
behind something. Accidents do take place. Of course it was most
unfortunate, but fate performs unfortunate feats sometimes.
In my eagerness to dispel my fears it never crossed my mind that Breck's
absence was planned, so that Mrs. Sewall could start her attack without
interference. She was a very clever woman, an old and experienced hand
at social maneuvers. I am only a beginner. It was an uneven, one-sided
fight--for fight it was after all. She won. She bore away the laurels. I
bore away simply the tattered remnants of my self-respect.
* * * * *
Every year at the Hilton Country Club a local horse show is held in
mid-August, and many of the summer colonists--women as well as
men--exhibit and take part in the different events.
Edith always has liked horses, and when she married Alec she rebuilt our
run-down stable along with the house, and filled the empty old box
stalls with two or three valuable thorough-breds. Edith's Arrow, Pierre,
and Blue-grass had won some sort of a ribbon for the last half-dozen
years. I usually rode Blue-grass for Edith in the jumping event. I was
to do so on the afternoon that Breck's letter arrived.
It was a perfect day. The grand-stand with its temporary boxes that
always sell at absurdly high prices was filled with the summer society,
dressed in its gayest and best. The brass band was striking up gala airs
now and again, and the big bell in the tower clanged at intervals.
Between events horses were being led to and fro, and in front of the
grand-stand important individuals wearing white badges leaned over the
sides of the lowest tier of boxes, chatting familiarly with the ladies
above. A lot of outsiders, anybody who could pay a dollar admission,
wandered at large, staring openly at the boxes, leveling opera-glasses,
and telling each other who the celebrities were.
Alec was West on a business trip, but Edith had a box, of course, as she
always does. All around us were gathered in their various stalls our
friends and acquaintances. It is the custom to visit back and forth from
box to box, and the owner of each box is as much a host in his own
reservation as in his own reception-room at home. Our box is usually
very popular, but this year there was a marked difference. Of course
some of our best friends did stop for a minute or two, but those who sat
down and stayed long enough to be observed were only men. I was
surprised and unpleasantly disturbed.
Mrs. Sewall's box was not far away. We could see her seated prominently
in a corner of it, surrounded by a very smart bevy--strangers mostly,
New Yorkers I supposed--with Miss Gale Oliphant, strikingly costumed in
scarlet, in their midst. A vigilant group of summer colonists hovered
near-by, now and again becoming one of the party. Edith and I sat quite
alone in our box for an hour fully; I in my severe black habit, with my
elbow on the railing, my chin in my hand, steadily gazing at the track;
Edith erect, sharp-eyed, and nervously looking about in search of some
one desirable to bow to and invite to join us.
Finally she leaned forward and said to me, "Isn't this simply terrible?
I can't stand it. Come, let's get out."
"Where to?" I asked. "My event comes very soon."
"Oh, let's go over and see Mrs. Jackson. I'm sick of sitting here stark
alone. Come on--the girls are all over there."
I glanced toward the Jackson box and saw a group of our most intimate
friends--Edith's bridge club members and several of the girls in my set,
too.
"All right," I said, and we got up and strolled along the aisle.
As we approached I observed one of the women nudge another. I saw Héléne
McClellan open her mouth to speak and then close it quickly as she
caught sight of us. I felt under Mrs. Jackson's over-effusive greeting
the effort it was for her to appear easy and cordial. The group must
have been talking about the masquerade, for as we joined it there ensued
an uncomfortable silence. I would have withdrawn, but Edith pinched my
arm and boldly went over and sat down in one of the empty chairs.
We couldn't have been there five minutes when Mrs. Sewall came strolling
along the aisle, accompanied by Miss Oliphant. She, who usually held
herself so aloof, was very gracious this afternoon, smiling cordially at
left and right, and stopping now and again to present her niece. I saw
her recognize Mrs. Jackson and then smilingly approach her. We all rose
as our hostess got up and beamingly put her hand into Mrs. Sewall's
extended one.
"How do you do, Mrs. Jackson," said Mrs. Sewall. "I've been enjoying
your lovely boxful of young ladies all the afternoon. Charming, really!
Delightful! I hope you are all planning to come to my masquerade," she
went on, addressing the whole group now. "I want it to be a success. I
am giving it for my little guest here--and my son also," she added with
a significant smile, as if to imply that the coupling of Miss Oliphant's
and her son's names was not accidental. "Oh, how do you do, Mrs.
McClellan!" she interrupted herself, smiling across the group to Héléne
who stood next to me, "I haven't caught your eye before today. I hope
you're well--and oh, Miss McDowell!" She bowed to Leslie McDowell on my
other side.
It was just about at this juncture that I observed Edith threading her
way around back of several chairs toward Mrs. Sewall. I wish I could
have stopped her, but it was too late. I heard her clear voice suddenly
exclaiming from easy speaking distance,
"How do you do, Mrs. Sewall."
"Ah! how do you do!" the lady condescended to reply. There was
chilliness in the voice. Edith continued.
"We're so delighted," she went on bravely, "to have Grassmere occupied
again. The lights are very pretty on your hilltop from The Homestead,
our place, you know."
"Ah, The Homestead!" The chilliness was frosty now. Edith blushed.
"Perhaps you do not recall me, Mrs. Sewall--I am Mrs. Alexander
Vars--you know. My sister----"
"Oh, yes--Mrs. Alexander Vars. I recall you quite well, Mrs. Vars.
Perfectly, in fact," she said. Then stopped short. There was a terrible
silence. It continued like a long-drawn out note on a violin.
"Oh," nervously piped out some one in the group, at last, "look at that
lovely horse! I just adore black ones!"
Mrs. Sewall raised her lorgnette and gazed at the track.
"By the way, Mrs. Jackson," she resumed, as if she had not just
slaughtered poor Edith. "By the way, can you tell me the participants
in the next event? I've left my program. So careless!" she purred. And
afterwards she smilingly accepted a proffered armchair in the midst of
the scene of her successful encounter.
It would have been thoughtful, I think, and more humane to have waited
until the wounded had been carried away--or crawled away. For there was
no one to offer a helping hand to Edith and me. I didn't expect it. In
social encounters the vanquished must look out for themselves. With what
dignity I could, I advanced towards Mrs. Jackson.
"Well, I must trot along," I said lightly. "My turn at the hurdles will
be coming soon. Come, Edith, let's go and have a look at Blue-grass.
Good-by." And leisurely, although I longed to cast down my eyes and
hasten quickly away from the staring faces, I strolled out of the box,
followed by Edith; walked without haste along the aisle, even stopping
twice to exchange a word or two with friends; and finally escaped.
CHAPTER IX
CATASTROPHE
The incident at the horse show was simply the beginning. I couldn't go
anywhere--to a tea, to the Country Club, or even down town for a
morning's shopping--and feel sure of escaping a fresh cut or insult of
some kind. Mrs. Sewall went out of her way to make occasion to meet
and ignore me. It was necessary for her to go out of her way, for we
didn't meet often by chance. I was omitted from the many dinners and
dances which all the hostesses in Hilton began to give in Miss
Oliphant's honor. I was omitted from the more intimate afternoon tea
and sewing parties. Gale attended them now, and of course it would
have been awkward.
I didn't blame my girl friends for leaving me out. I might have done the
same to one of them. It isn't contrary to the rules. In fact the few
times I did encounter the old associates it was far from pleasant. There
was a feeling of constraint. There was nothing to talk about, either.
Even my manicurist and hairdresser, usually so conversational about all
the social events of the community, felt embarrassed and ill at ease,
with the parties at Grassmere, the costumes for the masquerade, Miss
Oliphant, and the Vars scandal barred from the conversation.
I was glad that Alec was away on a western trip. He, at least, was
spared the unbeautifying effect of the ordeal upon his wife and sister.
Alec hardly ever finds fault or criticizes, but underneath his silence
and his kindness I often wonder if there are not hidden, wounded
illusions and bleeding ideals. Edith and I were both in the same boat,
and we weren't pleasant traveling companions. I had never sailed with
Edith under such baffling winds as we now encountered. Squalls, calms,
and occasional storms we had experienced, but she had always kept a firm
hand on the rudder. Now she seemed to lose her nerve and forget all the
rules of successful navigation that she ever had learned. She threw the
charts to the winds, and burst into uncontrolled passions of
disappointment and rage.
I couldn't believe that Edith was the same woman who but six months ago
had nursed her only little daughter, whom she loves passionately,
through an alarming sickness. There had been trained nurses, but every
night Edith had taken her place in the low chair by the little girl's
crib, there to remain hour after hour, waiting, watching, noting with
complete control the changes for better or for worse; sleeping scarcely
at all; and always smiling quiet encouragement to Alec or to me when we
would steal in upon her. Every one said she was marvelous--even the
nurses and the doctor. It was as if she actually willed her daughter to
pass through her terrific crisis, speaking firmly now and again to the
little sufferer, holding her spirit steady as it crossed the yawning
abyss. She had seemed superb to me. I had asked myself if I could ever
summon to my support such unswerving strength and courage.
I didn't hear from Breck again until he arrived at the front door
unexpectedly one night at ten o'clock. I led the way down into the
shaded pergola, and there we remained until nearly midnight. When I
finally stole back to my room, I found Edith waiting for me, sitting
bolt upright on the foot of my bed, wide-awake, alert, eyes bright and
hard as steel.
"Well?" she asked the instant I came in, "tell me, is he as keen as
ever?"
A wave of something like sickness swept over me.
"Yes," I said shortly.
"Is he _really_?" she pursued. "Oh, isn't that splendid! Really? He
still wants you to marry him?"
"Yes," I said.
Edith flung her arm about me and squeezed me hard.
"We'll make that old cat of a mother of his sing another song one of
these days," she said. "You're a wonderful little kiddie, after all.
You'll save the day! Trust you! You'll pull it off yet! Oh, I have been
horrid, Ruth, this last fortnight. Really I have. I was so afraid we
were ruined, and we would be if it wasn't for you. Wait a jiffy."
Fifteen minutes later, just as, very wearily, I was putting out my
light, Edith pushed open my door again with a cup of something steaming
hot in her hand.
"Here," she said. "Malted milk, good and hot, with just a dash of sherry
in it. 'Twill make you sleep. You drink it, poor child--wonderful child
too! You jump in and drink it! I'll fix the windows and the lights."
I tried to be Edith's idea of wonderful. For a week I endured the
ignominy of receiving calls from Breck in secret, late at night when he
was able to steal away from the gaieties at Grassmere. For a week I
spent long idle days in the garden, in my room, on the veranda--anywhere
at all where I could best kill the galling, unoccupied hours until
night, and Breck was free to come to me.
I did not annoy him with demands for explanation of a situation
already painfully clear to me. I knew that he spoke truth when he
assured me he could not alter his mother's opposition at present, and
I did not disturb our evening talks by reproaches. I assumed a grand
air of indifference toward Mrs. Sewall and her attacks, as if I was
some invulnerable creature beyond and above her. I didn't even cheapen
myself by appearing to observe that Breck's invitations to appear in
public with him had suddenly been replaced by demands for private and
stolen interviews.
Of course his duties as host were many and consumed most of his time.
His clever mother saw to that. He said that there were twenty guests at
Grassmere. Naturally, I told myself, he couldn't take all-day motor
trips with me. I was convinced that my strength lay in whatever charm I
possessed for him, and I had no intention of injuring it by ill-timed
complaints. I was attractive, alluring to him--more so than ever. I
tried to be! Oh, I tried to be diplomatic, wise, to bide my time; by
quiet and determined endurance to withstand the siege of Mrs. Sewall's
disapproval; to hold her son's affection; and to marry him some day,
with her sanction, too, just exactly as I had planned. I tried and I
failed.
The very fact that I could hold Breck's affection hastened my
defeat--that and my lacerated pride.
I met him one day when I was out walking with Dandy, not far from
the very spot where once he had begged me to ride with him in his
automobile. Today in the seat beside him, which had been of late so
often mine, sat Gale Oliphant, her head almost upon his shoulder,
and Breck leaning toward her laughing as they sped by.
He saw me, I was sure he saw me, but he did not raise his hat. His
signal of recognition had been without Miss Oliphant's knowledge. After
they had passed he had stretched out his arm as a sign to turn to the
left, and had waved his hand without looking around. My face grew
scarlet. What had I become? Why, I might have been a picked-up
acquaintance, somebody to be ashamed of! Ruth Chenery Vars--where
had disappeared that once proud and self-respecting girl?
Insignificant as the event really was, it stood as a symbol of the
whole miserable situation to me. It was just enough to startle me into
contempt for myself. That night Breck came stealing down to me along the
dark roads in his quiet car about eleven-thirty. I knew he had been to
the Jackson dinner and was surprised to find he had changed into street
clothes. He was more eager than ever in his greeting.
"Come down into the sunken garden," he pleaded. "I've got something to
say to you."
It was light in the garden. There was a full September moon. I stood
beside the bird-bath and put a forefinger in it. I could hear Breck
breathing hard beside me. I was sure he had broken his pledge and had
been drinking.
"Well?" I said at last, calmly, looking up.
He answered me silently, vehemently.
"Don't, please, _here_. It's so fearfully light. Don't, Breck," I said.
"I've got the car," he whispered. "It will take us two hours. I've got
it all planned. It's a peach of a night. You've got to come. I'm not for
waiting any longer. You've got to marry me tonight, you little fish!
I'll wake you up. Do you hear me? Tonight in two hours. I'm not going to
hang around any longer. You've got to come!"
I managed to struggle away.
"Don't talk like that to me. It's insulting! Don't!" I said.
"Insulting! Say, ring off on that--will you? Insulting to ask a girl
to marry you! Say, that's good! Well, insulting or not, I've made up
my mind not to hang around any longer. I'll marry you tonight or not
at all! You needn't be afraid. I've got it all fixed up--license and
everything." He whipped a paper out of his pocket. "We'll surprise
'em, we will--you and I. I'm mad about you, and always have been. The
mater--huh! Be a shock to her--but she'll survive."
"I wouldn't elope with the king of England!" I said hotly. "What do you
think I am? Understand this, Breck. I require all the honors and high
ceremonies that exist."
"Damn it," he said, "you've been letting me come here without much
ceremony every night, late, on the quiet. What have you got to say to
that? I'm tired of seeing you pose on that high horse of yours. Come
down. You know as well as I you've been leading me along as hard as you
could for the last week. Good Lord--what for? Say, what's the game? I
don't know. But listen--if you don't marry me _now_, then you never
will. There's a limit to a man's endurance. Come, come, you can't do
better for yourself. You aren't so much. The mater will never come
around. She's got her teeth set. The car's ready. I shan't come again."
"Wait a minute," I said. "I'll be back in a minute." And I went straight
into the house and upstairs to my room, knelt down before my bureau and
drew out a blue velvet box. Breck's ring was inside.
Just as I was stealing down the stairs again, ever-on-the-guard, Edith
appeared in the hall in her nightdress.
"What are you after?" she asked.
For answer I held out the box toward her. She came down two or three of
the stairs.
"What you going to do with it?" she demanded.
"Give it back to Breck."
She grasped my wrist. "You little fool!" she exclaimed.
"But he wants me to run off with him. He wants me to elope."
"He does!" she ejaculated, her eyes large. "Well?" she inquired.
I stared up at Edith on the step above me in silence.
"Well?" she repeated.
"You don't mean----" I began.
"His mother is sure to come around in time. They always do. _My_ mother
eloped," she said.
"Edith Campbell Vars," I exclaimed, "do you actually mean----" I
stopped. Even in the dim light of the hall I saw her flush before my
blank astonishment. "Do you mean----"
"Well, if you don't," she interrupted in defense, "everybody will think
he threw _you_ over. You'll simply become an old glove. There's not much
choice."
"But my pride, my own self-respect! Edith Vars, you'd sell your soul for
society; and you'd sell me too! But you can't--you can't! Let go my
wrist. I'm sick of the whole miserable game. I'm sick of it. Let me go."
"And I'm sick of it too," flung back Edith. "But _I've_ got a daughter's
future to think about, I'd have you know, as well as yours. I've worked
hard to establish ourselves in this place, and I've succeeded too. And
now you come along, and look at the mess we're in! Humiliated! Ignored!
Insulted! It isn't my fault, is it? If I'd paddled my own canoe, I'd be
all right today."
"You can paddle it hereafter," I flashed out. "I shan't trouble you any
more."
"Yes, that's pleasant, after you've jabbed it full of holes!"
"Let me go, Edith," I said and pulled away my wrist with a jerk.
"Are you going to give it back to him?"
"Yes, I am!" I retorted and fled down the stairs, out of the door,
across the porch, and into the moonlit garden as fast as I could go.
"Here, Breck--here's your ring! Take it. You're free. You don't need to
hang around, as you say, any more. And I'm free, too, thank heaven! I
would have borne the glory and the honor of your name with pride. Your
mother's friendship would have been a happiness, but for no name, and
for no woman's favor will I descend to a stolen marriage. You're
mistaken in me. Everybody seems to be. I'm mistaken in myself. I don't
want to marry you after all. I don't love you, and I don't want to marry
you. I'm tired. Please go."
He stared at me. "You little fool!" he exclaimed, just like Edith. Then
he slipped the box into his pocket, shrugged his shoulders, and in truly
chivalrous fashion added, "Don't imagine I'm going to commit suicide or
anything tragic like that, young lady, because I'm not."
"I didn't imagine it," I replied.
"I'm going to marry Gale Oliphant," he informed me coolly. "I'm going to
give her a ring in a little box--and she'll wear hers. You'll see." He
produced a cigarette and lit it. "She's no fish," he added. "She's a
pippin, she is. Good night," he finished, and turned and walked out of
the garden.
Three days later I went away from Hilton. Edith's tirades became
unendurable. I didn't want even to eat her food. The spinet desk, the
bureau, the chiffonier, the closet, I cleared of every trace of me. I
stripped the bed of its linen and left the mattress rolled over the
foot-board in eloquent abandonment. The waste-basket bulged with
discarded odds and ends. One had only to look into that room to feel
convinced that its occupant had disappeared, like a spirit from a dead
body, never to return.
I went to my sister Lucy's. I did not write her. I simply took a morning
train to Boston and called her up on the 'phone in her not far distant
university town. She came trotting cheerfully in to meet me. I told her
my news; she tenderly gathered what was left of me together, and carried
the bits out here to her little white house on the hill.
CHAPTER X
A UNIVERSITY TOWN
I did not think I would be seated here on my rustic bench writing so
soon again. I finished the history of my catastrophe a week ago. But
something almost pleasant has occurred, and I'd like to try my pencil at
recording a pleasant story. Scarcely a story yet, though. Just a bit of
a conversation--that's all--fragmentary. It refers to this very bench
where I am sitting as I write, to the hills I am seeing out beyond the
little maple tree stripped now of all its glory. I cannot see a dash of
color anywhere. The world is brown. The sky is gray. It is rather chilly
for writing out-of-doors.
The conversation I refer to began in an ugly little room in a
professor's house. There was a roll-top desk in the room, and a map,
yellow with age, hanging on the wall. The conversation ended underneath
a lamp-post on a street curbing, and it was rainy and dark and cold. And
yet when I think of that conversation, sitting here in the brown chill
dusk, I see color, I feel warmth.
When I first came here to Lucy's three weeks ago, she assumed that I
was suffering from a broken heart. I had been exposed and showed
symptoms--going off alone for long walks and consuming reams of theme
paper as if I was half mad. I told Lucy that my heart was too hard to
break, but I couldn't convince her. There wasn't a day passed but that
she planned some form of amusement or diversion. Even Will, her husband,
cooperated and spent long evenings playing rum or three-handed auction,
so I might not sit idle. I tried to fall in with Lucy's plans.
"But, please, no men! I don't want to see another man for years. If any
man I know finds out I'm here, tell him I won't see him, absolutely," I
warned. "I want to be alone. I want to think things out undisturbed.
Sometimes I almost wish I could enter a convent."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Lucy would exclaim.
"You needn't be. You didn't break my engagement. For heaven's sake,
Lucy, _you_ needn't take it so hard."
But she did. She simply brooded over me. She read to me, smiled for me,
and initiated every sally that I made into public. In conversation she
picked her way with me with the precaution of a cat walking across a
table covered with delicate china. She made wide detours to avoid a
reference or remark that might reflect upon my engagement. Will did
likewise. I lived in daily surprise and wonder. As a family we are
brutally frank. This was a new phase, and one of the indirect results, I
suppose, of my broken engagement.
What I am trying to arrive at is the change of attitude in me toward
Lucy. Usually when I visit Lucy I do just about as I please; refuse to
attend a lot of stupid student-teas and brain-fagging lectures, or to
exert myself to appear engrossed in the conversation of her intellectual
dinner guests.
I used to scorn Lucy's dinners. They are very different from Edith's,
where, when the last guest in her stunning new gown has arrived and
swept into the drawing-room, followed by her husband, a maid enters,
balancing on her tray a dozen little glasses, amber filled; everybody
takes one, daintily, between a thumb and forefinger and drains it; puts
it nonchalantly aside on shelf or table; offers or accepts an arm and
floats toward the dining-room. At Edith's dinners the table is long,
flower-laden, candle-lighted. Your partner's face smiles at you dimly.
His voice is almost drowned by the chatter and the laughter all about,
but you hear him--just barely--and you laugh--he is immensely droll--and
then reply. And he laughs, too, contagiously, and you know that you are
going to get on!
Incidentally at Edith's dinners silent-footed servants pass you things;
you take them; you eat a little, too--delicious morsels if you stopped
to consider them; but you and your partner are having far too good a
time (he is actually audacious, and so, if you please, are you) to
bother about the food.
There's a little group of glasses beside your water, and once in a while
there appears in your field of vision a hand grasping a white napkin
folded like a cornucopia, out of which flows delicious nectar. You sip
a little of it occasionally, a very little--you are careful of
course--and waves of elation sweep over you because you are alive and
happy and good to look upon; waves of keen delight that such a big and
splendid life (there are orchids in the center of the table, there are
pearls and diamonds everywhere)--that such a life as this is yours to
grasp and to enjoy.
At Lucy's dinners the women do not wear diamonds and pearls. Lucy seldom
entertains more than six at a time. "Shall we go out?" she says when her
Delia mumbles something from the door. You straggle across the hall into
the dining-room, where thirteen carnations--you count them later,
there's time enough--where thirteen stiff carnations are doing duty in
the center of the prim table. At each place there is a soup plate
sending forth a cloud of steam. You wait until Lucy points out your
place to you, and then sit down at last. There is a terrible pause--you
wonder if they say grace--and then finally Lucy picks up her soup-spoon
for signal and you're off! The conversation is general. That is because
Lucy's guests are usually intellectuals, and whatever any one of them
says is supposed to be so important that every one else must keep still
and listen. You can't help but notice the food, because there's nothing
to soften the effect of it upon your nerves, as it were. There are
usually four courses, with chicken or ducks for the main dish,
accompanied by potatoes cut in balls, the invariable rubber stamp of a
party at Lucy's. Afterward there's coffee in the living-room, and you
feel fearfully discouraged when you look at the clock and find it's only
eight-thirty. You're surprised after the guests have gone to find that
Lucy considers her party a success.
"Why," she exclaims, cheeks aglow, "Dr. Van Breeze gave us the entire
résumé of his new book. He seldom thinks anybody clever enough to talk
to. It was a perfect combination!"
As I said, I usually visit Lucy in rather a critical state of mind and
hold myself aloof from her learned old doctors and professors. On this
visit, though, she is so obviously careful of me and my feelings, that I
find myself going out of my way to consider hers a little. One day last
week when she so brightly suggested that we go to a tea given by the
wife of a member of the faculty, instead of exclaiming, "Oh, dear! it
would bore me to extinction," I replied sweetly, "All right, if you want
to, I'll go."
I wasn't feeling happy. I didn't want to go. I had been roaming the
woods and country roads round about for a month in search of an excuse
for existence. I had been autobiographing for days in the faint hope
that I might run across something worth while in my life. But no. It was
hopeless. I had lost all initiative. I couldn't see what reason there
was for me to eat three meals a day. It seemed as foolish as stoking the
furnaces of an ocean liner when it is in port. In such a mood, and
through the drifting mist of a complaining October afternoon, in rubbers
and a raincoat, I started out with Lucy for her afternoon tea.
The other guests wore raincoats, too--we met a few on the way--with
dull-colored suits underneath, and tailored hats. There wasn't a single
bright, frivolous thing about that tea. Even the house was dismal--rows
of black walnut bookcases with busts of great men on top, steel
engravings framed in oak on the walls, and a Boston fern or two in red
pots sitting about on plates. When I looked up from my weak tea, served
in a common stock-pattern willow cup, and saw Lucy sparkling with
pleasure, talking away for dear life with a white-haired old man who
wore a string tie and had had two fingers shot off in the Civil War (I
always hated to shake hands with him) a wave of intolerance for age and
learning swept over me. I told Lucy if she didn't mind I'd run along
home, and stepped across the hall into a little stupid room with a
roll-top desk in it, where we had left our raincoats, and rubbers. I put
on my things and then stood staring a moment at a picture on the wall. I
didn't know what the picture was. I simply looked at it blindly while I
fought a sudden desire to cry. I hadn't wept before. But this dreadful
house, these dry, drab people were such a contrast to my
all-but-realized ambitions that it brought bitter tears to my eyes. Life
at Grassmere--_that_ was living! This was mere existence.
Just as I was groping for a handkerchief some little fool of a woman
exclaimed, "Oh, there she is--in the study! I thought she hadn't gone. O
Miss Vars, there's somebody I want you to meet, and meet you. Here she
is, Mr. Jennings. Come in. Miss Vars," I was still facing the wall,
"Miss Vars, I want to introduce Mr. Jennings." I turned finally, and as
I did so she added, "Now, I must go back to Dr. Fuller. I was afraid
you'd gone," and out she darted. I could have shot her.
Mr. Jennings came straight across the room. Through a blur I caught an
impression of height, breadth and energy. His sudden hand-grasp was firm
and decisive. "How do you do?" he said, and then abruptly observed my
tears.
"You've caught me with my sails all down," I explained.
"Have I?" he replied pleasantly. "Well, I like sails down."
"Please do not think," I continued, "that I am often guilty of such a
thing as this. I'm not. Who was that woman anyhow?"
"Oh, don't blame her," he laughed, and he stepped forward to look at the
picture which I had been staring at. I was busy putting away my
handkerchief. "Who was that woman?" Mr. Jennings repeated, abruptly
turning away from the picture back to me, "Who was she? I'll tell you
who she was--a good angel. Why," he went on, "I'd got into the way of
thinking that sympathy as expressed by tears had gone out of style with
the modern girl. They never shed any at the theater nowadays, I notice.
I'm glad to know there is one who hasn't forgotten how."
I stepped forward then to find out what manner of picture it was to
cause such a tribute to be paid me. It was called "The Doctor." A crude
bare room was depicted. The light from a lamp on an old kitchen table
threw its rays on the turned-aside, face of a little girl, who lay
asleep--or unconscious--on an improvised bed made of two chairs drawn
together. Beyond the narrow confines of the cot the little girl's hand
extended, wistfully upturned. Seated beside her, watching, sat the big
kind doctor. Anxiety, doubt were in his intelligent face. Near an east
window, through which a streak of dawn was creeping, sat a woman, her
face buried in the curve of her arms folded on the table. Beside her
stood a bearded man, brow furrowed, his pleading eyes upon the doctor,
while his hand, big, comforting, rested on the woman's bowed shoulders.
A cup with a spoon in it, a collection of bottles near-by--all the poor,
human, useless tools of defense were there, eloquent of a long and
losing struggle. Every one who recalls the familiar picture knows what a
dreary, hopeless scene it is--the room stamped with poverty, the window
stark and curtainless, the woman meagerly clad, the man bearing the
marks of hardship.
Suddenly in the face of all that, Mr. Jennings softly exclaimed, "That's
living."
Only five minutes ago I had said the same thing of life at Grassmere.
"Is it?" I replied. "Is that living? I've been wondering lately. I
thought--I thought--it's so poor and sad!" I remonstrated.
"Poor! Oh, no, it's rich," he replied quickly, "rich in everything worth
while. Anyhow, only lives that are vacuums are free from sadness."
"Are lives that are vacuums free from happiness, too?" I enquired.
He took my question as if it was a statement. "That's true, too, I
suppose," he agreed.
"How hopeless," I murmured, still gazing at the picture, but in reality
contemplating my own empty life. He misunderstood.
"See here," he said. "I believe this little girl here is going to pull
through after all. Don't worry. I insist she is. That artist ought to
paint a sequel--just for you," he added, and abruptly he unfolded his
arms and looked at me squarely for the first time. "I didn't in the
least get your name," he broke off. "The good angel flew away so soon."
I told him.
"Oh, yes, Miss Vars. Thank you. Mine's Jennings. People mumble names so
in introductions." He glanced around at the piles of raincoats and racks
of umbrellas. I already had my coat on. "You weren't just going, were
you?" he inquired brightly. "For if you were, so was I, too. Perhaps you
will let me walk along--unless you're riding."
I forgot just for a minute that I didn't want to see another man for
years and years. He wasn't a man just then, but a bright and colorful
illumination. He stood before me full of life and vigor. He was tall
and straight. His close-cropped hair shone like gold in the pale
gas-light, and there was a tan or glow upon his face that made me think
of out-of-doors. His smile, his straightforward gaze, his crisp voice,
had brightened that dull little room for me. I went with him. Of course
I did--out into the rainy darkness of the late October afternoon, drawn
as a child towards the glow of red fire.
CHAPTER XI
A WALK IN THE RAIN
Once on the side-walk Mr. Jennings said, "I'm glad to know your name,
for I know you by sight already. Shall we have any umbrella?"
"Let's not," I replied. "I like the mist. But how do you know me?"
"I thought you would--like the mist, I mean--because you seem to like
my woods so well."
"Your woods! Why--what woods?"
"The ones you walk in every day," he cheerfully replied; "they're
mine. I discovered them, and to whom else should they belong?"
"I've been trespassing, then."
"Oh, no! I'm delighted to lend my woods to you. If you wear blinders and
keep your eyes straight ahead and stuff your ears with cotton so you
can't hear the trolleys, you can almost cheat yourself into thinking
they're real woods with a mountain to climb at the end of them. Do you
like that little rustic seat I made beside the lake?"
"Did you make it?"
"Yes, Saturdays, for recreation last year. I'm afraid it doesn't fit
very well." He smiled from out of the light of a sudden lamp-post.
"You'll find a birch footstool some day pretty soon. I noticed your feet
didn't reach. By the way," he broke off, "pardon me for quoting from
you, but _I_ don't think back-season débutantes are like out-of-demand
best-sellers--not all of them. Anyhow, all best-sellers do not
deteriorate. And tell me, is this chap with the deep-purring car the
villain or the hero in your novel--the dark one with the hair blown
straight back?"
I almost stopped in my amazement. He was quoting from my life history.
"I don't understand," I began. I could feel the color in my cheeks. "I
dislike mystery. Tell me. Please. How did you--I dislike mystery," I
repeated.
"Are you angry? It's so dark I can't see. Don't be angry. It was
written on theme paper, in pencil, and in a university town theme
paper is public property. I found them there one day--just two loose
leaves behind the seat--and I read them. Afterwards I saw you--not
until afterwards," he assured me, "writing there every day. I asked
to be introduced to you when I saw you tucked away in a corner there
this afternoon drinking tea behind a fern, so that I could return
your property."
"Oh, you've kept the leaves! Where are they?" I demanded.
"Right here. Wait a minute." And underneath an arc-light we stopped,
and from out of his breast-pocket this surprising man drew a leather
case, and from out of that two crumpled pages of my life. "If any one
should ask me to guess," he went on, "I should say that the author of
these fragments is a student at Shirley" (the girls' college connected
with the University) "and that she had strolled out to my woods for
inspiration to write a story for an English course. Am I right?" He
passed me the leaves. "It sounds promising," he added, "the story,
I mean."
I took the leaves and glanced through them. There wasn't a name
mentioned on either. "A student at Shirley!" I exclaimed. "How
perfectly ridiculous! A school girl! Well, how old do you think
I am?" and out of sheer relief I rippled into a laugh.
"I don't know," he replied. "How old are you?" And he laughed, too. The
sound of our merriment mixing so rhythmically was music to my ears. I
thought I had forgotten how to be foolish, and inconsequential.
"I don't know why it strikes me so funny," I tried to explain--for
really I felt fairly elated--"I don't know why, but a story for an
English course! A college girl!" And I burst into peals of mirth.
"That's right. Go ahead. I deserve it," urged Mr. Jennings
self-depreciatively. "How I blunder! Anyhow I've found you can laugh
as well as cry, and that's something. Perhaps now," he continued,
"seeing I'm such a failure as a Sherlock Holmes, you will be so kind
as to tell me yourself who you are. Do you live here? I never saw you
before. I'm sure you're a stranger. Where is your home, Miss Vars?"
"Where is my home?" I repeated, and then paused an instant. Where
indeed? "A wardrobe-trunk is my home, Mr. Jennings," I replied.
"Oh!" he took it up. "A wardrobe-trunk. Rather a small house for you
to develop your individuality in, very freely, I should say!"
"Yes, but at least nothing hangs within its walls but of my own
choosing."
"And it's convenient for house-cleaning, too," he followed it up. "But
see here, is there room for two in it, because I was just going to ask
to call."
"I usually entertain my callers in the garden," I primly announced.
"How delightful! I much prefer gardens." And we laughed again. "Which
way?" he abruptly inquired. "Which way to your garden, please?" We had
come to a crossing. I stopped, and he beside me.
"Why, I'm sure I don't know!" Nothing about me looked familiar. "These
winding streets of yours! I'm afraid I'm lost," I confessed. "You'll
have to put me on a car--a Greene Hill Avenue car. I know my way alone
then. At least I believe it's a Greene Hill Avenue car. They've just
moved there--my sister. Perhaps you know her--Mrs. William Maynard."
"Lucy Maynard!" he exclaimed. "I should say I did! Are you--why, are
you her sister?"
He had heard about me then! Of course. How cruel!
"Yes. Why?" I managed to inquire.
"Oh, nothing. Only I've met you," he brought out triumphantly. "I met
you at dinner, two or three years ago--at your sister's house. We're
old friends," he said.
"Are we?" I asked in wonder. "Are we old friends?" I wanted to add,
"How nice!"
He looked so steady and substantial, standing there--so kind and
understanding. Any one would prize him for an old friend. I gazed up at
him. The drifting mist had covered his broad chest and shoulders with a
glistening veil of white. It shone like frost on the nap of his soft
felt hat. It sparkled on his eyebrows and the lashes of his fine eyes.
"How nice," I wanted to add. But a desire not to flirt with this man
honestly possessed me. Besides I must remember I was tired of men. I
wanted nothing of any of them. So instead I said, "Well, then, you know
what car I need to take."
He ignored my remark.
"You had on a yellow dress--let's walk along--and wore purple pansies,
fresh ones, although it was mid-winter. I remember it distinctly. But a
hat and a raincoat today make you look different, and I couldn't get
near enough to you in the woods. I remember there was a medical friend
of your sister's husband there that night, and Will and he monopolized
the conversation. I hardly spoke to you; but tell me, didn't you wear
pansies with a yellow dress one night at your sister's?"
"Jennings? Are you Bob Jennings?" (Lucy's Bob Jennings! I remembered
now--a teacher of English at the University.) "Of course," I exclaimed,
"I recall you now. I remember that night perfectly. When you came into
my sister's living-room, looking so--so unprofessor-like--I thought to
myself, 'How nice for me; Professor Jennings couldn't come; she's got
one of the students to take his place--some one nice and easy and my
size.' I wondered if you were on the football team or crew, and it
crossed my mind what a perfect shame it was to drag a man like you away
from a dance in town, perhaps, to a stupid dinner with one of the
faculty. And then you began to talk with Will about--what was
it--Chaucer? Anyhow something terrifying, and I knew then that you
_were_ Professor Jennings after all."
"Oh, but I wasn't. I was just an assistant. I'm not a professor even
yet. Never shall be either--the gods willing. I'm trying hard to be a
lawyer. Circuitous route, I confess. But you know automobile guide-books
often advise the longer and smoother road. Do you mind walking? It isn't
far, and the cars are crowded."
We walked.
"I suppose," I remarked a little later, "trying hard to become a lawyer
is what keeps your life from being a vacuum."
"Yes, that, and a little white-haired lady I call my mother," he added
gallantly.
"Do you want to know what keeps my life from being a vacuum?" I abruptly
asked.
"Of course I do!"
"Well, then--a little brown Boston terrier whom I call Dandy," I
announced.
He laughed as if it was a joke. "What nonsense! Your sister has told me
quite a lot about you, Miss Vars, one time and another; that you write
verse a little, for instance. Any one who can create is able to fill all
the empty corners of his life. You know that as well as I do."
I considered this new idea in silence for a moment. We turned in at
Lucy's street.
"How long shall you be here, Miss Vars?" asked Mr. Jennings. "And,
seriously, may I call some evening?"
How could I refuse such a friendly and straightforward request?
"Why, yes," I heard myself saying, man though he was, "I suppose so. I
should be glad, only----"
"Only what?"
"Only--well----" We were at Lucy's gate. I stopped beneath the
lamp-post. "I don't believe my sister has told you all about me, Mr.
Jennings."
"Of course not!" He laughed. "I don't want her to. I don't want to know
all that's in a new book I am about to read. It's pleasanter to discover
the delights myself."
I felt conscience-stricken. There were no delights left in me. I ought
to tell him. However, all I replied was, "How nicely you put things!"
And he: "Do I? Well--when may I come?"
"Why--any night. Only I'm not a very bright book--rather dreary. Truly.
I warn you. You found me in tears, remember."
"Don't think again about that," he said to me. "Please. Listen. I always
try to take home to the little white-haired lady something pleasant
every night--a rose or a couple of pinks, or an incident of some sort to
please her, never anything dreary. _You_, looking at the picture of the
little sick girl, are to be the gift tonight." And then suddenly
embarrassed, he added hastily, "I'm afraid you're awfully wet. I ought
to be shot. Perhaps you preferred to ride. You're covered with mist. And
perhaps it's spoiled something." He glanced at my hat.
"No, it hasn't," I assured him, "and good night. I can get in all
right."
"Oh, let me----"
"No, please," I insisted.
"Very well," he acquiesced. And I gave him my hand and sped up the walk.
He waited until the door was opened to me, and then, "Good night," came
his clear, pleasant voice to me from out of the rainy dark.
I went straight upstairs to my room. I felt as if I had just drunk long
and deep of pure cold water. Tired and travel-worn I had been, uncertain
of my way, disheartened, spent; and then suddenly across my path had
appeared an unexpected brook, crystal clear, soul-refreshing. I had
rested by it a moment, listened to its cheerful murmur, lifted up a
little of its coolness in the hollow of my hand, and drunk. I went up
to my room with a lighter heart than I had known for months, walked over
to the window, raised it, and let in a little of the precious mistiness
that had enshrouded me for the last half hour.
Standing there looking out into the darkness, I was interrupted by a
knock on my door.
"I was just turning down the beds, Miss," explained Lucy's Delia, "and
so brought up your letter." And she passed me the missive I had not
noticed on the table as I came in, so blind a cheerful "good night"
called from out of the rain had made me.
"A letter? Thank you, Delia. Isn't it rainy!" I added impulsively.
"It is, Miss. It is indeed, Miss Ruth!"
"Come," I went on, "let me help you turn down the beds. I haven't
another thing to do." The letter could wait. Benevolence possessed
my soul.
Later alone in my room I opened my note. It was from Edith. I had
recognized her handwriting instantly. She seldom harbors ill-feeling
for any length of time.
"Three cheers!" the letter jubilantly began. "Run up a flag. We win!" it
shouted. "Prepare yourself, Toots. We have been bidden to Grassmere!
Also I have received a personal note from the great Mogul herself. You
were right, I guess, as always. Let's forgive and forget. Mrs. Sewall
writes to know if we will honor her by our presence at a luncheon at
Grassmere. What do you say to that? With pleasure, kind lady, say I! I
enclose your invitation. You'll be ravishing in a new gown which I want
you to go right in and order at Madame's--_on me_, understand, dearie.
I'm going to blow myself to a new one, too. Won't the girls be surprised
when they hear of this? The joke will be on them, I'm thinking. Probably
you and Breck will be patching up your little difference, too. I don't
pretend to fathom Mrs. S.'s change of front, but it's changed anyhow!
That's all I care about. Good-by. Must hurry to catch mail. Hustle home,
rascal. Love, Edith."
Two weeks later on the morning after the luncheon, to which it is
unnecessary to say I sent my immediate regrets, the morning paper could
not be found at Lucy's house. Will went off to the University berating
the paper-boy soundly. After I had finished my coffee and toast and
moved over to the front window, Lucy opened the wood-box.
"I stuffed it in here," she said, "just as you and Will were coming
downstairs. I thought you'd rather see it first." And she put the lost
paper into my hands and left me.
On the front page there appeared the following announcement:
"Breckenridge Sewall Engaged to be Married to Miss Gale Oliphant of New
York and Newport. Announcement of Engagement Occasion for Brilliant
Luncheon Given by Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall at her Beautiful Estate in
Hilton. Wedding Set for Early December."
I read the announcement two or three times, and afterward the fine
print below, containing a long list of the luncheon guests with
Edith's name proudly in its midst. The scene of my shame and the
actors flashed before me. Ignominy and defeat were no part of the new
creature I had become since Lucy's tea. I read the announcement again.
It was as if a dark cloud passed high over my head and cast a shadow
on the sparkling beauty of the brook beside which I had been lingering
for nearly two weeks.
CHAPTER XII
A DINNER PARTY
Robert Jennings sees the plainest and commonest things of life through
the eyes of an artist. He never goes anywhere without a volume of poetry
stuffed into his pocket, and if he runs across anything that no one else
has endowed with beauty, then straightway he will endow it himself.
Crowded trolleys, railroad stations, a muddy road--all have some hidden
appeal. Even greed and discord he manages to ignore as such by looking
beneath their exteriors for hidden significance. The simpler a pleasure,
the greater to him its joy.
He is tall, broad; of light complexion; vigorous in every movement that
he makes. Upon his face there is a perpetual glow, whether due to mere
color, or to expression, I cannot make up my mind. He enters the house
and brings with him a feeling of out-of-doors. His smile is like
sunshine on white snow, his seriousness like a quiet pool hidden among
trees, his enthusiasm like mad whitecaps on a lake stirred by a gale,
his tenderness like the kind warmth of Indian summer caressing drooping
flowers. I have never known any one just like him before. Instead of
inviting me in town to luncheon and the matinée, or to dinner and the
opera, he takes me out with him to drink draughts of cold November air,
and to share the glory of an autumn sunset.
The first time he called he mentioned a course at Shirley offered to
special students. I told him if he would use his influence and persuade
the authorities to accept me, I believed I should like to take a course
in college. I thought it would help to kill time while I was making up
my mind how better to dispose of myself. I have therefore become what
Mr. Jennings thought I was in the beginning--a student at Shirley; not a
full-fledged one but a "special" in English. I attend class twice a week
and in between times write compositions that are read out loud in class
and criticized. Also in between times I occasionally see Mr. Jennings.
Last week each member of the class was required to submit an original
sonnet. Mine is not finished yet. I am trying a rhapsody on the autumn
woods. This is the way I work. Pencil, pad, low rocking-chair by the
window. First line:
"I see the saffron woods of yesterday!" Then fixedly I gaze at the
rubber on the end of my pencil. "I see the saffron woods of yesterday!"
(What a young god he looked the day he called for me to go chestnutting!
How his eyes laughed and his voice sang, and as we scuffled noisily
through the leaf-strewn forest, how his long, easy stride put me in mind
of the swinging meter of Longfellow's Hiawatha!)
"I see the saffron woods of yesterday!" (I see, too, the setting sun
shining on the yellow leaves, clinging frailly. I see myself standing
beneath a tree holding up an overcoat--his overcoat, thrown across my
outstretched arms to catch the pelting burrs that he is shaking off. I
see his eyes looking down from the tree into mine. Later as we lean over
a rock to crack open the prickly burrs, I feel our shoulders touch! Did
he feel them, too, I wonder? If he were any other man I would say that
he meant that our eyes should meet too long, our shoulders lean too
near, and our silence, as we walked home in the dark, continue too
tense. But he is different. He is not a lover. He is a friend--a
comrade.) "I see the saffron woods of yesterday!"
Abruptly I lay aside my pad and pencil. I put on my coat and hat, pull
on my gloves, and in self-defense plunge out into the cold November
afternoon. I avoid the country, and try to keep my recreant thoughts on
such practical subjects as trolley cars, motor-trucks and delivery
wagons, rumbling noisily beside me along the street. A sudden "To Let"
card appears in a new apartment. I wonder how much the rent is. I wonder
how much the salary of an assistant professor is. Probably something
under five thousand a year. The income from the investments left me by
my father amounts to almost eight hundred dollars. Clothes alone cost me
more than a thousand. Of course one wouldn't need so many, but what with
rent, and food, and service, and--what am I thinking of? Why, I've
known the man only four weeks, and considering my recent relations with
Breckenridge Sewall such mad air-castling is lacking in good taste.
Besides, a teacher--a professor! I've always scorned professors. I was
predestined to fill a high and influential place. A professor's wife? It
is unthinkable! And then abruptly appears a street vender beside me. I
smell his roasting chestnuts. And again--again, "I see the saffron woods
of yesterday!"
About two days after I went chestnutting with Mr. Jennings, I went
picnicking. We built a fire in the corner of two stones and cooked chops
and bacon. Two days after that we tramped to an old farm-house, five
miles straight-away north, and drank sweet cider--rather warm--from a
jelly tumbler with a rough rim. Once we had some tea and thick slabs of
bread in a country hotel by the roadside. Often we pillage orchards for
apples. Day before yesterday we stopped in a dismantled vegetable garden
and pulled a raw turnip from out of the frosty ground. Mr. Jennings
scraped the dirt away and pared off a little morsel with his pocket
knife. He offered it to me, then took a piece himself.
"Same old taste," I laughed.
"Same old taste," he laughed back. And we looked into each other's eyes
in sympathetic appreciation of raw turnip. As he wiped the blade of his
knife he added, "If I didn't know it wasn't so, I would swear we played
together as children. Most young ladies, of this age, do not care for
raw turnips."
A thrill passed through me. I blessed my brothers who had enriched my
childhood with the lore of out-of-doors. I blessed even the difficult
circumstances of my father's finances, which had forced me as a little
girl to seek my pleasures in fields and woods and tilled gardens. Had I
once said that my nature required a luxurious environment? I had been
mistaken. I gazed upon Robert Jennings standing there before me in the
forlorn garden. Bare brown hills were his background. The wind swept
down bleakly from the east, bearing with it the dank odor of frostbitten
cauliflower. Swift, sharp memories of my childhood swept over me.
Smothered traditions stirred in my heart. All the young sweet impulses
of my youth took sudden possession of me, and through a mist that
blurred my eyes I recognized with a little stab in my breast--that was
half joy, half fear--I recognized before me my perfect comrade!
Last night Lucy had one of her dinners and one of the men invited was
Robert Jennings. She had increased the usual number of six to eight. "A
real party," she explained to me, "with a fish course!"
For no other dinner party in my life did I dress with more care or
trembling expectation. Lucy's dinners are always at seven o'clock. I was
ready at quarter of, with cold hands and hot cheeks. I knew the very
instant that Mr. Jennings entered the room that evening. I was standing
at the far end with my back toward the door, talking to the war
veteran. At the first sound of Mr. Jennings' greeting as he met Lucy, I
became deaf to all else. I heard him speaking to the others near
her--such a trained and cultured voice--but I didn't turn around. I kept
my eyes riveted on the veteran. It was enough, at that instant, to be in
the same room with Robert Jennings. And when Lucy finally said, "Shall
we go out?" I wondered if I could bear the ordeal of turning around and
meeting his eyes. I needn't have been afraid. He spared me that. There
was no greeting of any kind between us until we sat down.
Lucy had placed him at the end of the table farthest away from me, and
after the guests were all settled, I dared at last to look up. A swift,
sweeping glance I meant it to be, but his eyes were waiting for mine,
and secretly, concealed by the noise and chatter all around, somewhere
among Lucy's carnations in the center of the table, we met. Only for an
instant. He returned immediately to his partner, and I to mine. He
answered her, we both selected a piece of silver--and then, abruptly,
ran away to each other again. Frequently, during that dinner, as we
gained confidence and learned the way, we met among the carnations.
Never before was I so glad of what good looks heaven had bestowed upon
me as when I saw this man's eyes examine and approve. Never before did I
feel so elated at a dinner, so glad to be alive. My pulse ran high. My
spirits fairly danced. And all without cocktails, too! Not only did our
eyes meet in stolen interviews, but our voices, too. He couldn't speak
but what I heard him, nor did I laugh but what it was meant for him.
During the hour occasions occurred when Mr. Jennings alone did the
talking, while the rest listened. I could observe him then without fear
of discovery. He sat there opposite me in his perfect evening clothes,
as much at home and at ease as in Scotch tweeds in the woods. As he
leaned forward a little, one cuffed wrist resting on the table's edge,
his fine head held erect, expressing his ideas in clear and well-turned
phrases, confident in himself, and listened to with attention, I glowed
with pride at the thought of my intimacy with him. A professor's wife?
That was a mere name--but _his_, this young aristocrat's--what a
privilege!
We didn't speak to each other until late in the evening, when the ladies
rose from their chairs about the fire in the living-room and began to
talk about the hour. I was standing alone by the mantel when I became
conscious that Mr. Jennings had moved away from beside Mrs. Van Breeze,
and was making his way toward me. Everybody was saying good night to
Lucy. We were quite alone for a minute. He didn't shake hands--just
stood before me smiling.
"Well, who are _you_?" he asked.
"Don't you recognize me?" I replied.
He looked me up and down deliberately.
"It is very pretty," he said quietly.
I felt my cheeks grow warm. I blushed. Somebody told me my dress was
pretty, and I blushed! I might have been sixteen.
"Your sister said I could stay a little after the others go if I wanted
to," Mr. Jennings went on. "Of course I want to. Shall I?"
"Yes," I said, with my cheeks still on fire. "Yes. Stay." And he went
away in a moment. I heard him laughing with the others.
I strolled over to the pile of music on the back of Lucy's piano
and became engrossed in looking it over. I felt weak and suddenly
incompetent. I felt frightened and unprepared. I was still there with
the pile of music when, fifteen minutes later, Lucy and Will, with
effusive apologies, excused themselves and went upstairs. Mr. Jennings
approached me. We were alone at last, and each keenly conscious of it.
"Any music here you know?" he asked indifferently, and drew a sheet
towards him.
"Not a great deal."
"It looks pretty much worn," he attempted.
"Doesn't it?" I agreed.
"I hardly know you tonight!" he exclaimed, suddenly personal.
"Don't you? I wore a yellow dress and purple pansies on purpose," I
replied as lightly as I could, touching the flowers at my waist.
"Yes, but you didn't wear the same look in your eyes," he remarked.
"No, I didn't," I acknowledged.
A silence enfolded us--sweet, significant.
Mr. Jennings broke it. "I think I had better go," he remarked.
"Had you?" I almost whispered. "Well----" and acquiesced.
"Unless," he added, "you'll sing me something. Do you sing--or play?"
"A little," I confessed.
"Well, _will_ you then?"
"Why, yes, if you want me to." And I went over and sat down before the
familiar keys.
It was at that moment that I knew at last why I had taken lessons for so
many years; why so much money had been put into expensive instruction,
and so many hours devoted to daily practise. It was for this--for this
particular night--for this particular man. I saw it in a flash. I sang a
song in English. "In a Garden," it was called. Softly I played the
opening phrases, and then raised my chin a little and began. My voice
isn't strong, but it can't help but behave nicely. It can't help but
take its high notes truly, like a child who has been taught pretty
manners ever since he could walk.
After I had finished Mr. Jennings said nothing for an instant. Then,
"Sing something else," he murmured, and afterward he exclaimed, "I
didn't know! I had no idea! Your sister never told me _this_!" Then, "I
have come to a very lovely part in the beautiful book I discovered," he
said to me. "It makes me want never to finish the book. Sing something
else." His eyes admired; his voice caressed; his tenderness placed me
high in the sacred precincts of his soul.
"Listen, please," I said impulsively. "You mustn't go on thinking well
of me. It isn't right. I shall not let you. I'm not what you think.
Listen. When I first met you, I had just broken my engagement--just
barely. I never said a word about it. I let you go on thinking that
I--you see it was this way--my pride was hurt more than my heart. I'm
that sort of girl. His mother is Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall. They have a
summer place in Hilton, and--and----"
"Don't bother to go into that. I've known it all from the beginning,"
Mr. Jennings interrupted gently.
"Oh, have you? You've known then, all along, that I'm just a frivolous
society girl who can't do anything but perform a few parlor tricks--and
things like that? I was afraid--I was so afraid I had misled you."
"You've misled only yourself," he smiled, and suddenly he put his hand
over mine as it rested beside the music rack. I met his steady eyes.
Just for an instant. Abruptly he took his hand away, went over to the
fireplace, and began poking the logs. When he spoke next he did not turn
around.
"This is an evening of confessions," he said. "There are some things
about me you might as well know, too. I am an instructor, with a salary
of two thousand five hundred dollars a year. I hope to make a lawyer out
of myself some day, I don't know when. I've hoped to for a long while.
Circumstances made it necessary after I graduated from college to find
something to do that was immediately remunerative. I discovered that my
mother was entirely dependent upon me. My ambitions had to be postponed
for a while. I had tutored enough during my college course to make it
evident that I could teach, and I grasped this opportunity as a
fortunate one. There are hours each day when I can read law. There are
even opportunities to attend lectures. It's a long way around to my
goal, I know that, and a steep way. Everything that I can save is laid
aside for the time when, finally admitted to the bar, I dare throw off
the security of a salary. My mother is quite alone. I must always look
out for her. I am all she has. I shall inherit little or nothing. If
there is any one who has allowed a possible delusion to continue about
himself it is I--not you, Miss Vars. Hello," he interrupted himself,
"it's getting late. Quarter of twelve! I ought to be shot." He turned
about and came over toward me. "Your sister will be turning me out
next," he said glibly. He was quite formal now. We might have been just
introduced.
His manner forbade me to speak. He gave me no opportunity to tell him
that his circumstances made no difference. Salary or no salary I did not
care--nothing made any difference now. He simply wanted me to keep
still. He eagerly desired it.
"Good night," he said cheerfully. In matter-of-fact fashion we shook
hands. "Forgive me for the disgraceful hour. Good night."
CHAPTER XIII
LUCY TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE
It was an afternoon in late February. A feeling of spring had been in
the air all day. In the living-room a lingering sun cast a path of light
upon the mahogany surface of a grand piano. In _my_ living-room, I
should say. For I am Mrs. Maynard, wife of Doctor William Ford Maynard
of international guinea-pig fame; sister of Ruth Chenery Vars; one-time
confidante of Robert Hopkinson Jennings. I haven't any identity of my
own. I'm simply one of the audience, an onlooker--an anxious and worried
one, just at present, who wishes somebody would assure me that the play
has a happy ending. I don't like sad plays. I don't like being harrowed
for nothing. I've taken to paper simply because I'm all of a tremble for
fear the play I've been watching for the last month or two won't come
out right. Sometimes I feel as if I'd like to dash across the footlights
and tell the actors what to say.
Ruth is engaged to be married to Robert Jennings. At first it seemed to
me too good to be true. After the sort of bringing up my sister has had,
culminating in that miserable affair of hers with Breckenridge Sewall,
I was afraid that happiness would slip by her altogether.
Robert Jennings is the salt of the earth. I believe I was as happy as
Ruth the first four weeks of her engagement, and then these clouds began
to gather. The first time I was conscious of them was the afternoon I
have just referred to, in late February.
I went into my living-room that day just to see that it was in order in
case of callers. It is difficult to keep a living-room in order when
your spoiled young society-sister is visiting you. Today in the middle
of one of the large cushions on the sofa appeared an indentation. From
beneath one corner of the cushion escaped the edge of a crushed
handkerchief. Open, face down, upon the floor lay an abandoned book. I
straightened the pillow and then picked up the book.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, actually out loud as my eyes fell on the title.
"This!"
It was a modern novel much under discussion, an unpleasant book,
reviewers pronounced it, and unnecessarily bold. I opened it. Certain
passages were marked with wriggling lines made with a soft pencil. I
read a marked paragraph or two, standing just where I was in the middle
of the room.
Suddenly the door-bell rang, twice, sharply, and almost immediately
afterward I heard some one shove open the front door.
I slipped the book behind the pillow which I had just straightened,
walked over to a geranium in the window, and nonchalantly snipped off a
leaf.
"Hello!" a man's cheerful voice called out. "Any one at home?"
"Yes, in here, Bob," I called back. "Come in."
Robert Jennings entered. He glowed as if he had just been walking up
hill briskly. He shook hands with me.
"Hello," he said, his gray eyes smiling pleasantly. "Been out today?
Ought to! Like spring. Where's Ruth?"
"Just gone to the Square. She'll be right back. Run out of cotton for
your breakfast-napkins."
"Breakfast-napkins!" he exclaimed, and laughed boyishly. I laughed, too.
"It doesn't seem quite possible, does it? Breakfast-napkins, and four
months ago I didn't even know her! Mind?" he asked abruptly, holding up
a silver case. He selected and lit a cigarette, flipping the charred
match straight as an arrow into the fireplace. He smoked in silence a
moment, smiling meditatively. "Mother's making some napkins, too!" he
broke out. "They're going to get on--Ruth and mother--beautifully.
'She's a dear!' That's what mother says of Ruth half a dozen times a
day. 'She's a dear!' And somehow the triteness of the phrase from mother
is ridiculously pleasing to me. May I sit down?"
"Of course. Do."
He approached the sofa, but before throwing himself into one of its
inviting corners, manlike he placed one of the large sofa pillows rather
gingerly on the floor against a table-leg. Behind the pillow appeared
the book.
"Hello," he exclaimed, "what's this?" And he held it up.
I put out my hand. "I'll take it, thank you," I said.
"Whose is this, anyhow?" he asked, opening the book instead of passing
it over to me. "Looks like Ruth's marks." Then after a pause, "_Is_ it
Ruth's?"
"I don't know. Perhaps."
"She shouldn't read stuff like this!" pronounced the young judge.
"Oh, Ruth has always read everything she wanted to."
"Yes, I suppose so--more's the pity--best-sellers, anything that's
going. But _this_--_this!_ It's not decent for her, for any girl. I
don't believe in this modern idea of exposure, anyhow. But here she
comes." His face lighted. He put aside the book. "Here Ruth comes!"
And he went out into the hall to meet her.
I heard the front door open, the rustle of a greeting, and a moment
later my sister and Robert Jennings both came in.
Ruth had become a shining roseate creature. Always beautiful, always
exquisite--flawless features, perfect poise, now she pulsated with life.
A new brightness glowed in her eyes. Of late across her cheeks color was
wont to come and go like the shadow of clouds on a hillside on a windy
day. Even her voice, usually steady and controlled, now and again
trembled and broke with sudden emotion. She came into the room smiling,
very pretty, very lovely (could we really be children of the same
parents?), with a pink rose slipped into the opening of her coat. She
drew out her rose and came over and passed it to me.
"There," she said, "it's for you, Lucy. I bought it especially!" Such a
strange new Ruth! Once so worldly, so selfish; now so sweet and full of
queer tenderness. I hardly recognized her. "It's heavenly out-doors,"
she went on. "I'll be back in a minute." And she went out into the hall
to take off her hat and coat.
Robert went over to the book he had laid on the table and picked it up.
When Ruth joined us he inquired pleasantly, "Where in the world did you
run across this, Ruth?"
"That?" she smiled. "Oh, I bought it. Everybody is talking about it, and
I bought it. It isn't so bad. Some parts are really very nice. I've
marked a few I liked."
"Why, Ruth," he said solicitously, "it isn't a book for you to read."
"That's very sweet and protective, Bob," she laughed gently, "but after
all I'm not--what do you call it--early Victorian. I'm twentieth
century, and an American at that. Every book printed is for me to read."
"Oh, no! I should hope not! Too much of this sort of stuff would rob a
girl of every illusion she ever had."
"Illusions! Oh, well," she shrugged her shoulders, "who wants illusions?
I don't. I want truth, Bob. I want to know everything there is to know
in this world, good, bad or indifferent. And you needn't be afraid. It
won't hurt me. Truth is good for any one, whether it's pleasant truth or
not. It makes one's opinions of more value, if nothing else. And of
course you want my opinions to be worth something, don't you?" she
wheedled.
"But, my dear," complained Bob, "this book represents more lies than it
does truth."
"Do you think so?" she asked earnestly. "Now I thought it was a
wonderfully true portrayal of just how a man and woman would feel under
those circumstances."
Bob looked actually pained. "O Ruth, how can you judge of such
circumstances? Of such feelings? Why, I don't like even to discuss such
rottenness with you as _this_."
"How absurd, Bob," Ruth deprecated lightly. "I'm not a Jane Austen sort
of girl. I've always read things. I've always read everything I wanted
to." Bob was still standing with the book in his hands, looking at it.
He didn't reply for a moment. Something especially obnoxious must have
met his eyes, for abruptly he threw the book down upon the table.
"Well," he said, "I'm going to ask you not to finish reading _this_."
"You aren't serious!"
"Yes, I am, Ruth," replied Bob. "Let me be the judge about this. Trust
it to me. You've read only a little of the book. It's worse
later--unpleasant, distorted. There are other avenues to truth--not this
one, please. Yes, I am serious."
He smiled disarmingly. For the first time since their engagement I saw
Ruth fail to smile back. There was a perceptible pause. Then in a low
voice Ruth asked, "Do you mean you ask me to stop reading a book right
in the middle of it? Don't ask me to do a childish thing like that,
Bob."
"But Ruth," he persisted, "it's to guard you, to protect you."
"But I don't want to be protected, not that way," she protested. Her
gray eyes were almost black. Her voice, though low and quiet enough,
trembled. They must have forgotten I was in the room.
"Is it such a lot to ask?" pleaded Bob.
"You _do_ ask it then?" repeated Ruth uncomprehendingly.
"Why, Ruth, yes, I do. If a doctor told you not to eat a certain thing,"
Bob began trying to be playful, "that he knew was bad for you and----"
"But you're not my doctor," interrupted Ruth. "That's just it.
You're----It seems all wrong somehow," she broke off, "as if I was a
child, or an ignorant patient of yours, and I'm not. I'm not. Will you
pass it to me, please--the book?"
Bob gave it to her immediately. "You're going to finish it then?" he
asked, alarmed.
"I don't know," said Ruth, wide-eyed, a little alarmed herself, I think.
"I don't know. I must think it over." She crossed the room to the
secretary, opened the glass door, and placed the book on one of the high
shelves. "There," she said, "there it is." Then turning around she
added, "I'll let you know when I decide, Bob. And now I guess I'll go
upstairs, if you don't mind. These walking-shoes are so heavy. Good-by."
And she fled, on the verge of what I feared was tears.
Both Bob and Ruth were so surprised at the appearance of this sudden and
unlooked-for issue that I felt convinced it was their first difference
of opinion. I was worried. I couldn't foretell how it would come out.
Their friendship had been brief--perhaps too brief. Their engagement was
only four weeks old. They loved--I was sure of that--but they didn't
know each other very well. Old friend of Will's and mine as Robert
Jennings is, I knew him to be conservative, steeped in traditions since
childhood. Robert idealizes everything mellowed by age, from pictures
and literature to laws and institutions. Ruth, on the other hand, is a
pronounced modernist. It doesn't make much difference whether it's a hat
or a novel, if it's new and up to date Ruth delights in it.
I poured out my misgivings to Will that night behind closed doors. Will
had never had a high opinion of Ruth.
"Modernism isn't her difficulty, my dear," he remarked. "Selfishness,
with a big S. That's the trouble with Ruth. Society too. Big S. And a
pinch of stubbornness also. She never would take any advice from any
one--self-satisfied little Ruth wouldn't--and poor Bob is the salt of
the earth too. It's a shame. Whoever would have thought fine old Bob
would have fallen into calculating young Ruth's net anyhow!"
"O Will, please. You do misjudge her," I pleaded. "It isn't so. She
isn't calculating. You've said it before, and she isn't--not always. Not
this time."
"You ruffle like a protecting mother hen!" laughed Will. "Don't worry
that young head of yours too much, dear. It isn't _your_ love affair,
remember."
It _is_ my love affair. That's the difficulty. In all sorts of quiet and
covered ways have I tried to help and urge the friendship along. Always,
even before Ruth was engaged to Breckenridge Sewall, have I secretly
nursed the hope that Robert Jennings and my sister might discover each
other some day--each so beautiful to look upon, each so distinguished in
poise and speech and manner; Ruth so clever; Bob such a scholar; both of
them clean, young New Englanders, born under not dissimilar
circumstances, and both much beloved by me. It _is_ my love affair, and
it simply mustn't have quarrels.
I didn't refer to the book the next day, nor did I let Ruth know by look
or word that I noticed her silence at table or her preoccupied manner. I
made no observation upon Robert's failure to make his daily call the
next afternoon. She may have written and told him to stay away. I did
not know. In mute suspense I awaited the announcement of her decision.
It was made at last, sweetly, exquisitely, I thought.
On the second afternoon Robert called as usual. I was in the living-room
when he came in. When Ruth appeared in the doorway, I got up to go.
"No, please," she said. "Stay, Lucy, you were here before. Hello, Bob,"
she smiled, then very quietly she added, "I've made my decision."
"Ruth!" Robert began.
"Wait a minute, please," she said.
She went over to the secretary, opened the door and took down the book.
Then she crossed to the table, got a match, approached the fireplace,
leaned down, and set fire to my cherished selected birch-logs. She held
up the book then and smiled radiantly at Robert. "This is my decision!"
she said, and laid the book in the flames.
"Good heavens," I wanted to exclaim, "that's worth a dollar
thirty-five!"
"I've thought it all over," Ruth said simply, beautiful in the dignity
of her new-born self-abnegation. "A book is only paper and print, after
all. I was making a mountain out of it. It's as you wish, Bob. I won't
finish reading it."
We were very happy that night. Robert stayed to dinner. Will chanced to
be absent and there were only the three of us at table. There was a
mellow sort of stillness. A softness of voice possessed us all, even
when we asked for bread or salt. Our conversation was trivial,
unimportant, but kind and gentle. Between Ruth and Robert there glowed
adoration for each other, which words and commonplaces could not
conceal.
Robert stayed late. Upstairs in Will's study the clock struck
eleven-thirty when I heard the front door close, and peeked out
and saw Robert walking down over our flag-stones.
A moment later Ruth came upstairs softly. She went straight to her own
room. She closed the door without a sound. My sister, I knew, was filled
with the kind of exaltation that made her gentle even to stairs and
door-knobs.
Next morning she was singing as usual over her initialing. We went into
town at eleven-thirty to look up table linen. Edith met us for lunch.
One of the summer colonists had told Edith about Robert's "connections"
(he has several in Boston in the Back Bay and he himself was born in a
house with violet-colored panes) and Edith had become remarkably
enthusiastic. She was going to present Ruth with all her lingerie.
"After all," she said one day in way of reassurance to Ruth, "you would
have been in a pretty mess if you'd married Breck Sewall. Some gay lady
in Breck's dark and shady past sprang up with a spicy little law suit
two weeks before he was to be married to that Oliphant girl. Perhaps you
saw it in the paper. Wedding all off, and Breck evading the law nobody
knows where. This Bob of yours is as poor as Job's turkey, I suppose,
but anyhow, he's _decent_. An uncle of his is president of a bank in
Boston and belongs to all sorts of exclusive clubs and things. I'm going
to give you your wedding, you know, Toots. I've always wanted a good
excuse for a hack at Boston."
CHAPTER XIV
BOB TURNS OUT A CONSERVATIVE
But Edith didn't give Ruth her wedding. There was no wedding. Ruth
didn't marry Robert Jennings!
I cannot feel the pain that is Ruth's, the daily loss of Bob's eyes that
worshiped, voice that caressed--no, not that hurt--but I do feel
bitterness and disappointment. They loved each other. I thought that
love always could rescue. I was mistaken. Love is not the most important
thing in marriage. No. They tell me ideals should be considered first.
And yet as I sit here in my room and listen to the emptiness of the
house--Ruth's song gone out of it, Ruth fled with her wound, I know not
where--and see Bob, a new, quiet, subdued Bob, walking along by the
house to the University, looking up to my window and smiling (a queer
smile that hurts every time), the sparkle and joy gone out like a flame,
I whisper to myself fiercely, "It's all wrong. Ideals to the winds. They
loved each other, and it is all wrong."
They were engaged about three months in all. They were so jubilant at
first that they wanted the engagement announced immediately. The college
paper triumphantly blazoned the news, and of course the daily papers
too. Everybody was interested. Everybody congratulated them. Ruth has
hosts of friends, Robert too. Ruth's mail for a month was enormous. The
house was sweet with flowers for days. Her presents rivaled a bride's.
And yet she gave it all up--even loving Bob. She chose to face
disapproval and distrust. Will called her heartless for it; Tom,
fickle; Edith, a fool; but I call her courageous.
There was no doubt of the sincerity of Ruth's love for Robert Jennings.
No other man before had got beneath the veneer of her worldliness.
Robert laid bare secret expanses of her nature, and then, like warm
sunlight on a hillside from which the snow has melted away, persuaded
the expanses into bloom and beauty. Timid generosities sprang forth in
Ruth. Tolerance, gratitude, appreciation blossomed frailly; and over all
there spread, like those hosts of four-petaled flowers we used to call
bluets, which grew in such abundance among rarer violets or wild
strawberry--there spread through Ruth's awakened nature a thousand and
one little kindly impulses that had to do with smiles for servants, kind
words for old people, and courtesy to clerks in shops. I don't believe
that anything but love could work such a miracle with Ruth. If only she
had waited, perhaps it would have performed more wonderful feats.
The book incident was the first indication of trouble. The second was
more trivial. It happened one Sunday noon. We had been to church that
morning together--Ruth, Will and I--and Robert Jennings was expected
for our mid-day dinner at one-thirty. He hadn't arrived when we returned
at one, and after Ruth had taken off her church clothes and changed to
something soft and filmy, she sat down at the piano and played a little
while--five minutes or so--then rose and strolled over toward the front
window. She seated herself, humming softly, by a table there. "Bob's
late," she remarked and lazily reached across the table, opened my
auction-bridge box, selected a pack of cards, and still humming began to
play solitaire.
The cards were all laid out before her when Robert finally did arrive.
Ruth gave him one of her long, sweet glances, then demurely began laying
out more cards. "Good morning, Bob," she said richly.
Bob said good morning, too, but I discerned something forced and
peremptory in his voice. I felt that that pack of playing cards laid out
before Ruth on the Sabbath-day affected him just as it had me when first
Ruth came to live with us. I had been brought up to look upon
card-playing on Sunday as forbidden. In Hilton I could remember when
policemen searched vacant lots and fields on Sunday for crowds of bad
boys engaged in the shocking pastime beneath secreted shade trees. Ruth
had traveled so widely and spent so many months visiting in various
communities where card-playing on Sunday was the custom that I knew it
didn't occur to her as anything out of the ordinary. I tried to listen
to what Will was reading out loud to me from the paper, but the
fascination of the argument going on behind my back by the window held
me.
"But, Bob dear," I heard Ruth's surprised voice expostulate pleasantly,
"you play golf occasionally on Sunday. What's the difference? Both a
game, one played with sticks and a ball, and the other with black and
red cards. I was allowed to play Bible authors when I was a child, and
it's terribly narrow, when you look at it squarely, to say that one pack
of cards is any more wicked than another."
"It's not a matter of wickedness," Bob replied in a low, disturbed
voice. "It's a matter of taste, and reverence for pervading custom."
"But----" put in Ruth.
"Irreverence for pervading custom," went on Bob, "is shown by certain
men when they smoke, with no word of apology, in a lady's
reception-room, or track mud in on their boots, as if it was a country
club. Some people enjoy having their Sundays observed as Sunday, just as
they do their reception-rooms as reception-rooms."
"But, Bob----"
"I think of you as such an exquisite person," he pursued, "so fine, so
sensitive, I cannot associate you with any form of offense or vulgarity,
like this," he must have pointed to the cards, "or extreme fashions, or
cigarette smoking. Do you see what I mean?"
"Vulgarity! Cigarette smoking! Why, Bob, some of the most refined women
in the world smoke cigarettes--clever, intelligent women, too. And I
never could see any justice at all in the idea some people have that
it's any worse, or more vulgar, as you say, for women to smoke
cigarettes than for men."
"Irreverence for custom again, I suppose," sighed Bob.
"Well, then, if it's a custom that's unjust and based on prejudice, why
keep on observing it? It used to be the custom for men to wear satin
knickerbockers and lace ruffles over their wrists, but some one was
sensible enough--or irreverent enough--" she tucked in good-naturedly,
"to object--and you're the gainer. There! How's that for an answer?
Doesn't solitaire win?"
"Custom and tradition," replied Bob earnestly, anxiously, "is the work
of the conservative and thoughtful majority, and to custom and tradition
every civilization must look for a solid foundation. Ignore them and we
wouldn't be much of a people."
"Then how shall we ever progress?" eagerly took up Ruth, "if we just
keep blindly following old-fogey laws and fashions? It seems to me that
the only way people ever get ahead is by breaking traditions. Father
broke a few in his generation--he had to to keep up with the game--and
so must I."
"Oh, well," said Bob, almost wearily, "let's not argue, you and I."
"Why not?" inquired Ruth, and I heard her dealing out more cards as she
went on talking gaily. "I love a good argument. It wakes me up
intellectually. My mind's been so lazy. It _needs_ to be waked up. It
feels good, like the first spring plunge in a pond of cold water to a
sleepy old bear who's been rolled up in a ball in some dark hole all
winter. That's what it feels like. I never knew what fun it was to think
and argue till I began taking the English course at Shirley. We argue by
the hour there. It's great fun. But I suppose I'm terribly illogical and
no fun to argue with. That's the way with most women. It isn't our
fault. Men seem to want to make just nice soft pussy-cats out of us,
with ribbons round our necks," she laughed, "and hear us purr. There!
wait a minute. I'm going to get this. Come and see." Then abruptly,
"Why, Bob, do the cards shock _you_?"
[Illustration: "'Men seem to want to make just nice soft pussy-cats out
of us, with ribbons round our necks, and hear us purr'"--_Page 129_]
"No, no--not a bit," he assured her.
"They do," she affirmed. "How funny. They do." There was a pause.
"Well," she said at last (Will was still reading out loud and I could
barely catch her answer). "Well, I suppose they're only pasteboard, just
as the book was only paper and print. I can give them up."
"I don't want you to--not for me. No, don't. Go right ahead. Please,"
urged Bob. But it was too late.
"Of course not," replied Ruth, and I heard the cards going back into the
box. "If I offend--and I see I do--of course not." And she rose and came
over and sat on the sofa beside me.
From that time on I noticed a change in Robert and Ruth--nothing very
perceptible. Robert came as often, stayed as late--later. That was what
disturbed me. Ruth rose in the morning, after some of those protracted
sessions, suspiciously quiet and subdued. In place of the radiance that
so lately had shone upon her face, often I perceived a puzzled and
troubled expression. In place of her almost hilarious joy, a wistfulness
stole into her bearing toward Bob.
"Of course," she said to me one day, "I have been living a sort
of--well, broad life you might call it for a daughter of father's, I
suppose. He was so straightlaced. But all the modes and codes I've been
adopting for the last several years I adopted only to be polite, to do
as other people did, simply not to offend--as Bob said the other day. I
thought if I ever wanted to go back to the strict laws of my childhood
again, I could easily enough. In fact I intended to, after I had had my
little fling. But I've outgrown them. They don't seem reasonable to me
now. I can't go back to them. Convictions stand in my way."
"Women ought not to have convictions," I said shortly.
"Don't you think so?" queried Ruth.
"Men," I replied, "have so much more knowledge and experience of the
world. Convictions have foundations with men."
"How unfair somehow," said Ruth, looking away into space.
"Just you take my advice, Ruth," I went on, "and don't you let any
convictions you may think you have get in the way of your happiness.
Just you let them lie for a while. When you and Bob are hanging up
curtains in your new apartment, and pictures and things, you won't care
a straw about your convictions, then."
"I don't suppose so," replied Ruth, still meditative. "No, I suppose
you're right. I'll let Bob have the convictions for both of us. I'm
younger. I can re-adjust easier than he, I guess."
A few days later Ruth went to a suffrage meeting in town; not because
she was especially interested, but because a friend she had made in a
course she was taking at Shirley College invited her to go.
It was the winter that everybody was discussing suffrage at teas and
dinner parties; fairs and balls and parades were being given in various
cities in its interest; and anti-organizations being formed to fight it
and lend it zest. It was the winter that the term Feminism first reached
the United States, and books on the greater freedom of women and their
liberalization burst into print and popularity.
On the suffrage question Ruth had always been prettily "on the fence,"
and "Oh, dear, do let's talk of something else," she would laugh, while
her eyes invited. Her dinner partners were always willing.
"On the fence, Kidlet," Edith had once remonstrated to Ruth, "that's
stupid!" Edith herself was strongly anti. "Of course I'm anti," she
maintained proudly. "Anybody who _is_ anybody in Hilton is anti. The
suffragists--dear me! Perfect freaks--most of them. People you never
heard of! I peeked in at a suffrage tea the other day and mercy, such
sights! I wouldn't be one of them for money. We're to give an anti-ball
here in Hilton. I'm a patroness. Name to be printed alongside Mrs.
ex-Governor Vaile's. How's that? 'On the fence,' Ruth! Why, good
heavens, there's simply no two sides to the question. You come along to
this anti-ball and you'll see, Kiddie!"
Well, as I said, Ruth went one day to a suffrage meeting in town. She
had never heard the question discussed from a platform. When she came
into the house about six o'clock, she was so full of enthusiasm that she
didn't stop to go upstairs. She came right into the room where Will and
I were reading by the cretonne-shaded lamp.
"I've just been to the most wonderful lecture!" she burst out, "on
suffrage! I never cared a thing about the vote one way or the other, but
I do now. I'm _for_ it. Heart and soul, I'm for it! Oh, the most
wonderful woman spoke. Every word she said applied straight to me. I
didn't know I had such ideas until that woman got up and put them into
words for me. They've been growing and ripening in me all these years,
and I didn't know it--not until today. That woman said that sacrifices
are made again and again to send boys to college and prepare them to
earn a living, but that girls are brought up simply to be pretty and
attractive, so as to capture a man who will provide them with food and
clothes. Why, Lucy, don't you see that that's just what happened in
_our_ family? We slaved to send Oliver and Malcolm through college--but
for _you_ and for _me_--what slaving was there done to prepare us to
earn a living? Just think what I might be had _I_ been prepared for life
like Malcolm or Oliver, instead of wasting all my years frivoling. Why,
don't you see I could have convictions with a foundation then? I feel so
helpless and ignorant with a really educated person now. Oh, dear, I
wish this movement had been begun when I was a baby, so I could have
profited by it! That woman said that when laws are equal for men and
women, _then_ advantages will be, and that every step we can make toward
equalization is a step in the direction toward a fairer deal for women.
Suffrage? Well, I should say I was for it! I think it's wonderful. I
went straight up to that woman and said I wanted to join the League; and
I did. It cost me a dollar."
"Good heavens, Ruth," exclaimed Will sleepily, from behind his paper.
"Don't you go and get rabid on suffrage----Ease up, old girl. Steady."
"I don't see how any one can help but get rabid, Will, as you say, any
more than a person could keep calm if he was a slave, when he first
heard what Abraham Lincoln was trying to do."
"Steady there, old girl," jibed Will. "Is Bob such a terrific master as
all that?"
"That's not the point, Will. Convention is the master--that's what the
woman said. It isn't free of men we're trying to be."
"We! we! Come, Ruth. You aren't one of them in an hour, are you? Better
wait and consult Bob first."
"Oh, Bob will agree with me. I know he will. It's such a progressive
idea. And I _am_ one of them. I'm proud to be. I'm going to march in the
parade next week."
I came to life at that. "Oh, Ruth, not really--not in Boston!"
"What? Up the center of Washington Street in French heels and a shadow
veil?" scoffed Will.
"Up the center of Washington Street in something," announced Ruth, "if
that's the line of march. Remember, Will, French heels and shadow veils
have been my stock in trade, and not through any choice of mine, either.
So don't throw them at me, please."
Will subsided. "Well, well, what next? A raring, tearing little
suffragette, in one afternoon, too!"
Ruth went upstairs.
"Poor old Bob," remarked Will to me when we were alone.
CHAPTER XV
ANOTHER CATASTROPHE
I didn't know whether it was more "poor old Bob" or "poor old Ruth."
Ruth was so arduous at first, so in earnest--like a child with a new and
engrossing plaything for a day or two, and then, I suppose, she showed
her new toy to Bob, and he took it away from her. Anyway, she put it by.
It seemed rather a shame to me. The new would have worn off after a
while.
"And after all, Will," I maintained to my husband, "Robert Jennings is
terribly old-school, sweet and chivalrous as can be toward women, but he
can't treat Ruth in the way he does that helpless little miniature of a
mother of his. He simply lives to protect her from anything practical or
disagreeable. She adores it, but Ruth's a different proposition. The
trouble with Robert is, he's about ten years behind the times."
"And Ruth," commented Will, "is about ten years ahead of the times."
"That is true of the different members of lots of households, in these
times, but they don't need to come to blows because of it. Everybody
ought to be patient and wait. Ruth has a pronounced individuality, for
all you think she is nothing but a society butterfly. I can see it hurts
to cram it into Robert Jennings' ideal of what a woman should be. It
makes me feel badly to see Ruth so quiet and resigned, like a little
beaten thing, so pitiably anxious to please. Self-confidence became her
more. She hasn't mentioned suffrage since Robert called and stayed so
late Wednesday, except to say briefly, 'I'm not going to march in the
parade.' 'Why not?' I asked. 'Doesn't Bob want you to?' 'Oh, certainly.
He leaves it to me,' she pretended proudly. 'But, you see, women in
parades do offend some people. It isn't according to tradition, and I
think it's only courteous to Bob, just before we are to be married, not
to do anything offensive. After all, I must bear in mind,' she said,
'that this parade is only a matter of walking--putting one foot in front
of the other. I'm bound to be happy, and I don't intend to allow
suffrage to stand in my way either. Even convictions are only a certain
condition of gray matter.' Oh, it was just pitiful to hear her trying to
convince herself. I'm just afraid, Will, afraid for the future."
Not long after that outburst of mine to Will, my fears came true. One
late afternoon, white-faced, wide-eyed, Ruth came in to me. She closed
the door behind her. Her outside things were still on. I saw Robert
Jennings out the window going slowly down the walk. Before Ruth spoke I
knew exactly what she had to say.
"We aren't going to be married," she half whispered to me.
"Oh, Ruth----"
"No. Please. Don't, don't talk about it," she said. "And don't tell
Will. Don't tell any one. Promise me. I've tried so hard--so hard. But
my life has spoiled me for a man like Bob. Don't talk of it, please."
"I won't, Ruth," I assured her.
"I can do it. I thought I couldn't at first. But I _can_!" she said
fiercely, "I _can_! I'll be misunderstood, I know. But I can't help
that. We've decided it together. It isn't I alone. Bob has decided it,
too. We both prefer to be unhappy alone, rather than unhappy together."
"In every marriage, readjustments are necessary," I commented.
"Don't argue," she burst out at me. "Don't! Don't you suppose Bob and I
have thought of every argument that exists to save our happiness? For
heaven's sake, Lucy, don't argue. I can't quite bear it." She turned
away and went upstairs.
She didn't want any dinner. "I'm going to bed early," she told me an
hour later when I knocked at her door. "No, not even toast and tea.
Please don't urge me," she begged, and I left her. At ten when I went to
bed her room was dark.
At half-past eleven I got up, stole across the hall, and stood listening
outside her closed door. At long intervals I could hear her move. She
was not sleeping. I waited an hour and stole across the hall again. She
was still awake. Poor Ruth--sleepless, tearless (there was no sound of
sobbing) hour after hour, there she was lying all night long, staring
into the darkness, waiting for the dawn. At three I opened the door
gently and went in, carrying something hot to drink on a tray.
"What is the matter?" she asked calmly.
"Nothing, Ruth. Only you must sleep, and here is some hot milk with just
a little pinch of salt. It's so flat without. Nobody can sleep on an
empty stomach."
"I guess that's the trouble," she said, and sat up and took the milk
humbly, like a child. Her fingertips were like ice. I went into the
bath-room, filled a hot-water bag, and got out an extra down-comforter. I
was tucking it in when she asked, "What time is it?" And I told her.
"Only three? Oh, dear--don't go--just yet." So I wrapped myself up in a
warm flannel wrapper and sat down on the foot of her bed with my feet
drawn up under me.
"I won't," I said, "I'll sit here."
"You're awfully good to me," Ruth remarked. "I _was_ cold and hungry, I
guess. Oh, Lucy," she exclaimed, "I wish one person could understand,
just _one_."
"I do, Ruth. I do understand," I said eagerly.
"It isn't suffrage. It isn't the parade. It isn't any _one_ thing. It's
just _everything_, Lucy. I'm made up on a wrong pattern for Bob. I hurt
him all the time. Isn't it awful--even though he cares for me, and I
for him, we hurt each other?"
I kept quite still. I knew that Ruth wanted to talk to some one, and I
sat there hugging my knees, thankful that I happened to be the one.
Always I had longed for this mysterious sister's confidence, and always
I had seemed to her too simple, too obvious, to share and understand.
"You know, Lucy," she went on wistfully, "I was awfully happy at
first--so happy--you don't know. Why, I would do anything for Bob. I was
glad to give up riches for him. My worldly ambitions shriveled into
nothing. Comforts, luxuries--what were they as compared to Bob's love?
But, oh, Lucy, it is giving up little things, little independencies of
thought, little daily habits, which I can't do. I tried to give up
these, too. You know I did. I said that the book was just paper and
print and the cards just pasteboard. But all the time they were symbols.
I could destroy the symbols easily enough, but I couldn't destroy what
they stood for. You see, Bob and I have different ideals. That's at the
bottom of all the trouble. We tried for weeks not to admit it, but it
had to be faced finally."
"Your ideals aren't very different way down at their roots--both clean,
true, sincere, and all that," I said, with a little yawn, so she might
not guess how tremblingly concerned I really was.
"You don't know all the differences, Lucy," she said sadly. "There's
something the trouble with me--something left out--something that I
cannot blame Bob for feeling sorry about. I believe I'll tell you. You
see, Bob met me under a misapprehension, and I've been trying to live up
to his misapprehension ever since. The first time he ever saw me I was
tucked away in a little room by myself looking at the picture of a sick
child. I was crying a little. He thought that I was feeling badly out of
sympathy for the mother of the child--the mother in me, you see,
speaking to the mother in her. I wasn't really. I was crying because the
house that the picture happened to hang in was so dull and grimy beside
Grassmere. I was crying for the luxuries I had lost. I never told Bob
the truth about that picture until last week, and all this time he's
been looking upon me as an ideal woman--a kind of madonna, mother of
little children, you understand, and all that--and I'm not. Something
must be wrong with me. I don't even long to be--yet. Oh, you see how
unfitted I am for a man to weave idealistic pictures about--like that.
It seemed to hurt Bob when I told him the truth about myself, hurt him
terribly, as if I'd tumbled over and broken his image of me--at the
cradle, you know. Oh, Lucy, what an unnatural girl I am! I don't admire
myself for it. I wish I could be what Bob thinks, but I can't. I can't."
"You aren't unnatural. You're just as human as you can be, Ruth. I felt
just the way you do before I was married, and most every girl does as
young as you, too. Bob ought to give you chance to grow up."
"Grow up! Oh, Lucy, I feel so old! I feel used up and put by already.
I've lived my life and haven't I made a botch of it?" She laughed
shortly. "And what shall I do with the botch now? I can't stay here. It
would break my heart to stay here where I had hoped to be so
happy--everything reminding me, you know. No, I can't stay here."
"Of course you can't, Ruth. We'll think of a way."
"And I simply can't go back to Edith," she went on, "after knowing Bob.
I don't want to go out to Michigan with Tom and Elise. I hate Michigan.
Dear me! I don't know what I shall do. I'm discouraged. Once I was eager
and confident, filled with enthusiasm and self-pride. Like that old
hymn, you know. How does it go? 'I loved to choose my path and see, but
now lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day, and spite of fears, Pride
ruled my will. Remember not past years.' That is what I repeat over and
over to myself. 'Lead, kindly light, amidst th' encircling gloom.' The
encircling gloom! Oh, dear!" She suddenly broke off, "I wish morning
would come." It did finally, and with it, when the approaching sun began
to pinken the eastern sky, sleep for my tormented sister.
CHAPTER XVI
A FAMILY CONFERENCE
We all were seated about the table at one of Edith's sumptuous Sunday
dinners at the Homestead when Ruth broke her news to the family. Tom had
come East on a business trip, and was spending Sunday with Alec in
Hilton; so Edith telephoned to all of us within motoring distance and
invited us up for "Sunday dinner." This was two or three days after Ruth
had told me that she and Bob were not to be married.
"Oh, yes, I'll go," she nodded, when I had clapped my hand over the
receiver and turned to her questioningly, and afterward she said to me,
"Concealing my feelings is one of the accomplishments my education _has_
included. I'll go. I shan't tell them about Bob yet. I can't seem to
just now."
I was therefore rather surprised when she suddenly abandoned her
play-acting. She hadn't figured on the difficult requirements, I
suppose, poor child. Bluff and genial Tom, grown rather gray and stout
and bald now, had met her with a hearty, "Hello, bride-elect!" Oliver
had shouted, "Greetings, Mrs. Prof!" And Madge, his wife, had tucked a
tissue-paper-wrapped package under Ruth's arm: "My engagement present,"
she explained. "Just a half-a-dozen little guest-towels with your
initials."
Later at the table Tom had cleared his throat and then remarked, "I like
all I hear of this Robert Jennings. He's good stuff, Ruth. You've
worried us a good deal, but you've landed on your feet squarely at last.
He's a bully chap."
"And he's got a bully girl, too, now that she's got down to brass
tacks," said Alec in big-brother style.
"Decided on the date?" cheerfully inquired Tom. "Elise said to be sure
and find out. We're coming on in full force, you know."
"Yes, the date's decided," flashed Edith from the head of the table.
"June 28th. It'll be hot as mustard, but Hilton will be lovely then, and
all the summerites here. You must give me an hour on the lists after
dinner, Kidlet. Bob's list, people, is three hundred, and Ruth's four,
so I guess there'll be a few little remembrances. The envelopes are half
directed already. I want you people to know this wedding is only seven
weeks off, so hurry up and order your new gowns and morning coats.
Simplicity isn't going to be the keynote of this affair."
"Hello!" exclaimed Tom abruptly, "I haven't inspected the ring yet.
Let's see it. Pass it over, Toots."
Ruth glanced down at her hand. It was still there--Bob's unpretentious
diamond set in platinum--shining wistfully on Ruth's third finger.
She started to take it off, then stopped and glanced over at me. "I
think I'll tell them, Lucy," she said. "I've got something to tell you
all," she announced. "I'm wearing the ring still, but--we've broken our
engagement. I'm not going to marry Robert Jennings after all."
It sounded harsh, crude. Everybody stared; everybody stopped eating; I
saw Tom lay down his fork with a juicy piece of duck on it. It had been
within two inches of his mouth.
"Will you repeat that?" he said emphatically.
"Yes," complied Ruth, "I will. I know it seems sudden to you. I meant to
write it, but after all I might as well tell you. My engagement to
Robert Jennings is broken."
"Is this a joke?" ejaculated Edith.
"No," replied Ruth, still in that calm, composed way of hers. "No,
Edith, it isn't a joke."
"Will you explain?" demanded Tom, shoving the piece of duck off his fork
and abandoning it for good and all.
Ruth had become pale. "Why, there isn't much to explain, except I found
out I wouldn't be happy with Bob. That's all."
"Oh," said Tom, "you found out you wouldn't be happy with Bob! Will you
kindly tell us whom you mean to try your happiness on next?"
Ruth's gray eyes darkened. A little pink stole into her cheeks. "There's
no good of your using that tone with me, Tom," she said.
"Did you know this?" asked Will of me from across the table.
I nodded.
"Do you mean to say it's _true_?" demanded Edith.
I nodded again.
"You're crazy, Ruth," she burst out, "you're simply stark mad. It would
be a public disgrace. You've got to marry him now. You've simply got to.
It's worse than a divorce. Why--the invitations are all ordered, even
the refreshments. The whole world knows about it. You've _got_ to marry
him."
"My own disgrace is my own affair, I guess," said Ruth, dangerously low.
"It's _not_ your own affair. It's ours; it's the whole family's; it's
mine. And I won't stand it--not a second time. Here I have told
_everybody_, got my Boston list all made up, too, and all my plans made.
Didn't I have new lights put into the ball-room especially, and a lot of
repairs made on the house--a new bath-room, and everything? And all my
house-party guests invited? Why--we'll be the laughing-stock of this
entire town, if you play this game a second time. Good heavens, you'll
be getting the habit. No, sir! You _can't_ go back on your word in this
fashion. You've _got_ to marry Robert Jennings _now_."
"I wouldn't marry Breck Sewall to please you, Edith, and I won't marry
Robert Jennings to please you either," said Ruth. "She wanted me to
elope with Breck!" she announced calmly.
"That isn't true," replied Edith sharply.
"Why don't you call me a liar and have done with it?" demanded Ruth.
"I wanted to save you from disgrace, and you know it. I wanted----" A
maid came in.
"Let us wait and continue this conversation later," remarked Tom.
"We don't want _you_," flared Edith at the maid. "I didn't ring. Go out
till you're summoned. You're the most ungrateful girl I ever knew, Ruth.
You're----"
"Come," interrupted Alec. "This isn't getting anywhere. Let us finish
dinner first."
"I'm sure I don't want any more dinner," said Edith.
"Nor I," commented Ruth, with a shrug.
There were a salad fork and a dessert spoon still untouched beside our
plates. It would have been thoughtful if Ruth had waited and lit her
fuse when the finger-bowls came on. It seemed a shame to me to waste two
perfectly good courses, and unnecessarily sensational to interrupt the
ceremony of a Sunday dinner. But it was impossible to sit there through
two protracted changes of plates.
"I guess we've all had enough," remarked Tom, disgustedly shoving away
that innocent piece of duck. We rose stragglingly.
"I don't care to talk about this thing any more," said Ruth, as we
passed through the hall. "You can thrash it out by yourselves. Lucy, you
can represent me!" And she turned away to go upstairs.
Tom called back, "No, Ruth. This is an occasion that requires your
presence, whether you like it or not," he said. "Come back, please.
There are a few questions that need to be settled."
Ruth acquiesced condescendingly. "Oh, very well," she replied, and
strolled down the stairs and into the library. She walked over to the
table and leaned, half sitting, against it, while the rest of us came in
and sat down, and some one closed the doors.
"Fire away!" she said flippantly, turning to Tom. She picked up an ivory
paper-cutter with a tassel on one end, twisted the cord tight, and then
holding the cutter up by the tassel watched it whirl and untwist.
Pretty, graceful, nonchalant, armored in a half smile, Ruth stood before
her inquisitors. Bob never would have recognized this composed and
unmoved girl as the anxious Ruth who had tried so hard to please and
satisfy.
"First," began Tom (he has always held the position of high judge in our
family), "first, I should be interested to know if you have any plans
for the future, and, if so, will you be kind enough to tell us what they
may be."
"I have plans," said Ruth, and began twisting the cord of the
paper-cutter again.
"Will you put that down, please," requested Tom.
"Certainly," Ruth smiled over-obligingly and laid the paper-cutter on
the table. She folded her arms and began tapping the rug with her toe.
She was almost insolent.
"Well, then--what are your plans?" fired Tom at her with an obvious
effort to control himself.
"New York," she announced mysteriously.
"Oh, New York!" repeated Tom. It was a scornful voice. "New York! And
what do you intend to do in New York?"
"Oh, I don't know. I haven't decided. Something," she said airily.
"Ruth," said Tom, "please listen to me carefully if you can for a
minute. We've always given you a pretty loose rein. Haven't we?"
Ruth shrugged her shoulders.
"You've had every advantage; attended one of the most expensive schools
in this country; had all the money you required, coming-out party and
all that; pleasures, flattery, attention--everything to make a girl
contented. You've visited any one you pleased from one end of the United
States to the other; traveled in Europe, Florida--anywhere you wanted;
come and gone at will. Nothing to handicap you. Nothing hard. Nothing
difficult. You'll agree. And what have you done with your advantages?
_What_--I want to know?"
Ruth shrugged her shoulders again.
"You can't blame any one but yourself. You haven't been interfered with.
I believed in letting you run your own affairs. Thought you were made of
the right stuff to do it creditably. I was mistaken. You've had a fair
trial at your own management and you've failed to show satisfactory
results. Now _I'm_ going to step in. _I'm_ going to see if _I_ can save
you from this drifting about and getting nowhere. I don't ask you to go
back and anchor with Robert Jennings again. I'm shocked to confess that
I don't believe you're worthy of a man like Jennings. It is no small
thing to be decided carelessly or frivolously--this matter of marriage.
Engaged to two men inside of one year, and now both affairs broken off.
It's disgraceful! You've got to learn somehow or other that although you
are a woman, you're not especially privileged to go back on decisions."
"I don't want to be especially privileged," said Ruth, and then she
added, "special privileges would not be expected by women, if they were
given equal rights."
"Oh, Suffrage!!!" exclaimed Tom with three exclamation points. "So
that's it! That's at the bottom of all this trouble."
"That's at the bottom of it," suddenly put in my husband, emphatically.
"Oh, I see. Well, first, Ruth, you're to drop all that nonsense.
Suffrage indeed! What do _you_ know about it? You ought to be married
and taking care of your own babies, and you wouldn't be disturbed by all
these crazy-headed fads, invented by dissatisfied and unoccupied
females. Suffrage! And perhaps you think that this latest exhibition of
your changeableness and vacillation is an argument in favor of it."
"You needn't throw women's vacillation in their faces, Tom," replied
Ruth calmly. "Stable decisions are matters of training and education.
Girls of my acquaintance lack the experience with the business world.
They don't come in contact with big transactions. They're guarded from
them. A lawyer does the thinking for a woman of property oftentimes, and
so, of course, women do not learn the necessity of precise statements,
accurate thought, and all that. From the time a girl is old enough to
think she knows she is just a girl, who her family hope will grow up to
be pretty and attractive and marry well. If her family believed she was
to grow up into a responsible citizen who would later control by her
vote all sorts of weighty questions that affect taxes and tariffs and
things, they would have to devote more thought to making her
intelligent, because it would have an effect upon their individual
interests. I'm interested in suffrage, Tom, not for the good it is going
to do politics, but for the good it's going to do women."
Tom made an exclamation of disgust. He was beside himself with scorn and
disapproval.
"Nonsense! Utter rot! Women were made to marry and be mothers. Women
were----"
"But we'd be better mothers," Ruth cut in. "Don't you see, if----"
"Oh, I don't want to discuss suffrage," interrupted Tom; "I want to
discuss your life. Let's keep to the subject. I want to see you settled
and happy some day, and as I'm so much older than you, you must put
yourself into my hands, and cheerfully. First, drop suffrage. Drop it.
Good Lord, Ruth, don't be a faddist. Then I want you to lay your
decision about Jennings on the shelf. Let it rest for a while. Postpone
the wedding if you wish----"
"But, Tom," tucked in Edith, "that's impossible. The invitations----"
"Never mind, never mind, Edith," interrupted Tom. Then to Ruth he went
on. "Postpone the wedding--oh, say a month or two, and then see how you
feel. That's all I ask. Reasonable, isn't it?" he appealed to us all.
"I'll have a talk with Jennings in the meanwhile," he went on. "This
suffrage tommy-rot is working all sorts of unnecessary havoc. I'm sick
of it. I didn't suppose it had caught any one in our family though. You
drop it, Ruth, for a while. You wait. I'm going back home next
Wednesday. Now I want you to pack up your things and be ready to start
with me Wednesday night from New York. We'll see what Elise and the
youngsters will do for you."
"I'm sorry, Tom," replied Ruth pleasantly, "but my decision about Bob is
final; and as for going out West with you and becoming a fifth wheel in
your household--no, I've had enough of that. My mind is made up. I'm
going to New York."
"But I shan't allow it," announced Tom.
"Then," replied Ruth, "I shall have to go without your allowing it."
"What do you mean?" demanded Tom.
"Why--just what I say. I'm of age. If I were a man, I wouldn't have to
ask my older brother's permission."
"And how do you intend to live?"
"On my income," said Ruth. "I bless father now for that stock he left
me. Eight hundred dollars a year has been small for me so far. I have
had to have help, I know, but it will support my new life. I never was
really grateful to father for that money till now. It makes me
independent of you, Tom."
Edith, glaring inimically from her corner, exclaimed, "Grateful to her
father! That's good!"
"My dear girl," said Tom, "we've never told you before, because we hoped
to spare your feelings, but the time has come now. That stock father
left you hasn't paid a dividend for a dozen years. It isn't worth its
weight in paper. I have paid four hundred dollars, and Edith has been
kind and generous enough to contribute four hundred dollars more, to
keep you in carfares, young lady. It isn't much in order to talk of your
independence around here."
The color mounted to Ruth's cheeks. She straightened. "What do you
mean?" she asked.
"Exactly what I say. You haven't a penny of income. Edith and I are
responsible for your living, and I want you to understand clearly that I
shall not support a line of conduct which does not meet with my
approval. Nor Edith either, I rather imagine."
"No, indeed, I won't," snapped out Edith. "I shan't pay a cent more.
It's only rank ingratitude I get for it anyhow."
"Do you mean to say," said Ruth in a low voice--there was no flippancy
to her now--"I've been living on Edith's charity, and yours, all these
years? That I haven't anything of my own--not even my clothes--not even
_this_," she touched a blue enameled watch and chain about her neck,
"which I saved and saved so for? Haven't I any income? Haven't I a cent
that's mine, Tom?"
"Not a red cent, Ruth--just some papers that we might as well put into
the fireplace and burn up."
"Oh," she burst forth, "how unfair--how cruel and unfair!"
"There's gratitude for you," threw in Edith.
"To bring me up," went on Ruth, "under a delusion. To let me go on, year
after year, thinking I was provided for, and then suddenly, when it
pleases you, to tell me that I'm an absolute dependent, a creature of
charity. Oh, how cruel that is! You tell me I ought to be grateful.
Well, I'm not--I'm not grateful. You've been false with me. You've
brought me up useless and helpless. I'm too old now to develop whatever
talent I may have had. I can only drudge now. What is there I can do
_now_? Nothing--nothing--except scrub floors or something like that."
"Oh, yes, there is, too," said Edith. "You can marry Robert Jennings and
be sensible."
"Marry a man for support, whether I want to or not? I'll die first. You
_all_ want me to marry him," she burst out at us fiercely, "but I
shan't--I shan't. I'm strong and healthy, and I'm just beginning to
discover that I've got some brains, too. There's something I can do,
surely, some way I can earn money. I shan't go West with you, Tom.
Understand that. I can't quite see myself growing old in all your
various households--old and useless and dependent like lots of
unmarried women in large families. I can't see it without a fight
anyhow. I don't care if I haven't any income. I can be a clerk in a
store, I guess. Anyhow I shan't go West with you, Tom. I am of age. You
can't make me. I know I'm just a woman, but I intend to live my own life
just the same, and there's no one in this world who can bind and enslave
me either!"
"You go upstairs, Ruth," ordered Tom. "I won't stand for such talk as
that. You go upstairs and quiet down, and when you're reasonable, we'll
talk again. We're not children."
"No, we're not," replied Ruth, "neither of us, and I shan't be sent
upstairs as if I was a child either! You can pauperize me, and you can
take away every rag I have on my back, too, if you want to, but I'll
tell you one thing, you can't take away my independence. You think, Tom,
you can frighten me, and conquer me, perhaps, by bullying. But you
can't. Conditions are better for women than they used to be, anyhow,
thank heaven, and for the courageous woman there's a chance to escape
from just such masters of their fates as _you_--Tom Vars, even though
you are my brother. And I shall escape somehow, _sometime_. See if I
don't. Oh, I know what you all think of me," she broke off. "You all
think I'm hard and heartless. Well--perhaps you're right. I guess I am.
Such an experience as this would just about kill any softhearted person,
I should think. But _I'm_ not killed. Remember that, Tom. You've got
money, support, sentiment on your side. I've got nothing but my own
determination. But I'm not afraid to fight. And I will, if you force me.
You'd better be pretty careful how you handle such an utterly depraved
person as you seem to think I am. Why, I didn't know you had such a poor
opinion of me."
She gave a short little laugh which ended in a sort of sob. I was afraid
she was going to cry before us. But the armor was at hand. She put it on
quickly, the cynical smile, the nonchalant air.
"There is no good talking any more, as I see," she was able to go on,
thus protected. "This is bordering on a scene, and scenes are such bad
taste! I'm going into the living-room."
She crossed the room to the door. "You all can go on maligning me to
your hearts' content. I've had about enough, thank you. Only remember
supper is at seven, and Edith's maids want to get out early Sundays.
Consider the maids at least," she finished, and left us, colors flying.
CHAPTER XVII
RUTH GOES TO NEW YORK
The next morning when Will and I motored home we were alone. We
approached the steeples of our town about noontime. I remember whistles
were blowing and bells ringing as we passed through the Square. We saw
Robert Jennings coming out of one of the University buildings on his way
home from a late morning recitation. We slowed down beside him, and Will
sang out to him to pile in behind; which he did, leaning forward and
chatting volubly with Will and me for the next ten minutes about a new
starter device for an automobile. When Will stopped in front of our
walk, Robert hopped out of his back seat and opened the door for me.
It was when Will had motored out of hearing that Robert turned sharply
to me and asked, "Did you leave her in Hilton?"
"No, Bob, Ruth isn't in Hilton. She's gone to New York," I told him
gently.
"Whom is she staying with in New York? Your brother?" he asked.
"No, not Malcolm. No. But she's all right."
"What do you mean--'she's all right'?"
"Oh, I mean she has money enough--and all that."
"She isn't _alone_ in New York!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to
say----"
"Now, Bob, don't _you_ go and get excited about it. Ruth's all right.
I'm just about worn out persuading my brother Tom that it is perfectly
all right for Ruth to go to New York for a little while if she wants to.
I can't begin arguing with you, the minute I get home. I'm all worn out
on the subject."
"But what is she doing down there? Whom is she visiting? Who is looking
out for her? Who went with her? Who met her?"
"Nobody, nobody. Nobody met her; nobody went with her; she isn't
visiting anybody. Good heavens, Bob, you'd make a helpless, simpering
little idiot out of Ruth if you had your way. She isn't a child. She
isn't an inexperienced young girl. She's capable of keeping out of silly
difficulties. She can be trusted. Let her use her judgment and good
sense a little. It won't hurt her a bit. It will do her good. Don't you
worry about Ruth. She's all right."
"But a girl--a pretty young girl like Ruth--you don't mean to say that
Ruth--Ruth----"
"Yes, I do, too, Bob! And there are lots of girls just as pretty as Ruth
in New York, and just as young, tapping away at typewriters, and
balancing accounts in offices, and running shops of their own, too, in
perfect safety. You're behind the times, Bob. I don't want to be horrid,
but really I'm tired, and if you stay here and talk to me, I warn you
I'm going to be cross."
We were in the house now. Bob had followed me in. I was taking off my
things. He stared at me as I proceeded.
"I didn't see any sense at all in your breaking off your engagement," I
went on. "You both cared for each other. I should have thought----"
"It was inevitable," cut in Bob gravely. "It was inevitable, Lucy."
"Well, then, if it was, Bob, all right. I won't say another word about
it. But now that Ruth is nothing to you----"
"Nothing to me!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, that is what I said--nothing to you," I repeated mercilessly, "I
beg of you don't come here and show approval or disapproval about what
she's up to. Leave her to me now. I'm backing her. I tell you, just as I
told Tom and the others, she's all right. Ruth's _all right_."
But later in my room I wondered--I wondered if Ruth really was all
right. Sitting in my little rocking-chair by the window, sheltered and
protected by kind, familiar walls, I asked myself what Ruth was doing
now. It was nearing the dinner hour. Where would Ruth be eating dinner?
It was growing dark slowly. It would be growing dark in New York. Stars
would be coming out up above the towering skyscrapers, as they were now
above the apple trees in the garden. I thought of Ruth's empty bed
across the hall. Where would she sleep tonight? Oh, Ruth--Ruth--poor,
little sister Ruth!
I remember when you were a little baby wrapped up in soft, pink, knitted
things. The nurse put you in my arms, and I walked very carefully into
my mother's room with you and stood staring down at you asleep. I was
only a little girl, I was afraid I would drop you, and I didn't realize
as I stood there by our mother's bed that she was bidding her two little
daughters good-by. She couldn't take one of my hands because they were
both busy holding you; but she reached out and touched my shoulder; and
she told me always to love you and take care of you and be generous and
kind, because you were little and younger. And I said I would, and
carried you out very proud and happy.
That was a long while ago. I have never told you about it--we haven't
found it easy to talk seriously together--but I have always remembered.
I used to love to dress you when you were a baby, and feed you, and take
you out in the brown willow baby carriage like the real mothers. But, of
course, you had to outgrow the carriage; you had to outgrow the ugly
little dresses father and I used to select for you at the department
stores in Hilton; you had to outgrow the two little braids I used to
plait for you each morning when you were big enough to go to school; you
had to outgrow me, too. I am so plain and commonplace.
Yesterday when you put your arms about me there in the smoky train-shed
in Hilton, and cried a little as I held you close, with the great noisy
train that was to take you away snorting beside us, you became again to
me the little helpless sister that mother told me to take care of. All
the years between were blotted out. I remembered our mother's room, the
black walnut furniture. I saw the white pillows and mother's long, dark
braids lying over each of her shoulders. Again I heard her words; again
I felt the pride that swelled in my heart as I bore you away.
"I hope you are safe tonight. You can always call on me. I will always
come. Don't be afraid. And when you are unhappy, write to me. I shall
understand. You are not hard, you are not heartless. You are tender and
sensitive. Only your armor is made of flint. You are not changeable and
vacillating. They didn't know. You are brave and conscientious." With
some such words as these last did I write to Ruth before I slept that
night. I believed in her as I never had before. I cherished her with my
soul.
This is what had happened in Hilton. After Ruth had left the room the
afternoon of her inquisition, the rest of us had sat closeted in serious
consultation for two hours or more. It was after five when we emerged.
To Edith's inquiry as to Ruth's whereabouts, a maid explained that Miss
Ruth had left word that she was going to walk out to the Country Club,
and would return in time for supper at seven. I went upstairs to my
room. A feeling of despair possessed me. I sat down and gazed out of
the window. A maid knocked lightly as I sat staring and came in with a
letter.
"Miss Ruth told me to wait until you were alone and then to give you
this," she explained.
I thanked her and she departed. I locked the door, then tore open Ruth's
note to me and read it.
"Dear Lucy," it said. "I cannot help but overhear some of the
conversation. Obviously, Tom is shouting so I may get the
benefit of his remarks without effort. I must get out of this
horrible place. How can I endure to meet the disapproval and
bitterness and hatred--yes, _hatred_--when they come filing out
upon me from that room across the hall. How can I sit down to
supper with them all, ask for bread--for water? How can I keep
up this farce of polite speech? I can't.
"You are in favor of my going away somewhere. I can hear you
urging them. Well, then, if you are, let me go _now_--tonight. I
can't go back with you tomorrow. Even though I am hard and
heartless, don't ask me to run the risk of seeing Bob by mistake
just now. I can't see him now. I can't. I _won't_ stay here at
Edith's. I won't go with Tom. This isn't the Middle Ages. Then
if ultimately I am to go away, alone somewhere, let me go
immediately. After I've gone the responsibility of giving me
permission will be lifted from Tom's shoulders. Don't you see?
You can argue with him to better advantage if the step has been
taken.
"I shan't be blindly running away. I've been considering a
change in my plans for so long that I've been enquiring. I know
of a position I can get in New York, and right off. I wrote
about it last week. I heard of it through the Suffrage League.
It's a position in the office there in New York. I would have
explained all this to Tom if he had been decent, but he wasn't.
He is narrow and prejudiced. Oh, Lucy, help me to escape. I've
got fifteen dollars, of Tom's and Edith's, and I shall keep it,
too! They owe _me_ a debt instead of _I_, them. That's the way I
feel. But fifteen dollars is not enough to start to New York
with. There's a train at 6.20 and another at 8.15. I am going
down to the station now, this _minute_, and wait for you to come
down there with more money and help me off. If you get out of
that room before six, I could take the earlier train. If not,
then the 8.15. I will wait for you in the ladies' waiting-room
where the couches are. If you think my going suddenly this way
is out of the question, then I'll simply turn around and come
back with you to the house here, and grin and bear the situation
somehow. I'll have to. So meet me anyhow. Don't tell any one
where I am. Just stroll out and we'll pretend we've been to the
Country Club.
"I know that I've been horrid to you all my life, critical and
pharisaic. You can pay me back for it now. You can refuse to
help me if you want to. I shan't blame you. But, oh, dear, let
me go away alone, just for a little while anyway. Let nature try
and heal.
"I have my bag and toilet articles. Money is all I want--money
and perhaps just one person in my family to wish me well.
"RUTH."
I glanced at the clock It was just quarter of six. There was no
opportunity of laying this question on the table and waiting for the
clearing light of morning to help me make a wise decision. This was an
occasion when a woman's intuition must be relied upon. As I stood there
with Ruth's letter in my hand, swift and sure was the conviction that
came to me. I must help Ruth get away. She would surely escape sometime
from the kind of bondage Tom was planning to place her under. If not
tonight, or next week, then a month hence. Was it not better for her to
go, even though suddenly and shockingly, with the God-speed and the
trust of some one in her own family?
Is it ever wise to cut the last thread that holds a girl to those who
have loved and cherished her? I thought not. Perhaps the slender thread
that now existed between Ruth and me might be the means of drawing a
stouter cord, which in its turn might haul a cable, strong and reliable.
I did not think then of the possible dangers in New York--the
difficulties, the risks; there was no time to discuss, no time for
doubts and misgivings; there was simply time for me to fill out two
blank checks for twenty-five dollars each, put on my hat and coat, and
speed with all possible haste to the station.
I found Ruth eagerly awaiting me in the train-shed. There were crowds of
people hastening here and there with bags and suit-cases. There were
trucks and train-men. There was the roar of an incoming train. Through
the confusion Ruth's anxious eyes looked straight into mine.
"Well?"
"Is this your train?" I asked with a nod toward the sweating monster
that had just come to a standstill on the first track.
"It's the New York train," said Ruth.
"Well, I've brought some money," I went on quickly. "Fifty dollars. It
will last for a while. They don't know about it yet, back there at the
house. I shall have to tell them when I go back. I can't predict. Tom
may wire Malcolm to meet you and drag you back home. I don't know. But
I'll use all the influence I can against it. I'll do my very best,
Ruth."
Ruth's hand found mine in a sudden grasp and held it tightly. Another
train roared into the train-shed.
"Where shall you stay tonight?" I shrieked at her.
She gave the name of a well-known hotel reserved especially for women.
"I shall be all right," she called. "I'll drop you a line tomorrow. You
needn't worry about me. I'll let you know if I need anything."
A deep megaphoned voice announced the New York train.
"Your ticket?" I reminded.
"I have it. I was going anyway," she replied.
"Well, then," I said, and opened my bag and produced the two checks. She
took them. "Promise me, Ruth, promise _always_ to let me know--always if
you need anything, or are unhappy."
Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. Her under lip quavered. She broke
down at last. I held her in my arms.
"Oh, Lucy, Lucy," she cried. "You're so good to me. I miss him so. I
left the ring in the corner of your top drawer. You give it to Bob. I
can't. You're all I have. I've been so horrid to you all my life. I miss
Bob so. I hate Tom. I almost hate Tom. Oh, Lucy, what's to become of me?
Whatever is to become of me?"
The train gave a little jerk.
"All aboard, Miss," called a porter.
"Your train, Ruth dear," I said gently and actually pushed her a little
toward New York, which even now was beginning to appall me. She kissed
me good-by. I looked up and saw her floating away in a cloud of fitful
steam.
CHAPTER XVIII
A YEAR LATER
That was nearly a year ago. Until one day last week I have not seen Ruth
since, not because of the busy life of a young mother--for such I have
become since Ruth went away--no, though busy I have been, and proud and
happy and selfish, too, like every other mother of a first son in the
world, I suppose--but because Ruth hasn't wished to be seen. That is why
I have heard from her only through letters, why I direct my answers in
care of a certain woman's club with a request to forward them, and why I
have neither sent down Will, nor appointed Malcolm to look her up and
find out how she was getting along.
Ruth has requested that I make no endeavor to drag her forth into the
light of criticism and comment. She has written every week punctually;
she has reported good health; and has invariably assured me that she is
congenially employed. I have allowed her her seclusion. In olden days
broken-hearted women and distracted men withdrew to the protection of
religion, and hid their scars inside the walls of nunneries and
monasteries. Why not let Ruth conceal her wounds, too, for a while,
without fear of disturbance from commenting friends and an inquisitive
family?
However, a fortnight ago, I had a letter from Ruth that set me to
planning. It casually referred to the fact that she was going to march
in the New York suffrage parade. I knew that she is still deeply
interested in suffrage. Any one of her letters bore witness to that. I
decided to see that parade. My son was six months old; I hadn't left him
for a night since he was born; he was a healthy little animal, gaining
ounces every week; and for all I knew the first little baby I had been
appointed to take care of was losing ounces. I made up my mind to go
down to New York and have a look at Ruth anyway. I told Will about it;
he fell in with my scheme; and I began to make arrangements.
When I announced to Robert Jennings that we were going to New York, I
tried to be casual about it.
"I haven't been down there for two years," I said one night when he
dropped in upon us, as was his occasional custom. "I require a polishing
in New York about every six months. Besides I want to begin disciplining
myself in leaving that little rascal of mine upstairs, just to prove
that he won't swallow a safety-pin or develop pneumonia the moment my
back's turned. Don't you think I'm wise?"
"New York?" took up Bob. "Shall you--do you plan to see anybody I know?"
he inquired.
He was a different man that falteringly asked me this question from the
Robert Jennings of a year ago--the same eyes, the same voice, the same
persistent smile, and yet something gone out from them all.
"No, Bob," I replied, "I'm not going to look up Ruth." We seldom spoke
of her. When we did it was briefly, and usually when Will happened to be
absent.
"There's a suffrage parade in New York, Wednesday," Robert informed me.
"While you're there, you know. Had you an idea that she might be in it?"
"Why, I shouldn't be a bit surprised," I allowed.
"Well, then, of course you'll see her," he brought out.
"Well, I might. It's possible. I shall see the parade, I hope. They say
they're rather impressive."
"She's well?" asked Bob.
"She writes so," I told him briefly.
"And happy?"
"She seems so."
"What should you think of the idea of my seeing that parade, too?" he
asked a little later.
"I shouldn't think very well of it, Bob."
"Should I be in the way?" he smiled, "interrupt yours and Will's
_tête-à-tête_?"
"Oh, no, of course not. But--O Bob," I broke off, "why keep on thinking
about Ruth? I wish you wouldn't. Life has such a lot else in it." He
colored a little at my frankness. "Oh, I know you don't want me to talk
about it, but I can't help it. You knew her such a little while,
scarcely six months in all, and besides she wasn't suited to you. I see
it now myself. She's stark mad about all these suffrage things. You
wouldn't have been happy. She's full of theories now. I wish you'd drop
all thought of her and go about the next thing. I'm sure Ruth is going
about the next thing. _You_ ought to."
"Nevertheless," he said, "should I be in the way?"
Of course he went. I could see his mind was made up in spite of what I
might say. The three of us--Robert Jennings and Will and I--stood for
two hours on the edge of a curbing in New York City waiting for Ruth to
walk up Fifth Avenue.
We were a merry little party. A spark of Robert's old fun seemed to have
stolen into his eyes, a little of the old crispness into his voice.
"They're going to walk several abreast," he explained. "It will be hard
work finding her in such a crowd. She might get by. So this is my plan.
I'll take as my responsibility the rows farthest over, you take the
middle, Will, and Lucy, you look out for those nearest the curb. See?
Now between the three of us we'll see her. Hello! I believe they're
coming!"
I looked down Fifth Avenue, lined with a black ribbon of people on each
side. It was free from traffic. Clear and uninterrupted lay the way for
this peculiar demonstration. I saw in the distance a flag approaching. I
heard the stirring strains of a band.
Ruth was very near the front of the parade. One band had passed us and
disappeared into dimness and Ruth preceded the second one.
It was a lovely sunny day, with a stiff sharp breeze that made militant
every flag that moved. Ruth wore no slogan of any sort. She carried one
symbol only--the American flag. She was not walking. Ruth rode, regally,
magnificently. We were hunting for her in the rank and file, and then
some little urchin called out, "Gee! Look at the peach!"
And there she was--Ruth! Our Ruth, on a black horse, a splendid creature
flecked with foam.
"Some girl!" said a man beside me.
"Who's she?" exclaimed somebody else.
Then abruptly the band that she immediately preceded broke into
thundering music, and drowned everything but the sight of her.
But oh, such a sight! She was in her black habit and wore the little
tri-cornered hat that so became her. She has always ridden horseback.
Confidently, easily she sat in her saddle, with one white-gloved hand
holding the reins, and the other one the pole of the flag, which waved
above her head. In Ruth's eyes there was an expression that was ardent.
Neither to left nor right did she look. She seemed oblivious of her
surroundings. Straight ahead she gazed; straight ahead she rode;
unafraid, eager, hopeful; the flag her only staff. She epitomized for me
the hundreds and hundreds of girls that were following after. Where
would they all come out? Where, _where_ would Ruth come out? She had
sought liberty. Well, she had it. Where was it taking her? With a
choking throat I watched my sister's stars and stripes vanish up
Fifth Avenue. I thought it would satisfy me to see Ruth well and
happy--for she looked well, she looked happy--but it didn't satisfy me.
I was hungry for more of her.
[Illustration: "Straight ahead she gazed; straight ahead she rode;
unafraid, eager, hopeful; the flag her only staff"--_Page 170_]
None of us, Will, Robert or I, had spoken as she rode by. It had been
too impressive. I had not looked at Robert. I had observed only his hand
as it grasped his coat sleeve as he stood with folded arms. One hand, I
thought, had tightened its grasp a little. We all stood perfectly
speechless for at least three minutes after Ruth went by. Finally it was
Robert who spoke.
"Have you had enough?" he asked of me, leaning down.
"Have you?" I inquired.
"Yes, I have. Let's go. Come on, Will, let's get out," he said. There
was a note of impatience in his voice. We wormed our way back to the
entrance of a shop.
"What's the rush?" said Will.
Robert replied. I could see his emotion now. "It's this. I'll tell you.
I'm going to clear right out of this crowd and look that girl up. You've
got that address in Madison Avenue, Lucy. I'm going to look her up----"
"But, Bob," I remonstrated. "She doesn't live there, and she doesn't
want to be looked up. She has asked me not to--and besides----"
"I can't help that--I shall be doing the looking up. I'll take the
blame," he rather snapped at me.
"Now, look here, Bob, old man," said Will, and he put a hand on one of
Robert's shoulders. "What's the good in it _now_? Don't you see she'll
be hotter than ever on this thing just now? Wait till she cools off a
bit. That's the idea!"
"Oh, it isn't to dissuade her. I don't care about that. It's simply to
find out if she's all right. She may need help of some kind or other.
She's a proud girl. Good heavens, she isn't going to send for any one. I
don't know what we've been thinking of--a whole year down in this place,
and no knowledge of what kind of a life she's had to live. That isn't
right--no. Lucy, if you'll be kind enough to give me that address, I'll
be off."
"I don't believe you can trace her through that."
"I'll see to that end of it." He was really almost sharp with me.
"What do you think, Will?" I inquired.
"Oh, give it to him, give it to him, my dear."
And so I did at last.
Will and I went to the theater that night, and supper afterward. It was
after midnight when we strolled into the hotel. Robert Jennings was
sitting in one of the big chairs in the corridor with a paper up before
his face. Will had gone to the desk to get our key, and I went up and
spoke to Bob.
"Well, hello!" I blurted out cheerfully. "What success? Did you see
her?"
He stood up, and I saw his face then.
"Yes, I saw her," he replied, then with difficulty added, "Don't ask me
about it," and abruptly he turned away, tossed aside the paper, and
walked straight out of the hotel. He might have been in a play on the
stage.
We had arranged to leave for home the following morning. Will called up
Robert's room about nine to find out if he was still planning to return
with us. There was no answer. I felt anxious about Bob. Will felt simply
irritated.
"Ought to have known more than to have gone pressing his suit on a
person in Ruth's frame of mind," he grumbled.
Robert Jennings didn't show up until three minutes before the train
pulled out. His reservation hadn't been canceled, but I had little hope
of his appearance. My heart gave a bound of relief when I saw him coming
into the car at the farther end.
"Oh, here you are!" I said. "I'm so glad you've come. We've been looking
for you."
"Hello there," put in Will.
"Have you? That's good of you," said Bob. He had himself well in hand
now. I was glad of that. "I went out for breakfast," he explained. "I
was sure to show up, however. I have a five o'clock appointment this
afternoon," and he took off his overcoat, swung his chair about, and sat
down.
For two hours he sat opposite me there without a single reference to the
night before. You might have thought I never had seen him cast that
newspaper aside and unceremoniously burst out of the hotel. We talked
about all sorts of indifferent subjects. Finally I leaned over and asked
Will if he didn't want to go into the smoking-car.
"Understand?" I inquired.
"Surely," he replied, "surely, I do, Miss Canny," and left us.
A half-an-hour outside New London Bob began to talk. "Do you want to
hear about last night?" he asked me.
"If you want to tell me," I replied.
"Well, I found her. I found Ruth."
"Yes, I know you did, Bob."
"Do you know _where_ I found her?"
"Why, no. Of course I don't."
"Well, I'll tell you. After I left you I went first to the Madison
Avenue address. It wasn't until I gave the lady at the desk of that club
the impression that I came bearing news of some serious nature connected
with Ruth's family, that she gave me the address where Ruth's mail is
forwarded. She told me it was Ruth's place of business. It was an
address up near the region of the Park, no name, just the bare street
and number. I called 'information,' and finally the house on the 'phone.
I was informed Miss Vars would not be in until after dinner. So I
waited, and about half-past eight went up there. I found the house--a
big, impressive affair, grilled iron fence close to it in front, very
fine, very luxurious; all the windows curtained darkly, with a glow of
brightness through the cracks here and there. I hesitated to present
myself. I walked up and down twice in front of the house, wondering if
it would be wiser to call Ruth by telephone and make an appointment.
Then suddenly some one inside opened an upper window--it was a warm
night. I saw a man draw aside the laces, raise the shade, and throw up
the sash. I saw beyond into the room. I saw Ruth. She was sitting
beneath a bright light, on a sofa. She was sewing. She seemed quite at
home. I saw the man turn away from the window and go back and sit down
on the sofa beside her. I saw him stretch out, put one hand in his
pocket, lean back luxuriously, and proceed to smoke. It was all very
intimate. A policeman passed me as I stood there staring.
"'Who lives there?' I asked him--and he told me. 'Oh, that's the Sewall
place,' he said, 'Young Breckenridge Sewall, you know.' I looked up at
the window again. The man was closing it now. Is he dark, quite dark,
stoops a little, with a receding forehead?" asked Robert of me.
I nodded. I couldn't speak.
"It was he, it was Sewall without a doubt. What is Ruth doing in that
house?" demanded Bob. "What is she doing, sitting there alone with that
man at nine o'clock at night--sewing? What does it mean? I didn't go in.
I walked back to the hotel and sat there, and then I went out and walked
again. What does it mean? For heaven's sake, Lucy--tell me what she's
doing there?"
"O Bob," I said tremblingly, "don't think anything awful about Ruth.
Whatever she's doing there, it's all right."
"You don't know," he groaned.
"I know Ruth, and that's enough. Of course she's all right. Don't let's
get absurd. I can't understand it, of course, but after all----"
"Oh, please," almost shuddered Bob, "don't let's talk about it. I don't
want to think about it. She has been such a beautiful memory, and
now--please don't talk about it."
"All right," I said and leaned back and gazed out of the window, stunned
by his news, frightened more than I dared to show.
We rumbled on in silence for half an hour. I was dimly aware that Bob
bought a magazine. Will joined us later, sat down, and fell off to
sleep. Bob got up and announced that he was going into the smoking-car.
His composure of the early afternoon had left him. He appeared nervous
and disturbed. He looked distressed. Just outside Providence he returned
to the car with a porter and began gathering up his belongings.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Nothing much," he replied shortly, "only I'm going back to New York.
I'm going back now--tonight, that's all."
CHAPTER XIX
RUTH RESUMES HER OWN STORY
I had no idea what I was undertaking when I went to New York. I had had
no experience with the difficulties that exist between announcing you
intend to live your own life, and living it. The world is a bewildering
place for one unused to it. All the savoir-faire and sophistication
acquired in reception-rooms didn't stand me in very good stead when it
came to earning my own living in New York City. I was timid, full of
fears--imaginary and real. I had been to New York many times before, but
the realization that I was in the big city alone, unanchored, afloat,
filled me with panic. I was like a young bird, featherless, naked,
trembling, knocked out of its nest before it could fly. Every sound,
every unknown shape was a monster cat waiting to devour me. I was
acutely aware of dangers lurking for young girls in big cities. For two
or three days I had all I could do to control myself and keep my nerve
steady.
I arrived on a cold, gray, cloudy morning; unaccustomed to reaching
destinies unmet; my heart torn and bleeding; nobody to turn to for help
and advice; no plan formed in my confused mind; afraid even to trust
myself to the care of a taxicab driver. For such a timid pilgrim in
quest of freedom, to start out in search of an address she treasures
because of the golden apple of immediate employment that it promises,
and to learn on arrival that the position already has been filled, is
terribly disheartening. To wake up the second morning in a two-dollar
hotel room, which she has locked and barred the night before with all
the foolish precautions of a young and amateurish traveler, to pay a
dollar for a usual breakfast served in her room and a dollar-and-a-half
for a luncheon of nothing but a simple soup and chicken-à-la-King, and
then to figure out on a piece of paper that at such a rate her fifty
dollars will last just about two weeks, is enough to make any young fool
of a girl wish she had been taught something else besides setting off
expensive gowns. I didn't know what I ought to do. I didn't know how to
begin. I was so self-conscious, at first, so fearful that my being at
that hotel, alone, unchaperoned, might be questioned and cause
unpleasant comment, that I stayed in my room as much as possible. When I
look back and see myself those first few days I have to smile out of
self-pity. If it hadn't been for my lacerated pride, for the memory of
Tom's arrogance and Edith's taunts, I might have persuaded myself to
give up my dangerous enterprise, but every time I rehearsed that scene
at the Homestead (and, imprisoned as I was, I rehearsed it frequently),
something flamed up in me higher and higher each time. I could not go
back with self-respect. It was impossible. I concluded that I might as
well get singed in New York, as bound in slavery by Tom and Edith.
As soon as I became fully convinced that my lot was cast, I ventured out
to look for cheaper accommodations.
Ever since I have been allowed alone on a railroad train, the
Y. W. C. A. has been preached to me as a perfectly safe place to ask
advice in case of being stranded in a strange city. So I trudged down
there one late afternoon and procured a list of several lodging-houses,
where my mother's young parlor-maid could stay for a week with safety
while we were moving from our summer house. I didn't know whether I
could bring myself really to undress and get into the little cot in
the room which I finally engaged, but at least the room had a window.
I could sit by that. I had been assured that the place was reputable.
I moved down there in a taxicab one rainy Saturday afternoon. Lucy had
sent me my trunk, and I had to convey it somehow. I didn't sleep at all
the first night. There was a fire-escape immediately outside my open
window, and there was not a sign of a lock on the door. On Monday I
bought a screw-eye and hook for fifteen cents, and put nails in the
sash for burglar stops.
At first I used to crawl back to that smelly little hall bedroom at the
earliest sign of dusk; at first, if a man on the street spoke to me, I
would tremble for five minutes afterward; at first the odor of the
continual boiling of mutton bones and onions that met me every time I
opened the door of Mrs. Plummet's lodging-house used to make me feel
sick to my stomach. I became hardened as time went on, but at first it
was rather awful. I don't like to recall those early experiences of
mine.
I learned a great deal during my first fortnight at Mrs. Plummet's. I
never knew, for instance, that one meal a day, eaten at about four
o'clock in the afternoon, takes the place of three, very comfortably, if
aided and abetted in the morning by crackers spread with peanut butter,
and a glass of milk, a whole bottle of which one could buy for a few
cents at the corner grocery store. The girl who roomed next door to me
gave me lots of such tips. I had no idea that there were shops on shabby
avenues, where one could get an infinitesimal portion of what one paid
for a last season's dinner-gown; that furs are a wiser investment than
satin and lace; and that my single emerald could be more easily turned
into dollars and cents than all the enameled jewelry I owned put
together. The feeling of reënforcement that the contents of my trunk
gave me did a lot in restoring confidence. The girl next door and I
reckoned that their value in secondhand shops would see me through the
summer, at least. Surely, I could become established somewhere by fall.
I didn't know how to approach my problem. I didn't know what
advertisements in the newspapers were the false ones. I felt shy about
applying for work at stores and shops. For whom should I ask? To what
department present myself? What should I say first? One day I told a
benevolent-looking woman, one of the officers at the Y. W. C. A., the
truth about myself, that I, and not my mother's parlor-maid, was
occupying the room in the lodging-house. Not until that woman put her
hand kindly on my shoulder and advised me to go home--did I realize how
determined I had become. New York had not devoured me, the lodging-house
had not harmed me. I had found I could sleep, and very well, too, on the
lumpy, slumped-in cot with the soiled spread. No one climbed the
fire-escape, no one tried my locked door at night. I had pawned my last
winter's furs, but my character seemed quite clean and unsmirched. Go
home! Of course I wasn't going home. Not yet. The lady gave me a list of
reputable employment agencies at last. If Mrs. Plummet's hadn't daunted
me, employment offices couldn't either, I said. I was told to provide
suitable references.
Now references were just what I couldn't very well provide. I had left
home under disagreeable circumstances. I tried to make it clear without
too much detail that, except for my sister, my connections with my
people were severed, and I couldn't apply to Lucy. I hadn't even given
her my actual address. She would be sure to come looking me up, or send
some one in her place. Very likely she would ask my brother Malcolm to
drop in on me sometime. I was in deadly fear I would run across him on
the street, and if Malcolm had ever smelled the inside of the house
where I roomed, I fear his nose never would have come down. If Lucy had
ever seen the dirt on the stairs she would have pronounced the house
disreputable, and dragged me home. Secrecy was my only chance for
success, at least for a while. I would have to discover what could be
done without references.
It was due to a little new trick I learned of looking on at myself that
it was not impossible for me to seek a position through an employment
agency. I had become, you see, one of those characters I had read about
in short stories dozens of times before--an unemployed girl in New York,
even to the hall-bedroom, the handkerchiefs stuck on my window-pane in
process of ironing, the water-bugs around the pipes in the bath-room. It
was this consciousness of myself that made many of the hardships
bearable--this and the grim determination not to give up.
I told the lady in charge of the intelligence office where I first
applied that I was willing to try anything, but thought I was best
suited as a mother's-helper, or a sort of governess. She shrugged when I
told her I had no reference, but occasionally she gave me an opportunity
for an interview.
There was something about me that, lacking a reference, impressed my
would-be employers unfavorably; possibly it was the modish cut of the
hundred-dollar spring suit I wore, or the shape of my hat. Anyhow, they
all decided against me. If I had persisted long enough, I might have
found some sort of place, but on the fourth or fifth day of my ordeal in
intelligence offices, something happened.
I was sitting with the rest of my unemployed sisters in the little inner
room provided for us off the main office, when I glanced through the
door to see Henrietta Morgan and her mother. I looked hastily away. Here
I had been avoiding Fifth Avenue and the region of shops, for fear some
of my old friends about New York (and I have many) might run across me,
and stupidly I had walked into the very place infested by them. I
accomplished my escape easily enough. Naturally Mrs. Morgan wasn't
looking for me in such a place, but I didn't take the chance again.
I was lonely and discouraged many times during that first bitter summer
of mine in New York. I felt no charity for Edith, no forgiveness for
Tom. I hadn't wanted to leave home--not really--I hadn't sought an
experience like this. They had forced me to it. If only Tom hadn't
treated me like a naughty child! If only Bob--oh if _only_ Bob--(no,
there were some things I could not dwell upon. It was wiser not to).
Some pains are dull and steady. One can endure them and smile. Others
recur at intervals, occasioned by some unimportant detail like a man on
the street selling roasted chestnuts, which reminds one of saffron woods
in late October. Such pain is like the stab of a sharp stiletto.
Mine is the same old story of hope and despair, of periods of courage
occasioned by opportunities that flickered for a while and went out. I
was not utterly without employment. The first three dollars I earned at
directing envelopes in a department store made me happy for a
fortnight. It was a distinct triumph. I felt as if I had been initiated
into a great society. I had been paid money for the labor of my hands!
The girl who roomed next to me had helped me to get the position. I was
not without associates. There were twenty-five girls besides myself who
carried away in their clothes each morning the odor of Mrs. Plummet's
soup-stock. Mrs. Plummet let rooms to girls only, and only rooms. We
didn't board with Mrs. Plummet. I wondered how she and old Mr. Plummet
ever consumed, alone, so much lamb broth.
For a fortnight I was a model for trying on suits in a down-town
wholesale house; several times the Y. W. C. A. found opportunities for
me to play accompaniments; in October when the suffrage activities began
I was able to pick up a few crumbs of work in the printing office of one
of their papers. But such a thing as permanent employment became a
veritable will-o'-the-wisp. I was strong and willing, and yet I could
not--absolutely _could not_--support myself. I tried writing fiction. I
had always yearned to be literary, but the magazines sent all my stuff
back. I tried sewing in a dressmaker's shop, but after three days the
Madam announced that her shop would be closed during August, the dull
season. She had hired me simply to rush a mourning order. From one thing
to another I went, becoming more and more disheartened as fall
approached, and my stock of clothes and jewelry, on the proceeds of
which I was living, became lower and lower. My almost empty trunk
stared at me forlornly from its corner; it foretold failure. What should
I do when the last little frumpery of my old life had been turned into
money to support my new one? To whom turn? I could not ask for help from
those who had admonished and criticized. I had written Lucy weekly that
I was prospering. I could not acknowledge failure even to her. I bent
every nerve to the effort.
One day in a magazine that some one had discarded in a subway train I
ran across an advertisement for "a young lady of education and good
family, familiar with social obligations, to act as a private secretary
to a lady in a private home." I answered that advertisement. I had
answered dozens similar before. This, like the others no doubt, would
end in failure. But I couldn't sit and fold my hands. I must keep on
trying. I answered it--and six others at the same time. Of the seven I
had a reply only from the one mentioned above.
It was a unique reply. It was typewritten. "If still interested in the
position referred to in attached clipping reply by complying to
requirements enclosed--and mail answer by the evening of the day that
this communication is received.
"1st. Write a formal acceptance to a formal dinner.
2nd. Write a few words on suffrage appropriate to an older woman who is
mildly opposed.
3rd. Write a polite note of refusal to the treasurer of a charitable
institution in reply to a request to donate sum of money.
4th. Write a note of condolence to an acquaintance upon the death of a
relative.
5th. Write a note of congratulation to a débutante announcing her
engagement.
6th. Write an informal invitation to a house-party in the country.
7th. Acknowledge a gift of flowers sent to you during an illness."
I sat down with zest to this task. It was an original way to weed out
applicants. I spent the whole afternoon over it. It was late in the
evening before I had all my questions answered, neatly copied, sealed,
and dropped inside a green letter-box.
A day or two later I received in the same non-committal typewritten form
a brief summons to appear the following morning between twelve and one
o'clock at a certain uptown hotel, and to inquire at the desk for
Miss A. S. Armstrong.
It was a clear starry night. I pinned a towel over my suit, put it on a
coat-hanger, and hung it securely to the blind-catch outside my window.
I didn't know who Miss A. S. Armstrong was, but at any rate I would
offer up to the stars what I possessed of Mrs. Plummet's soup-stock.
CHAPTER XX
THE FIFTH WHEEL GAINS WINGS
Miss A. S. Armstrong proved to be a thin angular creature with no
eyelashes. She saw me come in through the revolving doors of the hotel
at sharp twelve o'clock. When I enquired for her at the desk, she was at
my elbow. She was not the lady I had come to be interviewed by; she was
merely her present private secretary; the lady herself, she explained,
was upstairs awaiting me.
"You're younger than we thought," she said, eyeing me critically. She
was a very precise person. Her accent was English. My hopes dimmed as I
looked upon her. If she had been selected as desirable, then there was
little chance for me. My short experience in employment offices had
proved to me the undesirability of possessing qualities that impress a
would-be employer as too attractive.
"Do you have young men callers?" "Do you like 'to go'?" "Do you want to
be out late?" Such inquiries were invariably made when I was trying to
obtain a position as a mother's-helper or child's-companion; and though
I was able to reply in the negative, my inquisitors would look at me
suspiciously, and remain unconvinced. Now, again, I felt sure as we
ascended to the apartment above that my appearance (Miss Armstrong had
called it my youth) would stand in my way.
I was ushered into a room high up in the air, flooded with New York
sunshine. It dazzled me at first. Coming in from the dimness of the
corridor, I could not discern the features of the lady sitting in an
easy chair.
"I beg your pardon," ejaculated Miss Armstrong at sight of her, "I
thought you were in the other room. Shall we come in?"
"Certainly, certainly." There was a note of impatience.
Miss Armstrong turned to me. I was behind her, half hidden. "Come in,"
she said. "I wish to introduce you to Mrs. Sewall--Mrs. F. Rockridge
Sewall. The applicant to your advertisement, Mrs. Sewall."
Miss Armstrong stood aside. I stepped forward (what else could I do?)
and stood staring into the eyes of my old enemy. It was she who
recovered first from the shock of our meeting. I had seen a slight
flush--an angry flush I thought--spread faintly over Mrs. Sewall's
features as she first recognized me. But it faded. When she spoke there
wasn't a trace of surprise in her voice.
"My applicant, did I understand you to say, Miss Armstrong?"
"Yes," I replied in almost as calm a manner as hers, "I answered your
advertisement for a private secretary, and followed it by responding to
the test which you sent me, and received word to appear here this
morning."
"I see, I see," said Mrs. Sewall, observing me suspiciously.
"But," I went on, "I did not know to whom I was applying. I answered six
other advertisements at the same time. I have, of course, heard of Mrs.
F. Rockridge Sewall. I doubt if I would be experienced enough for you.
Miss Armstrong spoke of my youth downstairs." Mrs. Sewall still
continued to observe me. "To save you the trouble of interviewing me," I
went on, "I think I had better go. I am not fitted for the position, I
am quite sure. I am sorry to have taken any of your time. I would never
have answered your advertisement had you given your name." I moved
toward the door.
"Wait a minute," said Mrs. Sewall. "Kindly wait a minute, and be seated.
Miss Armstrong, your note-book please. Are you ready?"
Miss Armstrong, seated now at a small desk, produced a leather-bound
book and fountain-pen. "Quite ready," she replied.
Mrs. Sewall turned to me. "I always finish undertakings. I have
undertaken an interview with you. Let us proceed with it, then. Let us
see, Miss Armstrong, what did the young lady sign herself?"
"Y--Q--A."
"Yes. 'Y--Q--A.' First then--your name," said Mrs. Sewall.
It was my impulse to escape the grilling that this merciless woman was
evidently going to put me to; my first primitive instinct to strike my
adversary with some bitterly worded accusation and then turn and fly.
But I stood my ground. Without a quiver of obvious embarrassment, or
more than a second's hesitation, I replied, looking at Mrs. Sewall
squarely.
"My name is Ruth Chenery Vars."
Miss Armstrong scratched it in her book.
"Oh, yes, Ruth Chenery Vars. Your age, please, Miss Vars?" Mrs. Sewall
coldly inquired.
I told her briefly.
"Your birthplace?"
And I told her that.
"Your education?" she pursued.
"High-school," I replied, "one year of boarding-school, one year coming
out into society, several years stagnating in society, some travel, some
hotel life, one summer learning how to live on seven dollars a week."
"Oh, indeed!" I thought I discerned a spark of amusement in Mrs.
Sewall's ejaculation. "Indeed! And will you tell me, Miss Vars," she
went on, a little more humanely, "why you are seeking a position as
private secretary?"
"Why, to earn my living," I replied.
"And why do you wish to earn your living?"
"The instinct to exist, I suppose."
"Come," said Mrs. Sewall, "why are you here in New York, Miss Vars? You
appear to be a young lady of good birth and culture, accustomed to the
comforts, and I should say, the luxuries of life, if I am a judge. Why
are you here in New York seeking employment?"
"To avoid becoming a parasite, Mrs. Sewall," I replied.
"'To avoid becoming a parasite'!" (Yes, there was humor in those eyes. I
could see them sparkle.) "Out of the mouths of babes!" she exclaimed,
"verily, out of the mouths of babes! You are young to fear parasitism,
Miss Vars."
"I suppose so," I acknowledged pleasantly, and looked out of the window.
Beneath Mrs. Sewall's curious gaze I sat, quiet and unperturbed,
contemplating miles of roofs and puffing chimneys. I was not
embarrassed. I had once feared the shame and mortification that would be
mine if I should ever again encounter this woman, but in some miraculous
fashion I had opened my own prison doors. It flashed across me that
never again could the bogies and false gods of society rule me. I was
free! I was independent! I was unafraid! I turned confident eyes back to
Mrs. Sewall. She was considering me sharply, interrogatively, tapping an
arm of her chair as she sat thinking.
"Well," I said smiling, and stood up as if to go. "If you are through
with me----"
"Wait a minute," she interrupted. "Wait a minute. I am not through. Be
seated again, please. I sent out about thirty copies of the papers such
as you received," she went on. "Some fifteen replies were sent back.
Yours proved to be the only possible one among them. That is why I have
summoned you here today. The position of my private secretary is a
peculiar one, and difficult to fill. Miss Armstrong has been with me
some years. She leaves to be married." (Married! This sallow creature.)
"She leaves to marry an officer in England. She is obliged to sail
tomorrow. Some one to take her place had been engaged, but a death--a
sudden death--makes it impossible for the other young lady to keep her
contract with me. Now the season is well advanced. I am returning to
town late this year. My town house is being prepared for immediate
occupancy. The servants are there now. I return to it tomorrow. On
Thursday I have a large dinner. My social calendar for the month is very
full. You are young--frightfully young--to fill a position of such
responsibility as Miss Armstrong's. My private secretary takes care of
practically all my correspondence. But many of the letters I asked you
to write in the test I sent are letters which actually must be written
within the next few days. Your answers pleased me, Miss Vars--yes,
pleased me very much, I might say." She got up (I rising too) and
procured a fresh handkerchief from a silver box on a table. She touched
it, folded, to her nose.
"The salary to begin with is to be a hundred and twenty-five dollars a
month," she remarked. She shook out the handkerchief, then she added,
coughing slightly first behind the sheer square of linen, "I should like
you to start in upon your duties, Miss Vars, as soon as
possible--tomorrow morning if it can be arranged."
I was taken unawares. I had not expected this.
"Why--but do you think--I'm sorry," I stumbled, "but on further
consideration I feel that I----"
"Wait a minute, please. Before you give me an answer it is fair to
explain your position more in detail. It is an official position. Your
hours are from ten to four. You are in no sense maid or companion. You
live where you think best, are entirely independent, quite free, the
mistress of your own affairs. I am a busy woman. The demands upon my
time are such that I require a secretary who can do more than add
columns of figures, though that she must do too. She must in many cases
be my brains, my tact, convey in my correspondence fine shades of
feeling. It is a position requiring peculiar talent, Miss Vars, and one,
I should say, which would be attractive to you. During the protracted
absence of an only son of mine, who is occupying my London house, I
shall be alone in my home this winter. You may have until this evening
to think over your answer. Don't give it to me now. It is better form,
as well as better judgment, never to be hasty. I liked your letters,"
she smiled graciously upon me now. "After this interview I like them
still. I like _you_. I think we would get on."
A hundred and twenty-five dollars a month! The still unmarried Breck
safe in England! My almost empty trunk! Why not? Why not accept the
position? Was I not free from fear of what people would say? Had I not
already broken the confining chains of "what's done," and "what isn't
done?" I needed the work; it was respectable; Breck was in England; a
hundred and twenty-five dollars a month; my trunk almost empty.
"Well," I said, "I need a position as badly as you seem to need a
secretary, Mrs. Sewall. We might try each other anyway. I'll think it
over. I won't decide now. I will let you know by five o'clock this
afternoon."
I accepted the position. Mrs. Plummet shed real tears when I told her my
good news at six o'clock that night; and more tears a fortnight later
when I moved out of my little hall bedroom, and my feather-weight trunk,
lightsomely balanced on the shoulders of one man, was conveyed to the
express-wagon and thence to new lodgings in Irving Place.
It was in the new lodgings that my new life really began. Its birth had
been difficult, the pains I had endured for its existence sharp and
recurring, but here it was at last--a lovely, interesting thing. I could
observe it almost as if it was something I could hold in my two hands.
Here it was--mine, to watch grow and develop; mine to tend and nurture
and persuade; my life at last, to do with as I pleased.
At the suffrage headquarters I had run across a drab-appearing girl by
the name of Esther Claff, and it was with her that I shared the room in
Irving Place.
She was writing a book, and used to sit up half the night. She was a
college-educated girl, who had been trained to think logically. Social
and political questions were keen delights to Esther Claff. She took me
to political rallies; we listened to speeches from anarchists and
socialists; we attended I. W. W. meetings; we heard discussions on
ethical subjects, on religion, on the white-slave traffic, equal
suffrage, trusts. Life at all its various points interested Esther
Claff. She was a plain, uninteresting girl to look at, but she possessed
a rare mind, as beautifully constructed as the inside of a watch, and
about as human, sometimes I used to think.
She was very reticent about herself, told me almost nothing of her early
life and seemed to feel as little curiosity about mine. I lived with
Esther Claff a whole winter with never once an expression from her of
regard or affection. I wondered sometimes if she felt any. Esther was an
example, it seemed to me, of a woman who had risen above the details of
human life, petty annoyances of friendships, eking demands of a
community. I had heard her voice tremble with feeling about some reforms
she believed in, but evidently she had shaken off all desire for the
human touch. I wished sometimes that Esther wasn't quite so emancipated.
My associates were Esther's associates--college friends of hers for the
most part, a circle of girls who inspired me with their enthusiasms and
star-high aspirations. They were living economically in various places
in New York, all keenly interested in what they were doing. There was
Flora Bennett, sleeping in a tiny room with a skylight instead of
uptown with her family, because her father wouldn't countenance his
daughter's becoming a stenographer, making her beg spending money from
him every month like a child. There was Anne DeBois who had left a
tyrannical parent who didn't believe in educating girls, and worked her
way through college. There was a settlement worker or two; there was
poor, struggling Rosa who tried to paint; Sidney, an eager little
sculptor; Elsie and Lorraine, two would-be journalists, who lived
together, and who were so inseparable we called them Alsace and
Lorraine; there was able Maria Brown, an investigator who used to spend
a fortnight as an employee in various factories and stores and write up
the experience afterwards.
There were few or no men in our life. Esther and I frequented our
friends' queer little top-story studios in dark alleys for recreation,
and got into deep discussions on life and reforms. Sometimes we
celebrated to the extent of a sixty-cent table d'hôte dinner in
tucked-away restaurants. We occupied fifty-cent seats at the theater
occasionally, and often from dizzying heights at the opera would gaze
down into the minaret boxes below, while I recalled with a little
feeling of triumph that far-distant time when I had sat thus emblazoned
and imprisoned.
I had cut loose at last. I was proud of myself. In the secret of my soul
I strutted. I was like a boy in his first long trousers. I might not yet
show myself off to the family. They would question the propriety of my
occupation with Mrs. Sewall, but nevertheless I had not failed.
Sometimes lying in my bed at night with all the vague, mysterious roar
of New York outside, my beating heart within me seemed actually to swell
with pride. I was alone in New York; I was independent; I was
self-supporting; I was on the way to success. I used to drop off to
sleep on some of those nights with the sweet promise of victory
pervading my whole being.
One day I ran across an advertisement in the back of a magazine
representing a single wheel with a pair of wings attached to its hub.
It was traveling along without the least difficulty in the world. So
was I. The fifth wheel had acquired wings!
CHAPTER XXI
IN THE SEWALL MANSION
In spite of Mrs. Sewall's crowded engagement calendar, she was a woman
with very few close friends. She was very clever; she could converse
ably; she could entertain brilliantly; and yet she had been unable to
weave herself into any little circle of loyal companions. She was
terribly lonely sometimes.
For the first half-dozen weeks our relations were strictly official. And
then one day just as I was leaving to walk back to my rooms as usual,
Mrs. Sewall, who was just getting into her automobile, asked me if I
would care to ride with her. The lights were all aglow on Fifth Avenue.
We joined the parade in luxurious state. This was what I once had
dreamed of--to be seated beside Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall in her
automobile, creeping slowly along Fifth Avenue at dusk. Life works out
its patterns for people cunningly, I think. I made some such remark as I
sat there beside Mrs. Sewall.
"How? Tell me," she said, "how has it worked out its pattern cunningly
for you?"
We had never mentioned our former relations. I didn't intend to now.
"Oh," I said, side-stepping what was really in my mind, "cunningly,
because here I am, in a last winter's hat and a sweater for warmth
underneath my old summer's suit, and yet I'm happy. If life has woven me
into such a design as that--I think it's very clever of it."
"_Are_ you happy?" questioned Mrs. Sewall.
"Yes, I believe I am," I replied honestly. "That, of course, isn't
saying I am not just a little lonely sometimes. But I'm interested. I'm
terribly interested, Mrs. Sewall."
"Well, but weren't you interested when you were a débutante? You
referred to having been a débutante, you remember, once. Weren't you, as
you say, terribly interested _then_?"
"Yes, in a way, I suppose I was. But I believe _then_ I was interested
in myself, and what was good for my social success, and now--it sounds
painfully self-righteous--but now I'm interested in things outside. I'm
interested in what's good for the success of the world." I blushed in
the dusk. It sounded so affected. "I mean," I said, "I'm interested in
reforms and unions, and suffrage, and things like that. I used to be so
awfully individualistic."
"Individualistic! Where do you run across these ideas? A girl like you.
Parasitism, and suffrage! Is my secretary a suffragette?" she asked me
smilingly.
"Well," I replied, "I believe that woman's awakening is one of the
greatest forces at work today for human emancipation."
"Well, well," ejaculated Mrs. Sewall. "So my secretary thinks if women
vote, all the wrinkles in this old world will be ironed out."
I knew I was being made fun of a little, but I was willing nevertheless.
"The influence suffrage will have on politics will not be so important
as the influence it will have on ethics and conventions," I replied,
"and I believe it will have such a beneficial influence that it will be
worth Uncle Sam's trouble to engage a few more clerks to count the
increased number of ballots."
"Well--well. Is that so?" smiled Mrs. Sewall, amused. "Do you think
women competent to sit on juries, become just judges, and make unbiased
and fair decisions? What have you to say to that, Miss Enthusiast?"
"Women are untrained now, of course, but in time they will learn the
manners of positions of trust, as men have, through being ridiculed in
print, through bitter experiences of various kinds. If they are given a
few years at it, they'll learn that they can't afford to be hasty and
pettish in public positions, as they could in their own little narrow
spheres at home. A child who first goes to school is awfully new at it.
He sulks, cries, wants his own way; he hasn't learned how to work with
others. Neither have women yet, but suffrage will help us toward it."
"I had no idea you were such a little enthusiast. Come, don't you want
to have tea with me and my friend Mrs. Scot-Williams? I'm to meet her
at the Carl. She enjoys a girl with ideas."
"In this?" I indicated my suit. We were drawing up to the lighted
restaurant, where costly lace veiled from the street candle-lighted
tables.
"In that?" Mrs. Sewall looked at me and smiled. "Talk as you have to me,
my dear, and she will not see what your soul goes clothed in."
My enemy--Mrs. Sewall! My almost friend now! She could sting, but she
could make honey too. Bittersweet. I went with her to drink some tea.
That was the beginning of our intimate relations. Mrs. Sewall invited me
the very next day to lunch with her in the formal dining-room, with the
Sewall portraits hanging all around. We talked more suffrage. It seemed
to amuse her. She was not particularly interested in the woman's
movement. It simply served as an excuse.
One stormy evening not long after the luncheon invitation Mrs. Sewall
invited me to stay all night. She was to be alone and had no engagement.
She asked me frequently after that. We slipped into relations almost
affectionate. I discovered that Mrs. Sewall enjoyed my reading aloud to
her. I found out one day, when her maid, who was an hourly irritation to
her, was especially slow about arranging her veil, that my fingers
pleased and satisfied. Often, annoyed beyond control, she would exclaim,
"Come, come, Marie, how clumsy you are! All thumbs! Miss Vars, do you
mind? Would you be so kind?" Often I found myself buttoning gloves,
untangling knots in platinum chains, and fastening hooks.
As late fall wore into early winter, frequently I presided at the
tea-table in Mrs. Sewall's library--the inner holy of holies, upstairs
over the drawing-room. "Perkins is so slow" (Perkins was the butler)
"and his shoes squeak today. Would you mind, Miss Vars? You're so swift
and quiet with cups."
Once she said, in explanation of her friendliness: "I've never had
anything but a machine for a private secretary before. Miss Armstrong
was hardly a companionable person. No sense of humor. But an excellent
machine. Oh, yes--excellent. Better at figures than you, my dear Miss
Vars, but oh, her complexion! Really I couldn't drink tea with Miss
Armstrong. I never tried it, but I'm sure it would not have been
pleasant. You have such pretty coloring, my dear. Shan't I call you Ruth
some day?"
Spontaneously it burst out. I had never had the affection of an older
woman. I grasped it.
"Do, yes, do call me Ruth," I exclaimed.
I had once believed I could please this difficult woman. I had not been
mistaken. It was proved. I did please her. She called me Ruth!
I wrote her letters for her, I kept her expenses, I cut her coupons, I
all but signed her generous checks to charitable institutions. Most
willingly I advised her in regard to them. She sent five hundred dollars
to Esther Claff's settlement house in the Jewish quarter on my
suggestion, and bought one of Rosa's paintings, which she gave to me.
She wanted me to go with her to her dressmaker's and her milliner's. She
consulted me in regard to a room she wanted to redecorate, a bronze that
she was considering. She finally confided in me her rheumatism and her
diabetes. I was with her every day. Always after her late breakfast
served in her room, she sent for me. After all it wasn't surprising. I
should have to be very dull and drab indeed not to have become her
friend. I was the only one in her whole establishment whom she wasn't
obliged to treat as servant and menial.
[Illustration: "I was the only one in her whole establishment whom she
wasn't obliged to treat as a servant and menial"--_Page 203_]
Of everything we talked, even of Breckenridge--of Breckenridge as a
baby, a boy, a college-man. She explained his inheritance, his
weaknesses, his virtues. She spoke of Gale Oliphant and the interrupted
marriage. Once--once only--she referred to me.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," she began one day with a sigh, "'the best-laid
plans of mice and men'----Oh, dear, oh, dear! Sometimes I think I have
made a great many mistakes in my life. For instance, my son--this
Breckenridge I talk so much about--he, well, he became very fond of some
one I opposed. A nice girl--a girl of high principles. Oh, yes. But not
the girl whom his mother had happened to select for him. No. His mother
wished him to marry his second cousin--this Gale you've heard me speak
of--Gale Oliphant. Breckenridge was fond of her--always had been. She
was worth millions, _millions_!
"You see, a short time before Breckenridge formed the attachment for the
young lady with the high principles, his mother's lawyer had persuaded
her into a most precarious investment. For two years, a large part of
her fortune trembled uncertainly on the edge of a precipice. She
believed that her son required less a girl with high principles of
living, than a girl with principles represented by quarterly dividends.
Breckenridge would not make a success as a man without means. But as I
said--'the best-laid plans of mice and men!'
"Oh, well, perhaps you read the story. Most unfortunate. It was in the
papers. It nearly broke me. A law-suit on the eve of my son's marriage
to Miss Gale Oliphant. After I had successfully brought the affair to
the desired climax too! Oh, most unfortunate!
"The suit was brought by a creature who had no claims. Put up to it by
unscrupulous lawyers of no repute. We paid the money that she asked to
hush up the notoriety of the affair, but not before the mischief of
breaking off the relations with Miss Oliphant had been nicely
accomplished. That was over a year ago. My investments have proved
successful. Gale is married to a man twice her age. Breckenridge is
still in England."
"And what's become of the girl you didn't approve of?" I asked lightly,
threading my needle. I was sewing that day.
"The girl with the high principles?" Mrs. Sewall queried. "I don't
know," she said distinctly, slowly. "I don't know, I wish I did. If you
should ever run across her, tell her to come and make herself known to
me, please. I've something to say."
"I will," I said, carefully drawing the thread through my needle and
making a knot. "If I ever run across her. I doubt if I do. I've learned
that _that_ girl has gone on a long journey to a new and engrossing
country."
"Oh? I must send a message to her somehow then. Come here, my dear. Come
here. I've got my glasses caught."
I laid down my work and crossed over to Mrs. Sewall. It was true. The
chain was in a knot. I untangled it.
"How deft you are!" she exclaimed softly. "Thank you, dear. Thank you."
Then she put her cold white fingers on my arm, and patted it a little.
She smiled very sweetly upon me.
"My private secretary pleases me better every day!" she said.
CHAPTER XXII
THE PARADE
I didn't tell Lucy that I was with Mrs. Sewall. I had my mail directed
to Esther's college club. I rather hated to picture the terrible curses
that Edith would call down upon my head when she heard that I was
occupying a position which she would certainly term menial. I dreaded to
learn what Tom would say of me. Already I had seen Malcolm one day on
Fifth Avenue, and bowed to him from the Sewall automobile. Surely, he
would report me; but either he didn't recognize me, or else he didn't
recognize Mrs. Sewall, for Lucy's letters proved she was still ignorant
of my occupation. I accepted kind fate's protection of me; I lived in
precious and uninterrupted seclusion.
Of course, I marched in the suffrage parade when it took place in May. I
rode on Mrs. Scot-Williams' beautiful, black, blue-ribbon winner. Mrs.
Scot-Williams, Mrs. Sewall, and a group of other New York society women
tossed me flowers from a prominent balcony as I rode up Fifth Avenue. I
carried only the American flag. It was my wish. I wanted no slogan. "Let
her have her way," nodded Mrs. Scot-Williams to the other ladies. "The
dear child's eyes will tell the rest of the story."
The parade was a tremendous experience to me. Even the long tedious
hours of waiting before it started were packed with significance. There
we all were, rich and poor; society women and working girls; teachers,
stenographers, shirtwaist makers; actresses, mothers, sales-women;
Catholic and Protestant; Jew and Gentile; black and white; German,
French, Pole and Italian--all there, gathered together by one great
common interest. The old sun that shone down upon us that day had never
witnessed on this planet such a leveler of fortune, station, country and
religion. The petty jealousies and envies had fallen away, for a period,
from all us women gathered there that day, and the touch of our joined
hands inspired and thrilled. Not far in front of me in the line of march
there was a poor, old, half-witted woman, who became the target of gibes
and jeers; I felt fierce protection of her. Behind me were dozens of
others who were smiled or laughed at by ridiculing spectators; I felt
protection of them all.
For hours before the parade started I sat on the curbing of the
side-walk with a prominent society woman on one side, and a plain little
farmer's wife from up state on the other. We talked, and laughed, and
ate sandwiches together that I bought in a grimy lunch-room.
When finally the parade started, and I, mounted on Mrs. Scot-Williams'
beautiful Lady F, felt myself moving slowly up Fifth Avenue to the
martial music of drums, brass horns, and tambourines; sun shining,
banners waving, above me my flag making a sky of stars and stripes, and
behind me block upon block of my co-workers; I felt uplifted and at the
same time humbled.
"Here we come," I felt like saying. "Here we come a thousand strong--all
alike, no one higher than another. Here we come in quest. We come in
quest of a broader vision and a bigger life. We come, shoe-strings
dragging, skirts impeding, wind disheveling, holding on to inappropriate
head-gear, feathers awry, victims of old-time convictions, unadapted to
modern conditions, amateur marchers, poorly uniformed--but here we
come--just count us--here we come! You'll forget the shoe-strings after
you've watched a mile of us. You'll forget the conspicuous fanatics
among us (every movement has its lunatic fringe, somebody has said),
you'll forget the funny remarks, the jokes of newsboys, and the humorous
man you stood beside, after your legs begin to feel stiff and weary, and
still we keep on coming, squad upon squad, band upon band, banner upon
banner."
As I rode that day with all my sisters I felt for the first time in my
life the inspiration of coöperation. It flashed across me that the
picture of the wheel with the wings was as untrue as it was impossible.
I had made a mistake. I was not that sort of wheel. I wasn't
superfluous. I was a tiny little wheel with cogs. I was set in a big and
tremendous machine--Life, and beside me were other wheels, which in
their turn fitted into other cogs of more and larger wheels. And to
make life run smoothly we all must work together, each quietly turning
his own big or small circumference as he had been fashioned. Alone
nothing could be accomplished. Wings indeed! Fairy-tales. Cog-wheels
must mesh. Human beings must coöperate.
That night I had promised to spend with Mrs. Sewall. I didn't want to. I
wanted to see Esther Claff. I wanted to hear the tremor of her voice,
and watch her faint blue eyes grow bright and black. Tonight she would
put on her little ugly brown toque and gray suit, and join the other
girls, in somebody's studio or double bedroom. There would be great talk
tonight! We had all marched in one company or another. I wanted to hear
how the others felt. My feelings were tumultuous, confused. I longed for
Esther's fervor and calm eloquence. But I had promised Mrs. Sewall; she
had been particularly anxious; I couldn't go back on my word now; she
dreaded lonely evenings; and I was glad that I hadn't telephoned and
disappointed her when I finally did arrive a little before dinner.
She took my hand in both of hers; she looked straight into my eyes, and
if I couldn't hear Esther's voice tremble, then instead I could hear
Mrs. Sewall's.
"My dear," she said, "I am very proud of you. You were very beautiful,
this afternoon. You will always do me credit."
I leaned and kissed her hand half playfully. "I shall try anyhow," I
said lightly.
Mrs. Sewall took out her handkerchief and touched it to her eyes, then
slipped one of her arms through mine, and rested her jeweled hand on my
wrist, patting it a little.
"What a dear child you are!" she murmured. "I have grown fond of you. I
want you to know--tonight, when your eyes are telling me the fervor that
is glowing in that arduous soul of yours, how completely you satisfy me.
It may be one more little triumph to add to your day's joy. I want you
to know that if ever it was in my power to place my wealth and my
position on you, dear child, it would be the greatest happiness of my
life. I have given myself the liberty of confiding much in you, of
taking you into the inner courts, my dear. You are as familiar with my
expenditures as with your own; you are acquainted with my notions upon
distribution, charitable requests, wise and foolish investments; you
appreciate my ideas in regard to handling great fortunes; you agree with
me that masters of considerable amounts of money are but temporary
keepers of the world's wealth, and must leave their trust for the next
steward in clean, healthy, and growing condition; you have been
apprenticed to all my dearest hopes and ambitions. Ah, yes, yes, very
creditably would you wear my crown. With what grace, intelligence, and
appreciation of values would you move among the other monitors of great
fortunes, admired by them, praised, and loved, I think. What a factor
for good you could become! Your expansive sympathies--what resources
they would assume. Ah, well, well, you see I like to paint air-castles.
I like to put you into them. This afternoon when I saw you mounted like
some inspired goddess on that superb creature of Mrs. Scot-Williams',
and caught the murmur that passed over the little company on the balcony
as you approached, I thought to myself, 'She's made for something
splendid.' And you are, my dear--you are. Something splendid. Who knows,
my air-castles may come true."
"O Mrs. Sewall," I said softly, "I'm not worthy of such kind words
as those."
"There, there," she interrupted. She had heard the catch in my voice.
"There. Think nothing more about it. We won't talk seriously another
moment. Dinner will be announced directly. Let us have Perkins light a
fire."
CHAPTER XXIII
AN ENCOUNTER WITH BRECK
Mrs. Sewall didn't remain long with me in the library after dinner. She
excused herself to retire early. I was to read aloud to her later, when
Marie called me. I was dawdling over a bit of sewing as I waited. My
thoughts were busy, my cheeks hot. The experience of the day, climaxing
in Mrs. Sewall's warm words, had excited me, I suppose. I wondered if
first nights before footlights on Broadway could be more thrilling than
this success of mine. Was it my new feeling of sisterhood that so elated
me--or was it, more, Mrs. Sewall's capitulation? Was I still susceptible
to flattery?
"Well, hello!" suddenly somebody interrupted.
I recognized the voice. My heart skipped a beat, I think, but my
practiced needle managed to finish its stitch.
"Hello, there," the voice repeated, and I looked up and saw Breckenridge
Sewall smiling broadly at me from between heavy portières.
"Hello, Breck," I said, and holding my head very high I inquired, "What
are you doing _here_?"
"Oh, I'm stopping here," he grinned. "What are _you_ doing?"
"You know very well what I'm doing," I replied. "I'm your mother's
private secretary. What are you doing around here, Breck?"
He laughed. "You beat 'em all. I swear you do! What am I doing around
here! You'd think I didn't have a right in my own house. You'd think it
was your house, and I'd broken in. Well, seeing you ask, I'll tell you
what I'm doing. I'm observing a darned pretty girl, sitting in the
corner of one of my sofas, in my library, and I don't object to it at
all--not at all. Make yourself quite at home, my girl. Look here, aren't
you glad to see a fellow back again?" He came over to me. "Put your hand
there in mine and tell me so then. I've just come from the steamer.
Nobody's extended greetings to me yet. I'm hurt."
"Haven't you seen your mother?" I inquired coolly.
"Not yet. The old lady'll keep. You come first on the program, little
private secretary. Good Lord--private secretary! What do you know about
that? Say, you're clever. Gee!" he broke off, "but it's good to get
back. You're the first one I've seen except Perkins. Surprised?" He
rested both hands on the table beside me, and leaned toward me. I kept
on sewing. "Come, come," he said, "put it down. Don't you recollect I
never was much on patience? Come, little private secretary, I'm just
about at the end of my rope."
"I think you ought to go upstairs and see your mother," I replied
calmly. "Did she expect you?"
"Sure. Sure, my dear. I 'phoned the mater to vanish. Savvy?" He was
still leaning toward me. "Come, we're alone. I dropped everything on the
spot to come to _you_. Now don't you suppose you can manage to drop that
fancy-work stuff to say you're glad to see me?"
"Please, Breck," I said, moving away from him a little. He was very near
me. "Don't be in such a hurry. Please. You always had to give me time,
you know. Would you mind opening a window? It's so warm in here. And
then explain this surprising situation? I'd thank you if you would."
"It is hot in here," he said, leaning still nearer, "hot as hell, or
else it's the sight of you that makes my blood boil," he murmured.
I moved away again, reeled off some more thread and threaded my needle.
"You don't fall off!" Breck went on. "You don't lose your looks. By gad,
you don't!"
"If you touch the bell by the curtain there," I said, "Perkins will come
and open the window for us."
"Good Lord," Breck exclaimed, "you're the coolest proposition I ever ran
across. All right. Have your own way, my lady. You always have been able
to twist me around your little finger. Here goes." And he strode across
to the front window, pulled the hangings back and threw open a sash. I
felt the cool air on the back of my neck. Breck came back and stood
looking down at me quizzically. I kept on taking stitches. "Keep right
at it, industrious little one," he smiled. "Sew as long as you want to.
_I_ don't mind. I don't have to go out again to get home tonight. I'm
satisfied. Stitch away, dear little Busy Bee." He took out a cigarette
and lit it; then suddenly sat down on the sofa beside me, leaned back
luxuriously, and in silence proceeded to send little rings of smoke
ceilingward. "Lovely!" he murmured. "True felicity! I've dreamed of
this! This is something like home now, my beauty. This is as it ought to
be! I always wear holes in the heels too, my love. And no knots,
kindly."
"Breck," I interrupted finally, "is your mother in this?"
"We're all in it, my dear child."
"Will you explain?"
"Sure, delighted. Sit up on my hind legs and beg if you want me to.
Anything you say. It was this way. I was in London when mater happened
to mention the name of her jewel of a secretary. I was about to start
off on a long trip in the yacht--Spain, Southern France, Algiers.
Stocked all up. Supplies, crew, captain--everything all ready. 'I don't
care what becomes of 'em,' I said, when I got news where you were. 'I
don't care. Throw 'em overboard. Guests too. I don't give a hang. Throw
them over--Lady Dunbarton, and the Grand Duke too. Drown 'em! There's
somebody back in New York who has hung out her little Come-hither sign
for me, and I'm off for the little home-burg in the morning.'"
"Come-hither sign! O Breck, you're mistaken. I----"
"Hold on, my innocent little child, I wasn't born day before yesterday.
But let that go. I won't insist. I've come anyhow." He leaned forward.
"I'm as crazy about you as ever," he said earnestly. "I never cared a
turn of my hand for any one but you. Queer too, but it's so. I'm not
much on talking love--the real kind, you know--but I guess it must be
what I feel for you. It must be what is keeping me from snatching away
that silly stuff there in your hand, and having you in my arms
now--whether you'd like it or not. Say," he went on, "I've come home to
make this house really yours, and to give you the right of asking what
I'm doing around here. You've won all your points--pomp, ceremony, big
wedding, all the fuss, mater's blessing. The mater is just daffy about
you--ought to see her letters. You're a winner, you're a great little
diplomat, and I'm proud of you too. I shall take you everywhere--France,
England, India. You'll be a queen in every society you enter--you will.
By Jove--you will. Here in New York, too, you'll shine, you little
jewel; and up there at Hilton, won't we show them a few things? You bet!
Say--I've come to ask you to marry me. Do you get that? That's what I've
come for--to make you Mrs. Breckenridge Sewall."
I sat very quietly sewing through this long speech of Breck's. The calm,
regular sticking in and pulling out of my needle concealed the tumult of
my feelings. I thought I had forever banished my taste for pomp and
glory, but I suppose it must be a little like a man who has forsworn
alcohol. The old longing returns when he gets a smell of wine, and sees
it sparkling within arm's reach.
As I sat contemplating for a moment the bright and brilliant picture of
myself as Breck's wife, favored by Mrs. Sewall, envied, admired by my
family, homaged by the world, the real mistress of this magnificent
house, I asked myself if perhaps fate, now that I had left it to its own
resources in regard to Breck, did not come offering this prize as just
reward. And then suddenly, borne upon the perfumed breeze that blew
through the open window, I felt the sharp keen, stab of a memory of a
Spring ago--fields, New England--fields and woods; brooks; hills; a
little apartment of seven rooms, bare, unfurnished; and somebody's
honest gray eyes looking into mine. It seemed as if the very embodiment
of that memory had passed near me. It must have been that some flowering
tree outside in the park, bearing its persuasive sweetness through the
open window, touched to life in my consciousness a memory imprinted
there by the perfume of some sister bloom in New England. I almost felt
the presence of him with whom I watched the trees bud and flower a
Spring ago. Even though some subtle instinct prompted Breck at this
stage to rise and put down the window, the message of the trees had
reached me. It made my reply to Breck gentle. When he came back to me I
stood up and put aside my needle-work.
"Well?" he questioned,
"I'm so sorry. I can't marry you, Breck. I can't."
"Why not? Why can't you? What's your game? What do you want of me?
Don't beat around. I'm serious. What do you mean 'you can't?'"
"I'm sorry, but I don't care enough for you, Breck. I wish I did, but I
just don't."
"Oh, you don't! That's it. Well, look here, don't let that worry you.
I'll make you care for me. I'll attend to that. Do you understand?" And
suddenly he put his arms about me. "I'll marry you and make you care,"
he murmured. I felt my hot cheek pressed against his rough coat, and
smelled again the old familiar smell of tobacco, mixed with the queer
eastern perfume which Breck's valet always put a little of on his
master's handkerchief. "You've got to marry me. You're helpless to do
anything else--as helpless as you are now to get away from me when I
want to hold you. I'm crazy about you, and I shall have you some day
too. If it's ceremony you want, it's yours. Oh, you're mine--_mine_,
little private secretary. Do you hear me? You're mine. Sooner or later
you're mine."
He let me go at last.
I went over to a mirror and fixed my hair.
"I wish you hadn't done that," I said, and rang for Perkins. He came
creaking in, in his squeaky boots.
"Perkins," I said, "will you call a taxi for me? I'm not staying with
Mrs. Sewall now that she has her son here. Please tell her that I am
going to Esther's."
"I shall see that you get there safely," warned Breck. "I've rights
while you're under this roof."
"It isn't necessary, Breck. I often walk. I'm used to going about alone.
But do as you please. However, if you do come, I'm going to ask you not
to treat me as if--as if--as you just did. I've given all that to
somebody else."
"Somebody else," he echoed.
"Yes," I nodded. "Yes, Breck; yes--somebody else."
"Oh!" he said. "Oh!" and stared at me. I could see it hit him.
"I'll go and put my things on," I explained, and went away.
When I came back he was standing just where I had left him. Something
moved me to go up and speak to him. I had never seen Breckenridge Sewall
look like this.
"Good-night, Breck," I said. "I'm sorry."
"You! Sorry!" he laughed horribly. Then he added, "This isn't the last
chapter--not by a long shot. You can go alone tonight--but
remember--this isn't the last chapter."
I rode away feeling a little uneasy. I longed to talk to some one. What
did he mean? What did he threaten? If only Esther--but no, we had never
been personal. She knew as little about the circumstances of my life as
I about hers. She could not help me. Anyway it proved upon my arrival at
the rooms in Irving Place that Esther was not there.
I sat down and tried to imagine what Breck could imply by the "last
chapter." At any rate I decided that the next one was to resign my
position as Mrs. Sewall's secretary. That was clear. I wrote to her in
my most careful style. I told her that until she was able to replace me,
I would do my best to carry on her correspondence in my rooms in Irving
Place. She could send her orders to me by the chauffeur; I was sorry; I
hoped she would appreciate my position; she had been very good to me;
Breckenridge would explain everything, and I was hers faithfully, Ruth
Chenery Vars.
Esther didn't come back all night--nor even the next day. I could have
sallied forth and found some of our old associates, I suppose; but I
knew that they would all still be discussing the parade, and somehow I
wanted no theorizing, no large thinking. I wanted no discussion of the
pros and cons of big questions and reforms. I wanted a little practical
advice--I wanted somebody's sympathetic hand.
About seven o'clock the next evening, the telephone which Esther and I
had indulged in interrupted my lonely contemplations with two abrupt
little rings. I got up and answered it weakly. I feared it would be Mrs.
Sewall--or Breck, but it wasn't.
"Is that you, Ruth?"
Bob! It was Bob calling me! Bob's dear voice!
"Yes," I managed to reply. "Yes, Bob. Yes, it's I."
"May I see you?"
"Yes, you may see me."
"When? May I see you now?"
"Why, yes. You may see me _now_."
"All right. I'm at the Grand Central. Just in. I called your other
number and they gave me this. I don't know where it is. Will you tell
me?"
I could feel the foot that my weight wasn't on trembling. "Yes, I'll
tell you," I said, "but I'd rather meet _you_--some nicer place.
Couldn't I meet you?"
"Yes--if you'd rather. Can you come _now_?"
"Yes, now, Bob, this very minute."
"All right, then." He named a hotel. "The tea-room in half an hour.
Good-by."
"Good-by," I managed to finish; and I was glad when I hung up the
receiver that Esther wasn't there.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE OPEN DOOR
No one would have guessed who saw a girl in a dark-blue, tailored suit
enter the tea-room that evening about seven o'clock, and greet a man,
with a brief and ordinary hand-shake, that there was a tremor of knees
and hammering of heart underneath her quiet colors; and that the touch
of the man's bare hand, even through her glove, sent something
zigzagging down through her whole being, like a streak of lightning
through a cloud. All she said was: "Hello, Bob. I've come, you see." And
he quietly, "Yes, I see. You've come."
He dropped her hand. They looked straight into each other's eyes an
instant.
"Anything the matter with anybody at home?" she questioned.
"Oh, no, nothing," he assured her. "Everybody's all right. Are you all
right, Ruth?"
"Yes," she smiled. (How good it was to see him. His kind, kind eyes! He
looked tired--a little. She remembered that suit. It was new last
Spring. What dear, intimate knowledge she still possessed of him.)
"Yes," she smiled, "I'm all right."
"Had dinner?" he questioned.
"No, not a bite." She shook her head. (How glowing and fresh he was,
even in spite of the tired look. She knew very well what he had done
with the half-hour before he met her; he had made himself beautiful for
her eyes. How well acquainted she was with all the precious, homely
signs, how completely he had been hers once. There was the fountain-pen,
with its peculiar patent clasp, in its usual place in his waistcoat
pocket. In that same pocket was a pencil, nicely sharpened, and a small
note-book with red leather covers. She knew! She had rummaged in that
waistcoat pocket often.)
They went into the dining-room together. They sat down at a small table
with an electric candle on it, beside a mirror. A waiter stood before
them with paper and raised pencil. They ordered, or I suppose they did,
for I believe food was brought. The girl didn't eat a great deal.
Another thing I noticed--she didn't trust herself to look long at a time
into the man's eyes. She contented herself with gazing at his cuffed
wrist resting on the table's edge, and at his hands. His familiar hands!
The familiar platinum and gold watch chain too! Did it occur to him,
when at night he wound his watch, that a little while ago it had been a
service she was wont to perform for him? How thrillingly alive the gold
case used to seem to her--warmed by its nearness to his body. Oh, dear,
oh, dear--what made her so weak and yearning tonight? What made her so
in need of this man? What would Esther Claff think? What would Mrs.
Scot-Williams say?
"Well, Ruth," the man struck out at last, after the waiter had brought
bread and water and butter, and the menu had been put aside, "Well--when
you're ready, I am. I am anxious to hear all that's happened--if you're
happy--and all that."
The girl dragged her gaze away from him. "Of course, Bob," she said, "of
course you want to know, and I am going to tell you from beginning to
end. There's a sort of an end tonight, and it happens I need somebody to
tell it to, quite badly. I needed an old friend to assure me that I've
nothing to be afraid of. I think you're the very one I needed most
tonight, Bob." And quite simply, quite frankly, the girl told him her
story--there was nothing for her to hide from him--it was a relief to
talk freely.
The effect of her story upon the man seemed to act like stimulant. It
elated him; she didn't know why. "What a brick you are, Ruth," he broke
out. "How glad I am I came down here--what a little brick you are! I
guess you're made of the stuff, been dried and baked in a kiln that
insures you against danger of crumbling. It's only an unthinking fool
who would ever be afraid for you. You need to fear nothing but a
splendid last chapter to your life, whoever may threaten. Oh, it's good
to see you, Ruth--how good you cannot quite guess. I saw you yesterday
in the parade--Lucy and Will too--and I got as near home as Providence,
when suddenly I thought I'd turn around and come back here. I was a
little disturbed, anxious--I'll acknowledge it--worried a bit--but now,
_now_--the relief!"
"You thought I was wasting away in a shirtwaist factory!" she laughed.
He laughed too. "Not quite that. But, never mind, we don't need to go
into what I thought, but rather into what I think--what I _think_,
Ruth--what I shall always think." Compelling voice! Persuasive gaze! She
looked into his eyes. "Ruth!" The man leaned forward. "We've made a
mistake. What are you down here for all alone, anyhow? And what am I
doing, way up there, longing for you day after day, and missing you
every hour? My ambitions have become meaningless since you have dropped
out of my future. What is it all for? For what foolish notion, what
absurd fear have we sacrificed the most precious thing in the world?
Yesterday when I saw you----Oh, my dear, my dear, I need you. Come as
you are. I shan't try to make you over. There's only one thing that
counts after all, and that is ours."
With some such words as these did Bob frighten me away from the sweet
liberties my thoughts had been taking with him. I had been like some
hungry little mouse that almost boldly enters human haunts if he thinks
he is unobserved, but at the least noise of invitation scampers away
into his hole. I scampered now--fast. My problems were not yet solved. I
had things I must prove to Lucy, to Edith, to Tom--things I must test
and prove to myself. I could not go to him now. Besides, all the
reasons that stood in the way of our happiness existed still, in spite
of the fact that our joy of meeting blinded us to them for the moment. I
tried to make it clear to Bob.
"You can't have changed in a winter, Bob, and I haven't. We decided so
carefully, weighed the consequences of our decision. We were wise and
courageous. Let's not go back on it. I don't know what conclusions about
life I may reach finally, but I want to be able to grow freely. I'm like
a bulb that hasn't been put in the earth till just lately. I don't know
what sort of flower or vegetable I am, and you don't either. It's been
good to see you, Bob, and I needed some one to tell me that I was all
right, but now you must go away and let me grow."
"You wouldn't want to come and grow in my green-house then?" he smiled
sadly.
I shook my head. "That's just it, Bob. I don't want to grow in any
green-house yet. I want to be blown and tossed by all the winds of the
world that blow."
"I'll let you grow as you wish," he persisted.
"Please, Bob," I pleaded. "Please----"
He turned away. I didn't want to hurt him.
"Bob," I said gently, "please understand. It isn't only that I think the
reasons for our decision of a year ago still exist, but I've just _got_
to stay here now, Bob, even though I don't want to. I've got it firmly
fixed in my mind _now_ that I'm going to see my undertaking through to a
successful end. I'm bound to show Tom and the family what sort of stuff
I'm made of. I'm going to prove that women aren't weak and vacillating.
Why, I haven't been even a year here yet. I couldn't run to cover the
first time I found myself out of a position. Besides the first position
wasn't one I could exhibit to the family. I _must_ stay. I'm just as
anxious to prove myself a success as a young man whose family doesn't
think he's got it in him. Please understand, and help me, Bob."
"Shall we see each other sometimes?" he queried.
"It's no use. It doesn't help," I said. "I do care for you, somehow, and
seeing you seems to make foggy what was so clear and crystal, as if I
were looking at it through a mist. I mean sitting here with you makes me
feel--makes me forget what I marched for day before yesterday. I was so
full of it--of all it meant and stood for--and now----No, Bob. No. You
must let me work these things out alone. I shall never be satisfied now
until I do."
He left me at my door. There was a light in the windows upstairs, and I
knew that Esther had come home. Bob left me with just an ordinary
hand-shake. It hurt somehow--that formal little ceremony from him. It
hurt, too, afterward to stand in the doorway and watch him walking away.
It hurt to hear the sound of his steady step growing fainter and
fainter. O Bob, you might have turned around and waved!
I went upstairs. "Hello," said Esther. "Where have you been?" and I told
her to dinner with a man from home. A little later I announced to her
that I had resigned my position as private secretary to Mrs. Sewall.
She asked no questions but she made her own slow deductions.
I must have impressed her as restless and not very happy that night. I
caught her looking at me suspiciously, once or twice, over her
gold-bowed reading-glasses. Once she inquired if I was ill, or felt
feverish. My cheeks did burn.
"Oh, no," I said, "but I guess I'll go to bed. It's almost midnight."
Esther took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
"One gets tired, sometimes, climbing," she observed. I waited. "The
trail up the mountain of Self-discovery is not an easy one. One's
unaccustomed feet get sore, and one's courage wavers when the trail
sometimes creeps along precipices or shoots steeply up over rocks. But I
think the greatest test comes when the little hamlets appear--quiet,
peaceful little spots, with smoke curling out of the chimneys of
nestling houses. They offer such peace and comfort for weary feet. It's
then one is tempted to throw away the mountain-staff and accept the
invitation of the open door and welcoming hearth."
"Oh, Esther," I exclaimed, "were you afraid I was going to throw away my
mountain-staff?"
"Oh, no, no. I was simply speaking figuratively." She would not be
personal.
"I'm not such a poor climber as all that," I went on. "I am a bit
discouraged tonight. You've guessed it, but I am not for giving up."
"If one ever gets near the top of the mountain of Self-discovery,"
Esther pursued dreamily, "he becomes master not only of his own little
peak, but commands a panorama of hundreds of other peaks. He not only
conquers his own difficult trail, but wins, as reward for himself,
vision, far-reaching."
I loved Esther when she talked like this.
"Well," I assured her, "I am going to get to the top of my peak, if it
takes a life-time. No hamlets by the wayside for me," I laughed.
"Oh, no," she corrected. "Never to the top, Ruth--not _here_. The top of
the mountain of Self-discovery is hidden in the clouds of eternity. We
can simply approach it. So then," she broke off, "you aren't deserting
me?"
"Of course I'm not, Esther," I assured her.
"What do you mean to do next, then--if you're leaving Mrs. Sewall?"
"I don't know. Don't ask. I'm new at mountain-climbing, and when my
trail crawls along precipices, I refuse to look over the edge and get
dizzy. Something will turn up."
The next morning's mail brought a letter from Mrs. Sewall. My services
would not be needed any longer. Enclosed was a check which paid me up to
the day of my departure. In view of the circumstances, it would be wiser
to sever our connections immediately. Owing to the unexpected return of
her son, they were both starting within a few days for the Pacific
coast. Therefore, she would suggest that I return immediately by
express all papers and other property of hers which chanced to be in my
possession. It was a regret that her confidence had been so misplaced.
I read Mrs. Sewall's displeasure in every sentence of that curt little
note. If I had been nursing the hope for understanding from my old
employer, it was dead within me now. The letter cut me like a whip.
My feeling for Mrs. Sewall had developed into real affection. Her years,
her reserve, her remoteness had simply added romance to the peculiar
friendship. I had thrilled beneath the touch of her cold fingertips.
There had been moments lately when at the kindness in her eyes as they
dwelt upon me, I had longed to put my arms around her and tell her how
happy and proud I was to have entered even a little way into the warm
region near her heart. I loved to please her. I would do anything for
her except marry Breck, and she could write to me like this! She could
misunderstand! She could all but call me traitor!
Very well. With bitterness, and with grim determination never to plead
or to explain, I sent back by the next express the check-books and
papers I was working on evenings in my room, and also by registered mail
returned the bar of pearls she had once playfully removed from her own
dress and pinned at my throat. "Wear it for me," she had said. "If I had
had a daughter I would have spoiled her with pretty things, I fear.
Allow an old lady occasionally to indulge her whims on you, my dear."
I lay awake a long time that night, preparing myself for the struggle
that awaited me. I had as little chance now to obtain steady employment
as when I made my first attempt. I was still untrained, and, stripped of
Mrs. Sewall's favor, still unable to provide the necessary letters of
reference. I hadn't succeeded in making any tracks into which, on being
pushed to the bottom again, I could stick my toes, and mount the way a
second time more easily. Lying awake there, flat on my back, I was
reminded of a little insect I once watched climbing the slippery surface
of a window-pane. It was a stormy day, and he was on the outside of the
window, buffeted by winds. I saw that little creature successfully cover
more than half his journey four successive times, only to fall wriggling
on his back at the bottom again. When he fell the fourth time, righted
himself, and, dauntless and determined, began his journey again, I
picked him up bodily and placed him at the top. Possibly--how could such
a small atom of the universe as I know--possibly my poor attempts were
being watched too!
However, I didn't wait to find out. At least I didn't wait to be picked
up. The very next day I set forth for employment agencies.
CHAPTER XXV
MOUNTAIN CLIMBING
There followed a long hot summer. There followed days of hopelessness.
There followed a wild desire for crisp muslin curtains, birds to wake me
in the morning, a porcelain tub, pretty gowns, tea on somebody's broad
veranda. There were days in mid-July when if I had met Bob Jennings, and
he had invited me to green fields, or cool woods, I wouldn't have
stopped even to pack. There were days in August when a letter from
Breck, post-marked Bar Harbor, and returned like three preceding letters
unopened, I didn't dare read for fear of the temptation of blue sea, and
a yacht with wicker chairs and a servant in white to bring me things.
If it hadn't been for Esther's quiet determination I might have crawled
back to Edith any one of those hot stifling nights and begged for
admittance to the cool chamber with the spinet desk. My head ached half
the time; my feet pained me; food was unattractive. The dead air of the
New York subway made me feel ill. In three minutes it could sap me of
the little hope I carried down from the surface. I used to dream nights
of the bird-like speed of Breckenridge Sewall's powerful automobiles. I
used to wake mornings longing for the strong impact of wind against my
face.
The big city, the crowds of working people that once inspired, the great
mass of congregated humanity had lost its romance. Even my own
particular struggle seemed to have no more "punch" in it. The novelty of
my undertaking, the adventure had worn away. They had been right at the
Y. W. C. A. when they advised me a year ago to go home and give up my
enterprise. I had been dauntless then, but now, although toughened and
weathered, discouragement and despair possessed me. I allowed myself to
sit for days in the room in Irving Place, without even trying for a
position.
It was Esther who obtained a steady job for me at last, in a
book-binding factory down near the City Hall. From eight in the morning
until five at night I folded paper, over and over and over again, with a
bone folder; the same process--no change--no variation. The muscles that
I used ached like a painful tooth at first. Some nights we worked until
nine o'clock. Accuracy and speed were all that was required to be an
efficient folder--no brains, no thought--and yet I never became expert.
The sameness of my work got on my nerves so at last--the everlasting
repetition of sound and motion--that occasionally I lost all sense of
time and place. It was like repeating some common word over and over
again until it loses all significance except that of a peculiar sound.
It broke me at last. I became ill. What hundreds of other girls were
able to do every day the year round, had finished me in three weeks. I
was as soft as a baby. It was my nerves that gave way. I got to crying
one night over some trivial little thing, and I couldn't stop. They took
me to a hospital, I don't remember how or when. I became aware of
trained nurses. I drifted back to the consciousness of a queer grating
sound near the head of my bed, which they told me was an elevator; I
smelled anesthetics. I realized a succession of nights and days. There
were flowers. There was a frequent ringing of bells. Heaven couldn't
have been more restful. I loved to lie there and watch a breeze blow the
sash-curtains at the windows, in and out with a gentle, ship-like
motion. Esther visited me often. Sometimes she sat by the window alone,
correcting proof (she had secured a position in a publishing house the
first of the summer), and sometimes one of the other girls of our little
circle was with her. I never talked with them; I never questioned; they
came and went; I felt no curiosity. They tell me I lay there like that
for nearly three weeks, and then suddenly with no warning and with no
sense of shock or surprise the veil lifted.
Esther and the struggling artist we called Rosa were by the window. They
had both come from the same little town in Pennsylvania. I'd been
watching them for half an hour or more. They had been talking. I had
liked the murmur of their low voices. In the most normal fashion in the
world I began to listen to their conversation.
"I wouldn't have had the courage," I heard Rosa say.
"Why not?" replied Esther. "Her family could do no more than is being
done. If they took her home now, she'd never come back again. Her spirit
would be broken. That wouldn't be good for her. Besides _they_ don't
need her, while I--why, she's the only human being in the world that's
ever meant anything in my life, and I am thirty-three. It has been
almost like having had a child dependent on me--having had _her_, giving
her a new point of view, taking care of her _now_."
"Well, but how long can you stand the expense of this private room, and
the doctors?"
"You needn't worry about that," Esther shrugged.
"But it seems a shame, Esther," burst out Rosa, "just when your father's
estate begins to pay you enough income to live on, and you could devote
the best of yourself to your book--it seems a shame not to be able to
take advantage of it. You've always said," she went on, "that a woman
can't successfully begin to create after she's thirty-five. This will
certainly put you behind a while. And the room rent too! Does she know
yet that you didn't tell her the truth about the price of the room in
Irving Place?"
"No, Ruth doesn't know," replied Esther. "She's very proud about such
matters. When she first came she had only an empty trunk, a new job, and
a few dollars. Later, when I was going to explain, she lost her
position with Mrs. Sewall. I was thankful I hadn't told her then."
"Well, I must say!" exclaimed Rosa warmly, "I must say!"
"Rosa," said Esther. "You don't understand. If Ruth did pay her full
share of the room, she would be obliged to leave me sooner. Don't you
see? My motives are selfish. You're the one person who knew me back
there at home. You have seen all along how stark and empty my life has
been--just my independence, my thoughts, my ambitions. That's all. No
one to care, no one to make sacrifices for, no man, no child----Good
heavens, if some human being has fallen across my way, don't be
surprised if I prize my good fortune."
I lay very still listening to Esther's voice. I closed my eyes for fear
she might glance up and meet the tears in them, and sudden
understanding. I had never known her till now. I could feel the tears,
in spite of me, creeping down my cheeks.
I left the hospital a week later. They sent me back to the room in
Irving Place with orders for long walks in the fresh air, two-hour rest
periods morning and afternoon, and a diet of eggs, chicken, cream and
fresh green vegetables. Ridiculous orders for a working girl in New
York! They disturbed Esther. She was very quiet, more uncommunicative
than ever. I used to catch her looking at me in a sort of anxious way.
It seemed as if I couldn't wait to help her with her too-heavy burden.
Although I had brought back from the hospital fifteen pounds less flesh
on my bones, there was something in my heart instead that was sure to
make me strong and well. My new incentive was the secret knowledge of
Esther's devotion. To prove to her that her sacrifices had not been in
vain became my ambition. For a few days I idled in the room, as the
doctor ordered; strolled about Gramercy Park near-by, feeding my eyes on
green grass and trees; indulged in bus rides to the Park occasionally;
and walked for the exercise.
It's strange how easily some opportunities turn up, and others can't be
dug with spade and shovel. One day, aimlessly strolling along a side
street, up among the fifties, a card in a milliner's shop chanced to
meet my eye. "Girl Wanted," it said, in large black letters.
It was late in the afternoon. If I had set out in quest of that
opportunity, the position would have been filled before I arrived. But
this one was still open. They wanted a girl to deliver, and perhaps to
help a little in the work-room--sewing in linings, and things like that.
The hours were short; the bundles not heavy; I needed exercise; it had
been ordered by the hospital.
The work agreed with me perfectly. It was very easy. I liked the varied
rides, and the interesting search for streets and numbers. It was just
diverting enough for my mending nerves. The pay was not much. I didn't
object. I was still convalescing.
Crossing Fifth Avenue one day, rather overloaded with two large
bandboxes which, though not heavy, were cumbersome, I saw Mrs. Sewall!
A kindly policeman had caught sight of me on the curbing and signaled
for the traffic to stop. As I started across, I glanced up at the
automobile before which I had to pass. Something familiar about the
chauffeur caught my attention. I looked into the open back of the car.
Mrs. Sewall's eyes met mine. She didn't smile. There was no sign of
recognition. We just stared for a moment, and then I hurried along.
I didn't think she knew me. My illness had disguised me as if I wore a
mask.
I was, therefore, surprised the next morning to receive a brief note
from Mrs. Sewall asking me to be at my room, if possible, that evening
at half-past eight.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE POT OF GOLD
Esther was out canvassing for suffrage. She canvassed every other
evening now. She had not touched the manuscript of her book for weeks.
Esther could earn a dollar an evening at canvassing. One evening's
canvassing made a dozen egg-nogs for me. Esther poured them down my
throat in place of chicken and fresh vegetables. I couldn't stop her. I
wasn't allowed even to say "Thank you."
"I'd do the same for any such bundle of skin and bones as you," she
belittled. "Don't be sentimental. You'd do it for me. We'd both do it
for a starved cat. It's one of the unwritten laws of humanity--women and
children first, and food for the starving."
She was out "egg-nogging," as I used to call it, when Mrs. Sewall
called. I had the room to myself. Mrs. Sewall had never visited my
quarters before. I lit the lamp on our large table, drew up the
Morris-chair near it, straightened our couch-covers, and arranged the
screen around the chiffoniers. Mrs. Sewall was not late. I heard her
motor draw up to the curbing, scarcely a minute after our alarm clock
pointed to the half-hour.
Marie accompanied her mistress up the one flight of stairs to our room.
I heard them outside in the dim corridor, searching for my name among
the various calling cards tacked upon the half-dozen doors. It was
discovered at last. There was a knock. I opened the door.
"That will do," said Mrs. Sewall, addressing herself to Marie, who
turned and disappeared, and then briefly to me, "Good evening."
"Good evening, Mrs. Sewall. Come in," I replied. We did not shake hands.
I offered her the Morris-chair.
"No," she said, "no, thank you. This will do." And she selected a
straight-backed, bedroom chair, as far away as possible from the
friendly circle of the lamp-light. "I'm here only for a moment," she
went on, "on a matter of business."
I procured a similar straight-backed chair and drew it near enough to
converse without too much effort. It was awkward. It was like trying to
play an act on a stage with nothing but two straight chairs in the
middle--no scenery, nothing to elude or soften. Mrs. Sewall, sitting
there before me in her perfect black, a band of white neatly edging her
neck and wrists, veil snugly drawn, gloves tightly clasped, was like
some hermetically sealed package. Her manner was forbidding, her gaze
penetrating.
"So this is where you live!" she remarked.
"Yes, this is where I live," I replied. "It's very quiet, and a most
desirable location."
"Oh! Quiet! Desirable! I see." Then after a pause in which my old
employer looked so sharply at me that I wanted to exclaim, "I know I'm a
little gaunt, but I'm not the least disheartened," she inquired
frowning, "Did you remain in this quiet, desirable place all summer, may
I ask?"
"Well--not all summer. I was away for three weeks--but my room-mate,
Miss Claff, was here. It isn't uncomfortable."
"Where were you then, if not here?"
"Why, resting. I took a vacation," I replied.
"You have been ill," Mrs. Sewall stated with finality, and there was no
kindness in her voice; it expressed instead vexation. "That is evident.
You have been ill. What was the trouble?"
"Oh, nothing much. Nerves, I suppose."
"Nerves! And why should a girl like you have nerves?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," I smiled. "I went into book-binding. It's
quite the fad, you know. Some society women take it up for diversion,
but I didn't like it."
"Were you in a hospital? Did your people know? Were you properly cared
for?" Each question that she asked came with a little sharper note of
irritation.
"Yes. Oh, yes. I was properly cared for. I was in a private room. I have
loyal friends here."
"Loyal friends!" scoffed Mrs. Sewall. "Loyal friends indeed! And may I
ask what loyal friend allows you to go about in your present
distressing condition? You are hardly fit to be seen, Miss Vars."
I flushed. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Disregard of one's health is not admirable."
"I'm being very careful," I assured Mrs. Sewall. "If you could but know
the eggs I consume!"
"Miss Vars," inquired Mrs. Sewall, with obvious annoyance in her voice,
"was it you that I saw yesterday crossing Fifth Avenue?"
"With the boxes? It was I," I laughed.
She frowned. "I was shocked. Such occupation is unbecoming to you."
"It is a perfectly self-respecting occupation," I maintained.
The frown deepened. "Possibly. Yes, _self-respecting_, but, if I may say
so, scarcely respecting your friends, scarcely respecting those who have
cared deeply for you--I refer to your family--scarcely respecting your
birth, bringing-up, and opportunities. It was distinctly out of place.
The spectacle was not only shocking to me, it was painful. Not that what
I think carries any weight with you. I have been made keenly aware of
how little my opinions count. But----"
"Oh, please--please, Mrs. Sewall," I interrupted. "Your opinions _do_
count. I've wanted to tell you so before. I was sorry to leave you as I
did. I've wanted to explain how truly I desired to please you. I would
have done anything within my power except----I couldn't do that one
special thing, _anything_ but that."
Mrs. Sewall raised her hand to silence me. There was displeasure in her
eyes. "We will not refer to it, please," she replied. "It is over. I
prefer not to discuss it. It is not a matter to be disposed of with a
few light words. I have not come here to discuss with you what is beyond
your comprehension. Pain caused by a heedless girl, or a steel knife, is
not less keen because of the heartlessness of either instrument. I have
come purely on business. We will not wander further."
There was a pause. Mrs. Sewall was tapping her bag with a rapid, nervous
little motion. I was keeping my hands folded tightly in my lap. We were
both making an effort to control our feelings. We sat opposite each
other without saying anything for a moment. It was I who spoke at last.
"Very well," I resumed. "What is the business, Mrs. Sewall? Perhaps," I
suggested coldly, "I have failed to return something that belongs to
you."
"No," replied Mrs. Sewall. "On the contrary, I have something here that
belongs to _you_." She held up a package. "Your work-bag. It was found
by the butler on the mantel in the library."
"Oh, how careless! I'm sorry. It was of no consequence." My cheeks
flamed. It hurt me keenly that Mrs. Sewall should insult the dignity of
our relations by a matter so trivial. My work-bag indeed! Behind her, in
the desk, were a few sheets of her stationery!
I rose and took the bag. "Thank you," I said briefly.
"Not at all," she replied.
I waited a moment. Then, as she did not move, I inquired, "Shall I call
your maid, or will you allow me to take you to your car?"
Mrs. Sewall did not reply. I became aware of something unnatural in her
attitude. I noticed her tightly clasped hands.
"Oh, Mrs. Sewall!" I exclaimed. She was ill. I was sure of it now. She
was deathly pale. I kneeled down on the floor and took her hands. "You
are not well. Let me help--please. You are in pain."
She spoke at last. "Call Marie," she ordered, and drew her hands away.
I sped down to the waiting car. Marie seemed to comprehend before I
spoke.
"Oh! Another attack! Mon Dieu! The tablets! I have them. They are here.
Make haste. It is the heart. They are coming more often--the attacks.
Emotion--and then afterwards the pain. She had one yesterday, late in
the afternoon. And now tonight again. Mon Dieu--Mon Dieu! The pain is
terrible." All this from Marie as we hastened up the stairs.
Mrs. Sewall sat just where I had left her in the straight-backed chair.
She made no outcry, not the slightest moan, but there were tiny beads of
perspiration on her usually cool brow, and when she took the glass of
water that I offered, her hand shook visibly. She would not lie down.
She would have nothing unfastened. She would not allow me to touch her.
"No, no. Marie understands. No. Kindly allow Marie. Come, Marie. Hurry.
Stop flying about so. I'm not going to die. Hurry with the tablets.
Don't be a fool. Make haste. There! Now I shall be better. Go away--both
of you. Leave me. I'll call when I'm ready."
We stepped over to the window and stood looking out, while behind us the
heroic sufferer, silently and alone, fought a fresh onslaught of pain. I
longed to help her, and she would not let me. I might not even assist
her to her automobile. Ten minutes later on her own feet and with head
held erect she left my room. The only trace of the struggle was a rip
across the back of one of the tight black gloves, caused by desperate
clenching of hands. I had heard the cry of the soft kid as I stood by
the window with Marie.
I opened my work-bag later. The square of fillet lace was there, the
thread and the thimble, the needle threaded just as I had left it when
Breck stepped in and interrupted. There was something else in the bag,
too--something that had not been there before, a white box, long and
thin. It contained the bar of diamonds and pearls, with a note wrapped
around it.
"This pin," the note said, "was not a loan as your returning it
assumes. My other employees received extra checks at Easter-time
when you received this. If you prefer the money, you can, at any
time, receive the pin's value at ----'s, my jewelers, from my
special agent, Mr. Billings. It is my hope that you will make
such use of this portion of your earnings with me that I may be
spared the possibility of the spectacle you afforded me this
afternoon on the Avenue.
"FRANCES ROCKRIDGE SEWALL."
The next night when Esther came in from canvassing, there lay upon her
desk the neglected manuscript of her book, found in a bottom drawer.
Before it stood a chair; beside it a drop-light. A quill pen, brand new,
bright green and very gay, perched atop a fresh bottle of ink. Near-by
appeared a small flat book showing an account between Esther Claff and
Ruth Vars and an uptown bank. Inside, between roseate leaves of thin
blotting paper, appeared a deposit to their credit of five hundred
dollars.
The tide of my fortune had changed. One good thing followed another. It
is always darkest before the storm breaks that clears the sky. My
horizon so lately dim and obscure began to clear. As if five hundred
dollars, safely deposited in a marble-front bank, wasn't enough for one
week to convince me that life had something for me besides misfortune,
three days after Mrs. Sewall called I received a summons from Mrs.
Scot-Williams, whose horse I rode in the suffrage parade. Out of a sky
already cleared of its darkest clouds there shot a shaft of light. I
could see nothing at first but the brightness of Mrs. Scot-Williams'
proposition. It blinded me to all else. I felt as if some enormous
searchlight from heaven had selected poor, battered Ruth Chenery Vars
for special illumination.
Mrs. Scot-Williams had observed that my place at Mrs. Sewall's was now
filled by another. Therefore it had occurred to her that I might be free
to consider another proposition. If so, she wanted to offer me a
position in a decorator's shop which she was interested in. I might have
heard of it--Van de Vere's, just off Fifth Avenue.
Van de Vere's--good heavens--it was all I could do to keep the tears out
of my eyes! Five hundred dollars in the bank--and now kind fate offering
me a seat in heaven that I hadn't even stood in line for! What did it
mean?
Mrs. Scot-Williams, across a two by four expanse of tablecloth (we were
lunching at her club), slowly unfolded her proposition to me, held it up
for me to see, turned it about, as it were, so that I could catch the
light shining on it from all sides, offered it to me at last to have and
to hold. I accepted the precious thing.
"Rainbows really do have pots of gold, then!" I remember I exclaimed.
CHAPTER XXVII
VAN DE VERE'S
Van de Vere's was a unique shop. It had grown from a single ill-lighted
sort of studio into a very smart and beautifully equipped establishment,
conveniently located in the shopping district. It looked like a private
house, had been, originally. There were no show windows. The door-plate
bore simply the sign V. de V's. A maid in black and white met you at the
door (you had to ring), and while she went to summon Miss Van de Vere or
her assistant, you were asked to be seated in a reception-room, done in
black and white stripes.
Virginia Van de Vere was as unique as her shop. She wore long, loose
clinging gowns, with heavy, silver chains clanking about her neck or
waist. She wore an enormous ring on her forefinger. Her hair, done very
low and parted, covered both her ears. It was black, so were her eyes.
She hadn't any color. She led a smart and fashionable life outside
business hours, going out to dinner a good deal (I had seen her once at
Mrs. Sewall's) and making an impression with free and daring speech. She
lived in a gorgeous apartment of her own, and for diversion had adopted
a little curly-headed Greek boy, for whom she engaged the services of a
French nurse. She was very temperamental.
Mrs. Scot-Williams had found Virginia Van de Vere some half dozen years
before, languishing in the ill-lighted studio, on the verge of shutting
up shop and going home for want of patronage. It was just that kind of
talented girl that Mrs. Scot-Williams liked to help and encourage. She
established Virginia Van de Vere.
Mrs. Scot-Williams is a philanthropic woman, and enormously wealthy. Her
pet charity is what she calls "the little-business woman." New York is
filled with small industries run by women, in this loft, or that
shop--clever women, too, talented, many of them, and it is to that class
that Mrs. Scot-Williams devotes herself. She takes keen delight in
studying the tricks and secrets of business success. When some young
woman to whom she has lent capital to start a cake and candy shop
complains of dull trade, or a little French corsetier finds her
customers falling off, Mrs. Scot-Williams likes to investigate the
difficulties and suggest remedies--more advertising, a better location,
a new superintendent in the workshop, one thing or another--perhaps even
a little more capital, which, if she lends and loses it, she simply puts
down under the head of charity in her distribution of expenses.
I had occurred to Mrs. Scot-Williams as a possible means for improving
conditions at Van de Vere's. Miss Van de Vere possessed so highly a
developed artistic temperament that her manner sometimes antagonized.
Her assistant's duty, therefore, would be that of a cleverly constructed
fly, concealing beneath tact and pretty manners ("and pretty gowns, my
dear," added Mrs. Scot-Williams) a hook to catch reluctant customers.
I was fitted for such a position. I had been used as bait before, for
other kind of fish. I purchased my fine feathers. Within a fortnight
after my interview with Mrs. Scot-Williams, I was cast upon the waters.
There was no jealousy between Virginia Van de Vere and me. Beauty to her
was something pulsing and alive. If any one suggested marring it, it
tortured her. I was not so sensitive. The result was, I took charge of
the customers who mentioned leatherette dens and Moorish libraries, and
Virginia's genius was spared injury. She loved me for it. We worked
beautifully together.
Van de Vere's was my great chance. It was indeed my pot of gold. I had
always loved beautiful things, and here I was in the midst of their
creating! Heaven had been kind. The joy of waking in the morning to a
day of congenial work, setting forth to labor that was constructing for
me a trade of my own, was like a daily tonic. I was very happy, full of
ambition. I used to lie awake nights planning how I could make myself
able and efficient. I discovered a course I could take evenings in
Design and Interior Architecture, and I took advantage of it. I read
volumes at the library on period furniture and decorating. I haunted
antique shops. I perused articles on good salesmanship. Mornings I was
up with the birds (the pigeons, that is) and half-way to my place of
business by eight o'clock. It agreed with me. I grew fat on it. I
regained the pounds of flesh that I had lost at the hospital with
prodigious speed. Color came back to my cheeks, song to my lips.
Esther's book actually towered. It wasn't necessary for her to keep her
position in the publishing house any longer. It wasn't necessary for her
to conceal from me the price of our room. My salary was generous, and
with Esther's little income we were rich indeed. We could drink all the
egg-nogs we wanted to. We could even fare on chicken and green
vegetables occasionally. We could buy one of Rosa's paintings for
twenty-five dollars, and lend fifteen, now and then, if one of the girls
was in a tight place. We could afford to canvass for suffrage for
nothing. We could engage a bungalow for two or three weeks at the sea
next year.
As soon as I felt that my success at Van de Vere's was assured, I wrote
to my family and asked them to drop in and see me. The first of the
family to arrive was Edith, one day in February. Isabel, the maid,
announced Mrs. Alexander Vars to me. I sent down for her to come up.
The second floor of Van de Vere's looks almost like a private house--a
dining-room with a fine old sideboard, bedroom hung with English chintz,
a living-room with books and low lamps--sample rooms, of course, all of
them, but with very little of the atmosphere of shop or warehouse.
I met Edith in the living-room.
"Hello, Edith," I said. She looked just the same, very modish, in some
brand-new New York clothes, I suppose.
"Toots!" she exclaimed, and put both arms about me and kissed me. Then
to cover up a little sign of mistiness in her eyes that would show, she
exclaimed, "You're just as good-looking as ever. I declare you are!"
"So are you, too, Edith!" I said, misty-eyed, too, for some reason. I
had fought, bled and died with Edith once.
"Oh, no, I'm not. I've got a streak of gray right up the front."
"Really? Well, it doesn't show one bit," I quavered, and then, "It's
terribly good to see some one from home."
Edith got out her handkerchief.
"I, for one, just hate squabbles," she announced.
And "So do I," I agreed.
Later we sat down together on the sofa. She looked around curiously.
"What sort of a place is this, anyhow?" she asked in old, characteristic
frankness. "I didn't know what I was getting into. It seems sort of--I
don't know--not quite--not quite--I feel as if I might be shut up in
here and not let out."
I laughed. Later I took her up to our showrooms on the top floor.
"Good heavens, do you sell people things, Ruth?" she demanded.
"Of course I do," I assured her.
"Just the same as over a counter almost?"
"Yes--not much difference."
"But don't you feel--oh, dear--that seems so queer--what _is_ your
social position?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've cut loose from all that."
"I know, but still you've got to think about the future. For instance,
how would we feel if Malcolm wrote he was going to marry a clerk--or
somebody like that--or a manicurist?"
"If she had education to match his--I should think it was very nice."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't. That's talk. Most people wouldn't anyhow. You are
awfully queer, Ruth. You aren't a bit like anybody I know. Don't you
sometimes feel hungry for relations with people of your own class?
Friendly relations, I mean? Something different from the relations of a
clerk to a customer? I would. You are just queer." Then suddenly she
exclaimed, "Who's that?"
Virginia had passed through the room.
"Oh, that's Virginia. That's Miss Van de Vere."
"My dear," said Edith, impressed, "she was a guest at Mrs. Sewall's
once, when you were out West. She's so striking! I saw her at the
station when she arrived--Van de Vere--yes, that was the name. It was
in the paper. They spoke of her as a talented artist. Everybody was just
crazy about her in Hilton. She was at Mrs. Sewall's two weeks. She was
reported engaged to a duke Mrs. Sewall had hanging around. I remember
distinctly. What is she doing around here?"
"Why, she and I run this establishment," I announced.
"Good heavens! Does she sell people things?"
"Why, of course, Edith, why not?"
"Well--of all things! I don't know what we're coming to. I should think
England _would_ call us barbarians. Why, in England, even a man who is
in trade has a hard time getting into society. But do introduce me to
her if there's a chance before I go."
Later Edith exclaimed, "By the way, my dear, you'll be interested to
know I've turned suffrage."
"How did that happen?"
"Of course I wouldn't march or anything like that, and I think militancy
is simply awful, but you'd be surprised how popular suffrage is getting
at home. I gave a bridge in interest of it. Lots of prominent people are
taking it up. Look here," she broke off abruptly, "when can you come up
for a Sunday? I'm just crazy to get hold of you and have a good old
talk."
"Oh, almost any time. I'm anxious to see nice old Hilton again."
"Well, we must plan it. How would you like to bring that Miss Van de
Vere? In the spring when the summer people get here. She has quite a
number of admirers among them. I'd just love to give you a little tea
or something."
Same old Edith! A wave of tenderness swept over me for her--faults and
all. "Of course we'll come," I laughed. "I'll arrange it."
I knew in a flash that I should never quarrel with my sister-in-law
again. She was no more to blame than a child with a taste for sweets.
Why feel bitterness and rancor? She was only a victim of her environment
after all. My tenderness--was a revelation. I hadn't realized that
tolerance had been part of my soul's growth--tolerance even toward the
principles from which I had once fled in righteous indignation.
Tom dropped in at Van de Vere's some time in the spring.
"Looks like a woman's business," he almost sneered, critically surveying
the striped walls of the reception-room; and later, "Impractical and
affected, I call it," he said. "If I was building a house I'd steer
clear of any such place as this."
"Wait a minute," I replied pleasantly. "Come with me," and I took Tom
into the well-lighted rooms at the rear, where our workers were engaged,
at the time, on a rush order. "Does that look affected, Tom?" I asked.
"Every one of those girls is living a decent and self-respecting life,
many of them are helping in their family finances; and besides, the few
stockholders of Van de Vere's are going to get a ten per cent dividend
on their holdings next year. Does that strike you as impractical and
affected, too?"
Tom looked at me, shut his mouth very tight, and shook his head. "I
suppose all this takes the place of babies in your life. It wouldn't
satisfy some women ten minutes. Elise wouldn't give up one of her babies
for a business paying thirty per cent."
"But Tom," I replied calmly. "We all can't marry. Some of us----"
"_You_ could have. This is not natural. 'Tisn't according to nature. No,
sir. Abnormal. Down here in New York living like a man. What do you want
to copy men for? Why don't you devote yourself to becoming an ideal
woman, Ruth? That's what I want to know. I don't approve of this sort of
thing at all."
I felt no anger. I felt no impulse to strike back. I had reached such an
elevation on my mountain of Self-discovery, as Esther would have put it,
that I commanded vision at last. Tom and his ideas did not obstruct my
progress, like the huge blow-down that he had once been in my way,
against which I had blindly beaten my fists raw. I had found my way
around Tom. I could look down now and see him in correct proportion to
other objects in the world about me. I saw from my height that such
obstructions as Tom could be circumvented--a path worn around him, as
more and more girls pursued the way I had chosen. I looked down and
perceived, already, girls trooping after me. There was no use hacking
away at Tom any more. Nature herself removes blow-downs on
mountain-trails in time, by a process of slow rot and disintegration.
When time accomplishes the same with the Toms of the world then we
shan't need even to walk around. We can walk over!
So, "I know you don't approve, Tom," I replied almost gently, "and
there's truth in what you say--that women are made to run homes and
families, instead of businesses, most of them. Of course Elise wouldn't
give up one of her babies! She's one of the 'most-of-them.' How are the
babies anyway?"
CHAPTER XXVIII
A CALL FROM BOB JENNINGS
One day, however, I realized that I hadn't walked around Tom. I really
hadn't circumvented, by persistence and determination, the obstacles
that lay in the way to triumph. Some one, like a fairy godmother from
Grimm's, had waved a wand and wished the obstacles away. Virginia told
me about it. I learned that except for Mrs. Sewall I might still be
delivering bandboxes. The searchlight following me about wherever I went
for the last six months, making my way bright and easy, came not from
heaven. It came instead from a lady in black who chose to conceal her
good offices beneath an unforgiving manner, as she hid the five hundred
dollars inside a trivial bag.
Mrs. Sewall called one day at the shop. She asked for Miss Van de Vere.
She was contemplating redecorating a bed-chamber, it seemed. Virginia
came to me in the workshop, and told me about it.
"Your old lady is out there," she said. "You'd better take her order."
"My old lady?"
"Yes, Mrs. Sewall, who landed you in our midst, my dear."
I stared at Virginia.
"Certainly, and pays a portion of your ridiculous salary, baby-mine."
She went on pinching my cheek playfully. She delights in patronizing me.
"You're an expensive asset, my dear--not but what I am glad. I always
urged somebody of your sort to relieve me. Mrs. Scot-Williams never saw
it that way, however, until the old lady Sewall came along and crammed
you down our throats. I wasn't to tell you, but I see no harm in it. Go
on in, and whatever the tiff's about make it up with the old veteran.
She's not a bad sort."
I went upstairs. My heart was bursting with gratitude. I had vexed,
displeased, cruelly hurt my benefactress--she had likened me to a steel
knife--and yet she had bestowed upon me my greatest desire. Much in the
same way as I had rescued the little bug, buffeted by winds, Mrs. Sewall
had picked me up and placed me at the zenith of my hopes. But for her,
no Mrs. Scot-Williams, no Van de Vere's, no trade of my own, no precious
business to work for, and make succeed!
"Mrs. Sewall," I began eagerly (I found her alone in the living-room),
"Mrs. Sewall----" and then I stopped. There was no encouragement in her
expression.
"Ah, Miss Vars," she remarked frostily.
"Mrs. Sewall--please," I begged, "please let me----"
"My time is limited this morning," she cut in. "Doubtless Miss Van de
Vere has sent you to me to attend to my order. If so, let us hasten
with it. I am hunting for a cretonne with a peacock design for a
bed-chamber. I should like to see what you have."
"But Mrs. Sewall----"
"My time is limited," she repeated.
"I know, but I simply _must_ speak."
She raised her hand. "I hope," she said, "that you are not going to make
me ill again, Miss Vars."
I surrendered at that. "No, no," I assured her. "No, I'm not. I'm
thoughtless. I think only of myself. I'll go and call Miss Van de Vere."
"That will not be necessary," said Mrs. Sewall. "You may show me the
cretonne, now that you are here."
For half an hour we hunted for peacocks. I had the samples brought down
to the living-room, piled on a chair near-by, and then dismissed the
attendant. Mrs. Sewall appeared only slightly interested. In fact, I
think we both were observing each other more closely than the cretonnes.
They acted simply as a screen, through the cracks of which we might
surreptitiously gaze.
I noted all the familiar points--the superb string of pearls about Mrs.
Sewall's neck; the wealth of diamonds on her slender fingers when she
drew off her glove; the band of black on the lower edge of the veil,
setting off her small features in a heavy frame. I noted, too, the
increased pallor beneath the veil. There was a sort of emaciated
appearance just behind the ears, which neither carefully-set earring nor
cleverly arranged coiffure could conceal. The veins on Mrs. Sewall's
hands, moreover, were prominent and blue.
But for a tangle in the chain of Mrs. Sewall's glasses she would have
left me with no sign of friendliness. It was when I passed her a small
sample in a book, and she attempted to put on her glasses, that I
observed the fine platinum cord was in a knot. I offered my services. I
didn't suppose she would accept them. I was surprised at her cool, "Yes,
if you will."
Mrs. Sewall was sitting down. I had to kneel to my task. The chain
proved to be in a complicated snarl. My fingers trembled. I was very
clumsy. I was afraid Mrs. Sewall would become exasperated. "Just a
moment," I said, and looked up. Our eyes met. I was so close I could
see the tiny network of wrinkles in the face above me. I could see
the sudden tenderness in the eyes.
"It seems to be a particularly difficult snarl," I quavered, then bent
my head and worked in silence for a moment. We were so near, we could
hear each other breathe.
Suddenly in a low voice, almost a whisper, Mrs. Sewall asked, "Are you
happy here?"
"Oh, so happy," I replied.
"Are you better? Are you well?" she pursued.
I dropped my hands in her lap, looked up, and nodded. I could not trust
myself to speak. I knelt there in silence for a moment.
Finally I said, "Are _you_ happy? Are _you_ better? Are _you_ well, dear
Mrs. Sewall?"
"What does it matter? I am an old woman," she replied, in that
disparaging little way of hers.
Our old intimacy shone clear and bright in that stolen moment. We were
like two lovers forbidden to each other, whispering there together, when
the lights suddenly go out, and they are enfolded in the protecting
dark. "You are not too old to have created great happiness!" I exclaimed
softly.
She shrugged and smiled.
It was a rare moment. I did not mean to spoil it. I ought to have been
content. My eagerness was at fault.
"Oh!" I burst out crudely, "if you knew how sorry I am to have done
anything to _you_, of all people, that displeased. If----" She recoiled;
she drew back. I had ventured where angels feared to tread. The chain
was not yet untangled, but she would not let me kneel there any longer.
She rose; I too.
"My time is limited, as I said," she reminded me; "I am here on
business. Let us endeavor to complete it, Miss Vars."
"Yes," I said, blushing scarlet, "let us, by all means. I'm sorry,
excuse me, I'll go upstairs and see what else we have."
* * * * *
When Bob finally called at Van de Vere's I hadn't seen him for over a
year. While I had been working so hard to establish myself in my new
venture, Bob had been starting a brand-new law firm of his own, in a
little town I had never heard of in the Middle West. He had severed all
connections with the University when his mother had died. I knew as well
as if he had told me that when he broke loose from any sort of steady
salary he had abandoned all hope of persuading me to come and grow in
his green-house, as he had once put it. It had been our original plan
that Bob would work gradually into a law firm in Boston, at the same
time retaining some small salaried position at the University enabling
us to be married before he became established as a lawyer. Bob had been
able to lay little by. His mother had required specialists and trained
nurses. When I first realized that Bob had gone West and set about
planning his life without reference to me I felt peculiarly free and
unhampered. When he as much as told me that it was easier for him not to
hear from me at all, than in the impersonal way I insisted upon, I was
glad. I cared for Bob too much not to feel a little pang in my breast
every time I saw my name and address written by his hand. And I wanted
nothing to swerve me away from the goal I had my eyes set on--the goal
of an acknowledged success as an independent, self-supporting human
being.
When Bob first dropped in at Van de Vere's I hardly recognized him as
the romantic figure who had wandered over brown hillsides with me, a
volume of poetry stuffed into his overcoat pocket. No one would have
guessed from this man's enthusiastic interest in the progressive spirit
of the West that he had been born on Beacon Hill behind violet-shaded
panes of glass. No one would have guessed, when he talked about
cleaning out a disreputable school-board by means of the women's vote,
that he had once opposed parades for equal suffrage in Massachusetts.
When Bob shook hands with me, firmly, shortly, as if scarcely seeing me
at all, I wondered if it might have slipped his mind that I was the girl
he had once been engaged to marry.
He explained that he was in town on business, leaving the same evening.
He could give me only an hour. There was a man he had to meet at his
hotel at five. Bob was all nerves and energy that day. He talked about
himself a good deal. They wanted to get him into politics out there in
that wonderful little city of his. He'd been there only fourteen months,
but it was a great place, full of promise--politics in a rather rotten
condition--needed cleaning and fumigating. He'd a good mind to get into
the job himself--in fact, he might as well confess he was in it to some
extent. He was meeting the governor in Chicago the next night, or else
he'd stay over and ask me to go to the theater with him.
I don't suppose Bob would have referred to the old days if I hadn't. It
was I, who, when at last a lull occurred, said something about that time
when he had found me struggling in a mire that threatened to drown, and
I had grasped his good, strong arm.
"Wasn't it better, Bob," I asked, "that I should learn to swim myself,
and keep my head above water by my own efforts?"
"It certainly seems to be what women are determined to do," he dodged.
"Well, isn't it better?" I insisted.
"I'll say this, Ruth," he generously conceded. "I think there would be
less men dragged down if all women learned a few strokes in
self-support."
"Oh, Bob!" I exclaimed. "Do you really think that? So do I. Why, _so do
I!_ We agree! Women would not lose their heads so quickly in times of
catastrophe, would they? You see it, too! Women would help carry some of
the burden. All they'd need would be one hand on a man's shoulder, while
they swam with the other and made progress."
He laughed a little sadly. "Ruth," he said, for the first time becoming
the Bob I had known, "I fear you would not need even one hand on a
shoulder. It looks to me," he added, as he gazed about the luxuriously
furnished living-room of Van de Vere's, "that you can reach the shore
quite well alone."
CHAPTER XXIX
LONGINGS
The days at Van de Vere's grew gradually into a year, into two years,
into nearly three. From assistant to Virginia Van de Vere I became
consultant, from consultant, partner finally. Van de Vere's grew,
expanded, spread to the house next door. To the two V's upon the
door-plate was added at last a third. Van de Vere's became Van de Vere
and Vars.
My life, like that of a child's, assumed habits, personality, settled
down to characteristics of its own. I remained with Esther in Irving
Place, in spite of Virginia's urgent invitation to share her apartment,
adding to the room an old Italian chest, a few large pieces of copper
and brass, and a strip or two of antique embroidery. I preferred Irving
Place. It was simple, quiet, and detached.
I came and went as I pleased; ate where I wanted to and when; wandered
here and there at will. Evenings I sometimes went with Esther, when she
could leave the book, or with Rosa, or with Alsace and Lorraine, to
various favorite haunts; sometimes with Virginia to the luxurious
studios of artists who had arrived; sometimes with Mrs. Scot-Williams to
suffrage meetings, where occasionally I spoke; sometimes to dinner and
opera with stereotyped Malcolm; sometimes simply to bed with a generous
book. A beautiful, unhampered sort of existence it was--perfect, I would
have called it once.
My relations with the family simmered down to a friendly basis. They
accepted my independence as a matter of course. It had been undesired
by them, true enough, its birth painful, but like many an unwanted
child, once born, once safely here, they became accustomed to it,
fond, even proud, as it matured. I spent every Christmas with Edith in
Hilton, going up with Malcolm on the same train, and returning with
him in time for a following business day. I often ran up for a
week-end with Lucy and Will. Once I spent a fortnight with Tom and
Elise in Wisconsin. The family seldom came to New York without
telephoning to me, and often we dined together and went to the
theater. I ought to have been very happy. I had won all I had left
home for. I worked; I produced. At Van de Vere's my creative genius
had found a soil in which to grow. I, as well as Virginia, conceived
dream rooms, sketched them in water-colors, created them in wood, and
paint, and drapery. I had escaped the stultifying effects of
parasitism, rescued body and brain from sluggishness and inactivity,
successfully shaken off the shackles of society. Freedom of act and
speech was mine; independence, self-expression--yes, all that, but
where--where was the promised joy?
When I look back and observe my life, I see the sharp, difficult ascent
that led to my career at Van de Vere's with clearness. As if it was a
picture taken on a sunny day I observe the details of the first joyous
days of realized ambition. Just when my happiness began to blur I do not
know. Less distinct are the events that led to my discontent. Gradual
was the tarnishing of the metal I thought was gold within the pot. I
closed my eyes to the process, at first refused to recognize it. I
wouldn't admit the possibility of lacks and deficiencies in my life.
When they became too obvious to ignore, I searched for excuses. I was
tired; I had overworked; I needed a change. Never was it because I was a
woman, and just plain hungry for a home. The slow disillusion that crept
upon me expressed itself at odd and unexpected moments. In the middle of
a fine discussion with the girls of the old circle, the
"mountain-climbers," as Esther sometimes called us, the ineffectualness
of our lives would sweep over me. To my chagrin, immediately after an
inspired argument on suffrage a kind of reactionary longing to be
petted, and loved, and indulged occasionally would possess me. Sometimes
coming home to the room in Irving Place, after a long day at the shop, I
would be more impressed by the loneliness of my life than the freedom.
I hid these indications of what I considered weakness, buried them deep
in my heart, at first, and covered them over with a bright green patch
of exaggerated zest and enthusiasm. One never realizes how many people
are suffering with a certain disease until he himself is afflicted. I
didn't know, until my little patch of green covered a longing, how many
other longings were similarly concealed. As I became more intimately
acquainted with the members of our little circle I discovered that there
was frequently expressed a desire for human ties. I recalled Esther's
confession at the hospital. Her words came back to me with startling
significance. "A stark and empty life," she had said, "no man, no child,
no one to make sacrifices for--just my thoughts, my hopes and my
ambitions--that's all." Virginia, too--successful and brilliant Virginia
Van de Vere! For what other reason had Virginia adopted the curly-headed
Greek boy except to cover a lack in her life? For what reason than for a
desire for some one to love and to be loved by were Alsace and Lorraine
so devoted to each other? I read that a philanthropist of world renown,
a woman whose splendid service had been praised the country over, was
quoted as saying she would give up her public life a second time and
choose the seclusion and the joy of a home of her own. At first I
stoutly said to myself, "Well, anyhow, _I_ shall not run to cover. I
needed no one two years ago. Why should I now?" Why, indeed? A nest of
gray hairs, discovered not long after, answered me. They set me to
thinking in earnest. Gray hairs! Growing old! Creative years slipping
by! Good heavens--was there danger that my life would become stark and
empty too? I had chosen the mountain trail. Had I lost then the joy and
the comfort of the nestling house and curling smoke? There were still
interesting contracts of course, engrossing work. There was still the
success of Van de Vere's to live for, but the ecstasy had all faded by
the time I first realized that I was no longer a young girl.
Mrs. Sewall never came again to the shop after that single call. I was
told she was in Europe. I never heard from her. Her son--poor Breck--had
died at sea when a huge and luxurious ocean liner had tragically plunged
into fathoms of water. I learned that an English girl had become Mrs.
Sewall's companion. They were occupying the house in England. No doubt
they were very happy together. Sometimes it would sweep over me with
distressing reality that nobody really needed me--Breck, or Mrs. Sewall,
or self-sufficient Bob in his beloved West. Bob was fast becoming
nothing but a memory to me. If I thought of him at all it was as if my
mind gazed at him through the wrong end of a pair of opera glasses. He
seemed miles away. He must have come to New York occasionally but he
didn't look me up. I heard of his activities indirectly through Lucy and
Will. With the help of the women voters he had succeeded in cleaning out
a board of aldermen, and now the women wanted him to run for mayor. This
all interested me, but it didn't make me long for Bob. I wasn't
conscious of wanting anything specific. My discontent was simply a
vague, empty feeling, a good deal like being hungry, when no food you
can call to mind seems to be what you want.
Mrs. Scot-Williams of her own accord suggested a vacation of two months
for me. I know she must have observed that my spirits had fallen below
normal. Mrs. Scot-Williams said she was afraid I had been working too
steadily, and needed a change. I was looking a little tired. She invited
me to go to Japan with her, starting in mid-July. We'd pick up some
antiques for the shop in the East. It would do me a world of good.
Perhaps Mrs. Scot-Williams was right. Such a complete change might help
me to regain my old poise. I told her I would go with pleasure.
However, before I ever got started my loneliness culminated one dismal
night, two days before the Fourth of July. I had been away for two weeks
with Mrs. Scot-Williams on a suffrage campaign, combining a little
business en route. Mrs. Scot-Williams had had to return in time to
celebrate the holiday with her college-boy son and some friends of his
at her summer place on Long Island.
I arrived at the Grand Central alone, hot and tired. It was an
exceedingly warm night. I felt forlorn, returning to New York for an
uncelebrated holiday. I took the subway down town. The air was stifling.
It always manages to rob me of good-cheer. When I reached the room in
Irving Place I found Esther writing as usual. Esther had grown pale and
anemic of late. Her book had met with success, and it seemed to make her
a little more impersonal and remote than ever. I had been away two
weeks, but Esther didn't even get up as I came in. That was all right.
We're never demonstrative.
"Hello," she said, "you back?" She dipped her pen into the ink-well.
"I'm back," I replied, and went over and raised the shade. A girl all in
white and a young man carrying her coat went by, laughing intimately.
Oh, well! What of it? I shrugged. I had my career, my affairs, Van de
Vere's. "Want to come out somewhere interesting for dinner?" I suggested
to Esther.
"Sorry," she said. "Can't possibly. Got to work."
I stared at Esther's back a moment in silence. Her restricted affection
was inadequate tonight. I glanced around the room. It was unbeautiful in
July. Where was the lure of it? Where had disappeared the charm of my
life anyhow? Why should I be standing here, fighting a desire to cry? I
could go out and find some one to dine with me. Of course--of course I
could. I went to the telephone. Should it be Virginia, Rosa, Alsace and
Lorraine, Flora Bennett? None--none of them! My heart cried out for
somebody of my own tonight, upon whom I had a claim of some kind or
other. I called Malcolm, my own older brother. We had grown a little
formal of late. That was true. Never mind. I'd break through the reserve
somehow. I'd draw near him. There was the bond of our parents. I wanted
bonds tonight.
I got Malcolm's number at last. I was informed by a house-mate of
his that my brother had gone to a reunion with his people for over
the Fourth of July. His people! What a sound it had for my hungry
soul. His people! _My_ people, too, bound in loyalty by identical
traditions. I, too, would go to them for a day or two. There would
probably be a letter for me.
I went to my desk and glanced through my waiting mail. There was
nothing, absolutely nothing. I looked through the pile twice. A family
reunion and they had not notified me! I had become as detached as all
that! I glanced at Esther again. She was scratching away like mad. I
heard the drone of a hurdy-gurdy outside. I would not stay here. The
thought of a holiday in Irving Place became suddenly unendurable. I must
escape it somehow. There was a train north an hour later. My suitcase
was still packed.
"Esther," I said quietly, "I believe I'll go up to Hilton for the
holiday. I don't seem to be especially needed here."
"Mind not interrupting?" said Esther, scratching away hard. "I'm right
in the midst of an idea."
I picked up my suitcase, and stole out.
CHAPTER XXX
AGAIN LUCY NARRATES
No one was more surprised than I on the morning of the Fourth of July,
when Ruth unexpectedly arrived from New York.
We Vars were all at Edith's in Hilton, even to Tom and Elise, who had
taken a cottage on the Cape for the summer and were able to run up and
join us all for the holiday. Will and I had motored up from our
university town, and even Malcolm had put in an appearance. I had
advised Edith not to bother to write Ruth about the impromptu reunion.
I had understood that she was traveling around somewhere with her
prominent suffrage leader, Mrs. Scot-Williams. Ruth is a woman of
affairs now, and I try not to disturb her with family trivialities.
The reunion was not to be a joyful occasion anyhow. A cloud hovered
over it. We're a loyal family, and if one of us is in trouble, the
others all try to help out. Oliver was the one to be helped just at
present. The Fourth of July holiday offered an excellent opportunity
for us all to meet and talk over his problem.
Oliver has always been financially unfortunate. In fact, life has dealt
out everything in the line of blessings stingily to Oliver, except,
possibly, babies. To Oliver and Madge had been born four children. With
the last one there had settled upon Madge a persistent little cough. We
didn't consider it anything serious. She didn't herself, and when Oliver
dropped in one night at Will's and my house, just a week before the
Fourth of July, and said something about spots on her lungs, and
Colorado immediately, it was a shock. The doctor wanted Madge to start
within a week. He was going out to Colorado with another patient and
could take her along with him at the same time. He would allow only
Marjorie, the oldest little girl, to accompany her mother. The others
must positively be left behind. He couldn't predict anything. The lungs
were in a serious condition. However, if the climate proved beneficial,
Madge would have to stay in Colorado at least six months.
Now Oliver and Madge live very economically. They can't afford
governesses and trained nurses. Madge, poor girl, had to go away not
knowing what arrangement was to be made for the care of the two little
girls and infant son, the first Vars heir, by the way, whom she left
behind. Oliver went as far as Hilton with her and got off there with his
motherless brood, joining us at Edith's, while Madge and Marjorie were
whisked away out West with the doctor and the other patient.
I felt sorry for Oliver. He was anxious and worried, seemed helpless and
inadequate. The children hung on him and asked endless questions. He
was tired, poor boy, and disheartened. The arrangement we suggested for
the children did not please him. Edith had generously offered to assume
the care of the little Vars heir. I had said that I would take. Emily,
and to Elise was allotted Becky, aged three. We were all in Edith's
living-room talking about it, when Ruth suddenly appeared on the scene.
Now Ruth is an interior decorator. Her shop is one of the most
successful and exclusive in New York City. We're all very proud of Ruth.
When she appeared that day so unexpectedly at the Homestead, I spied her
first coming up the walk to Edith's door.
"Well--look what's coming!" I exclaimed, for Ruth was not alone. She was
carrying Oliver's littlest girl, Becky.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Edith.
"Is it Ruth?" asked Malcolm, staring hard through his thick,
near-sighted glasses.
"Has she got Becky?" inquired Oliver.
"Explain yourself," laughed Alec, going to the screen door and letting
Ruth in.
We all gathered round her.
"Hello, everybody," she smiled at us over Becky's shoulder. She was warm
with walking. "Nothing to explain. Just decided to run up here, that's
all, and found this poor little thing crying down by the gate. It's
Becky, isn't it, Oliver? I haven't seen her for a year."
"It's just a shame you didn't let us meet you," said Edith. "Walking in
this weather! I declare it is. Come, give that child to me, and you go
on upstairs and get washed up. She's ruining your skirt. Come, Becky."
Becky is an extremely timid little creature. She hadn't let any one but
Oliver touch her since Madge had gone the day before. She had been
crying most of the time. Her lip quivered at the sight of Edith's
outstretched hands. I saw her plump arm tighten around Ruth's neck.
"Here, come, Becky," said Oliver sternly, and offered to take her
himself. She turned away even from him. "She takes fancies," explained
Oliver. "You're in for it, I'm afraid, Ruth."
"Am I?" Ruth said, flushing unaccountably. "Well, you see," she went on
apologetically, "I came upon her down there by the gate just as she had
fallen down and hurt her knee. I was the only one to pick her up, so she
had to let me. I put powder on the bruised knee. It interested her. It
made her laugh. We had quite a game, and when I came away she insisted
upon coming, too."
"You see, Madge has started for Colorado," I explained, "and Becky----"
"Colorado!" exclaimed Ruth. Of course she didn't know.
We told her about it.
"Poor little lonely kiddie," Ruth said softly afterward, giving Becky a
strange little caress with the tip of her finger on the end of the
child's infinitesimal nose. "Most as forlorn as some one they don't
invite to family reunions any more."
"Why, Ruth," I remonstrated. "We thought--you see----"
"Never mind," she interrupted lightly. "I wasn't serious. I'll run
upstairs now, and freshen up a bit."
"Come, Becky," ordered Oliver, "get down."
I saw Becky's arm tighten around Ruth's neck again. She's an
unaccountable child.
Ruth said quietly, "Let her come upstairs with me, if she wants. I
haven't had a welcome like this since the days of poor little Dandy."
An hour later Edith and I found Ruth sitting in a rocking-chair in the
room that used to be hers years ago when she was a young girl. She was
holding Becky.
"What in the world are you doing?" asked Edith.
"I never held a sleeping child before, and I'm discovering," replied
Ruth, softly so as not to disturb Becky. "Aren't the little things
limp?"
"Well, put her down now, do," said practical Edith. "We want you
downstairs. Luncheon is nearly ready."
"I can't yet," said Ruth. "Every time I start to leave her she cries,
and won't let me. Isn't it odd of the little creature? You two go on
down. I'll be with you as soon as I can."
Later that afternoon we continued the discussion that Ruth had
interrupted. Oliver didn't seem to be any more reconciled to the
arrangement than before.
"I hate to break the home all up," he objected. "I want to keep the
children together. Madge does, too. I should think there ought to be
some one who likes children, and who wants a home, who could come and
help me out for six months, who wouldn't cost too much."
"Hired help! No, no. Never works," Tom said, shaking his head.
"You have to be away so much on business, you know, Oliver," I reminded.
Suddenly Ruth spoke, picking up a magazine and opening it. "How would I
do, instead of the hired help, Oliver?" she asked, casually glancing at
an advertisement. "Becky didn't seem to mind me."
"You!" echoed Malcolm.
"Why, Ruth!" I exclaimed.
"What in the world do you mean?" demanded Edith.
"Oh, thanks," smiled Oliver kindly upon her. "Thanks, Ruth. It is bully
of you to offer, but, of course, I wouldn't think of such a thing."
"Why not?" she inquired calmly. "I could give you the entire summer. I'm
taking a two months' vacation this year."
"Oh, no, no. No, thanks, Ruth. Our apartment is, no vacation spot. I
assure you of that. Hot, noisy, one general housework girl. It certainly
is fine of you, but no, thanks, Ruth. Such a sacrifice is not
necessary."
"It wouldn't be a sacrifice," remarked Ruth, turning a page of the
magazine.
"Oh, come, come, Ruth!" broke in Tom irritably. "Let us not discuss such
an impossibility. We're wasting time. You have your duties. This is not
one of them. It's a fine impulse, generous. Oliver appreciates it. But
it's quite out of the question."
"I don't see why," Ruth pursued. "For an unattached woman to come and
take care of her brother's children during her vacation seems to me the
most natural thing in the world."
"You know nothing about children," snorted Tom.
"I can learn," Ruth persisted.
Ruth's offer proved to be no passing whim, no sentimental impulse of
the moment. Scarcely a week later, and she was actually installed in
Oliver's small apartment. The family talked of little else at their
various dinner-tables for weeks to come. Of all Ruth's vagaries this
seemed the vaguest and most mystifying.
Oliver's apartment is really quite awful, disorderly, crowded,
incongruous. It contains a specimen of every kind of furniture since
the period of hair-cloth down to mission--cast-offs from the homes of
Oliver's more fortunate brothers and sisters. When I first saw Ruth
there in the midst of the confusion of unpacking, the room in Irving
Place with its old chests and samovars, Esther Claff quietly writing
in her corner, the telephone bell muffled to an undisturbing whirr,
flashed before me.
The baby was crying. I smelled the odor of steaming clothes, in process
of washing in the near-by kitchen. I heard the deep voice of the big
Irish wash-woman I had engaged, conversing with the rough Norwegian.
Becky was hanging on to Ruth's skirt and begging to be taken up. In the
apartment below some one was playing a victrola. I hoped Ruth was not as
conscious as I of Van de Vere's at this time in the morning--low bells,
subdued voices, velvet-footed attendants, system, order.
"Well, Ruth," I broke out, "I hope you'll be able to stand this. If it's
too much you must write and let me know."
She picked up Becky and held her a moment. "I think I shall manage to
pull through," she replied.
CHAPTER XXXI
RUTH DRAWS CONCLUSIONS
Will and I were buried in a little place in Newfoundland all summer, and
Ruth's letters to us, always three days old when they reached me, were
few and infrequent. What brief notes she did write were non-committal.
They told their facts without comment. I tried to read between the
practical lines that announced she had changed the formula for the
baby's milk, that she had had to let down Emily's dresses, that she had
succeeded in persuading Oliver to spend his three weeks' vacation with
Madge in Colorado, finally that Becky had been ill, but was better now.
I was unable to draw any conclusions. I knew what sort of service
Ruth's new enterprise required--duties performed over and over again,
homely tasks, no pay, no praise. I knew the daily wear and tear on good
intentions and exalted motives. I used to conjecture by the hour with
Will upon what effect the summer would have on Ruth's theories. She has
advanced ideas for women. She believes in their emancipation.
Edith and Alec had gone to Alaska. They could not report to me how Ruth
was progressing. Elise had been unable to leave her cottage on the Cape
for a single trip to Boston. Only Oliver's enthusiastic letters (Oliver
who never sees anything but the obvious) assured me that, at least on
the surface, Ruth had not regretted her undertaking.
Will and I returned the first of September. Ruth's two months would
terminate on September tenth, and I had come back early in order to help
close Oliver's apartment and prepare for the distribution of the
children, which we had arranged in the early summer. Oliver was still in
Colorado when I returned. He was expected within a week, however. I
called Ruth up on the telephone as soon as I could, and told her I would
be over to see her the next day, or the day after. I couldn't say just
when, for Elise and Tom, who were returning to Wisconsin, were to spend
the following night with me. Perhaps after dinner we would all get into
the automobile and drop in upon her.
We all did. Oliver's apartment is on the other side of Boston from Will
and me. We didn't reach there until after eight o'clock. The children,
of course, were in bed. Ruth met us in the hall, half-way up the stairs.
She was paler than usual. As I saw her it flashed over me how blind we
had been to allow this girl--temperamental, exotic, sensitive to
surroundings--to plunge herself into the responsibilities that most
women acquire gradually. Her first real vacation in years too!
Elise and I kissed her.
"You look a little tired, Ruth," said Elise.
"A woman with children expects to look tired sometimes," Ruth replied,
with the sophistication of a mother of three. "I had to be up a few
nights with Becky."
I slipped my arm about Ruth as we mounted the stairs. "Has it been an
awful summer?" I whispered.
She didn't answer me--simply drew away. I felt my inquiry displeased
her. At the top of the landing she ran ahead and opened the door to the
apartment, inviting us in. I was unprepared for the sight that awaited
us.
"Why, Ruth!" I exclaimed, for I recognized all about me familiar bowl
and candlestick from Irving Place, old carved chest, Russian samovar,
embroidered strips of peasant's handicraft.
"How lovely!" said Elise, pushing by me into Oliver's living-room.
It really was. I gazed speechless. It made me think of the inside of a
peasant's cottage as sometimes prettily portrayed upon the stage. It was
very simple, almost bare, and yet there was a charm. At the windows hung
yellowish, unbleached cotton. On the sills were red geraniums in bloom.
A big clump of southern pine filled an old copper basin on a low tavern
table. A queer sort of earthen lamp cast a soft light over all. In the
dining-room I caught a glimpse of three sturdy little high chairs
painted bright red, picked up in some antique shop, evidently. On the
sideboard, a common table covered with a red cloth, I saw the glow of
old pewter.
"You've done wonders to this place," commented Tom, gazing about.
"Oliver gave me full permission before he went away," Ruth explained.
"I've stored a whole load-full of his things. It _is_ rather nice, I
think, myself."
"Nice? I should say it was! But did it pay for so short a time?" I
inquired.
"Oliver can keep the things as long as he wants them," said Ruth.
"But it must make your room in Irving Place an empty spot to go back
to," I replied.
Ruth went over to the lamp and did something to the shade. "Oh," she
said carelessly, "haven't I told you? I'm not going back. I've resigned
from Van de Vere's. Do all sit down."
Ruth might just as well have set off a cannon-cracker. We were startled
to say the least. We stood and stared at her.
"Do sit down," she repeated.
"But, Ruth, why have you done this? Why have you resigned?" I gasped at
last. She finished with the lamp-shade before she spoke.
"I insist upon your sitting down," she said. "There. That's better."
Then she gave a queer, low laugh and said, "I think it was the sight of
the baby's little flannel shirt stretched over the wooden frame hanging
in the bath-room that was the last straw that broke me before I wrote to
Mrs. Scot-Williams."
"But----"
"There was some one immediately available to take my place at Van de
Vere's--another protégée of Mrs. Scot-Williams. I had to decide quickly.
Madge is improving every week, Oliver writes, but she has got to stay in
Colorado at least during the winter, the doctor says. Becky is still far
from strong. She was very ill this summer. She doesn't take to
strangers. I think I'm needed here. It seemed necessary for me to stay."
"Perfect nonsense," Tom growled. "There's no more call for you to give
up your business than for Malcolm his. Perfectly absurd."
"But oh, how fine--how fine of you, Ruth!" exclaimed Elise.
"You shan't do it. You shan't," I ejaculated.
"Don't all make a mistake, please," said Ruth. "It is no sacrifice.
There's no unselfishness about it, no fine altruism. I'm staying because
I want to. I'm happier here. Can't any of you understand that?" she
asked. There was a quality in her voice that made us all glance at her
sharply. There was a look in her eyes which reminded me of her as she
had appeared in the suffrage parade. This sister of mine had evidently
seen another vision. If it had made her cheeks a little pale, it had
more than made up for it in the exalted tone of her voice and expression
of her eyes.
"You say you're happier here?" asked Elise. "Weren't you happy then,
down there in New York, Ruth?"
"Yes, for a while. But you see my life was like a circle uncompleted. In
keeping trimmed the lights of a home even though not my own, even only
for a short period, I am tracing in, ever so faintly, the yawning gap."
"Gap! But Ruth, we thought----"
She flushed a little in spite of herself. We were all staring hard at
her. "You see," she went on, "I've never been needed before as I have
this summer. A home has never depended upon me for its life before. I've
liked it. I don't see why you're so surprised. It's natural for a woman
to want human ties. Contentment has stolen over me with every little
common task I have had to do."
"But, Ruth," I stammered, "we never thought that
this--housekeeping--such menial work as this, was meant for _you_."
"Nor love and devotion either, I suppose," she said a little bitterly,
"nor the protection of a fireside," she shrugged. "Such rewards are not
given without service, I've heard. And service paid by love does not
seem menial to me."
Tom laid down his hat upon the table, and leaned forward. He had been
observing Ruth keenly. I saw the flash of victory in his eye. Tom had
never been in sympathy with Ruth's emancipation ideas, and I saw in
her desire for a home and intimate associations the crumbling of her
strongest defense against his disapproval. I wished I could come to
her aid. Always my sympathies had instinctively gone out to her in the
controversies that her theories gave rise to. Would Tom plant at last
his flag upon her long-defended fortress?
"This is odd talk for you, Ruth," said Tom.
"Is it?" she inquired innocently. Did she not observe Tom calling
together his forces for a last charge?
"Certainly," he replied. "You gave up home, love, devotion--all that,
when you might have had it, years ago. You emancipated yourself from
the sort of service that is paid by the protection of a fireside."
"Well?" she smiled, unalarmed.
"You see your mistake now," he hurried on. "You make your mad dash for
freedom, and now come seeking shelter. That is what most of 'em do. You
tried freedom and found it lacking."
"And what is your conclusion, Tom?" asked Ruth, baring herself, it
seemed to me, to the onslaught of Tom's opposition.
"My conclusion! Do I need even to state it?" he inquired, as if
flourishing the flag before sticking its staff into the pinnacle of
Ruth's defense. "Is it not self-evident? If you had married five years
ago, today you would have a permanent family of your own instead of a
borrowed one for eight months. Your freedom has robbed you of what you
imply you desire--a home, I mean. My conclusion is that your own history
proves that freedom is a dangerous thing for women."
Ruth answered Tom quietly. I thrilled at her mild and gentle manner. We
all listened intently.
"Tom," she said slowly and with conviction, "my own history proves just
the opposite. The very fact that I do feel the deficiencies of freedom,
is proof that it has not been a dangerous tool. If it had killed in me
the home instinct, then I might concede that your fears were justified,
but if, as you say, most women do not rove far but come home in answer
to their heart's call, then men need not fear to cut the leash." With
some such words Ruth pulled Tom's flag from out her fortress where he
had planted it. As Tom made no reply she went on talking. "Once I had no
excuse for existence unless I married. My efforts were narrowed to that
one accomplishment. I sought marriage, desperately, to escape the stigma
of becoming a superfluous and unoccupied female. Today if I marry it
will be in answer to my great desire, and, whether married or not, a
broader outlook and a deeper appreciation are mine. I believe that
working hard for something worth while pays dividends to a woman
always. If I never have a home of my own," Ruth went on, "and I may
not--spinsters," she added playfully, "like the poor must always be with
us--at least I have a trade by which I can be self-supporting. I'm
better equipped whatever happens. Oh, I don't regret having gone forth.
No, Tom, pioneers must expect to pay. I'm so convinced," she burst forth
eagerly, "that wider activities and broader outlooks for women generally
are a wise thing, that if I had a fortune left me I would spend it in
establishing trade-schools in little towns all over the country, like
the Carnegie libraries, so that all girls could have easy access to
self-support. I'd make it the custom for girls to have a trade as well
as an education and athletic and parlor accomplishments. I'd unhamper
women in every way I knew how, give them a training to use modern
tools, and then I'd give them the tools. They won't tear down homes
with them. Don't be afraid of that. Instinct is too strong. They'll
build better ones."
My brother shook his head. "I give you up, Ruth, I give you up,"
he said.
"Don't do that," she replied. "I'm like so many other girls in this age.
Don't give us up. We want you. We need your conservatism to balance and
steady. We need our new freedom guided and directed. We're the new
generation, Tom. We're the new spirit. There are hundreds--thousands--of
us. Don't give us up." I seemed to see Ruth's army suddenly swarming
about her as she spoke, and Ruth, starry-eyed and victorious, standing
on the summit in their midst.
CHAPTER XXXII
BOB DRAWS CONCLUSIONS TOO
It was Edith who told me the news about Mrs. Sewall. I ought to have
been prepared for anything. Ever since Ruth had been employed as
secretary to Mrs. Sewall there had been something mysterious about their
relations. Ruth had never explained the details of her life in the
Sewall household--I had never inquired too particularly--but whenever
she referred to Mrs. Sewall there was a troubled and sort of wistful
expression in her eyes which made me suspicious. She admired Mrs.
Sewall, no doubt of that. She felt deep affection for her. Several times
she had said to me during our intimate talks together, of which we had
had a good many lately, "Oh, Lucy, I wish the ocean wasn't so wide. I'd
run across for over a Sunday." I knew, without asking, that Ruth was
thinking of Mrs. Sewall. She was living in London.
Edith called me on the telephone early one Monday morning. She
frequently is in Boston, shopping. From the hour, evidently she
had just arrived from Hilton.
"Well," she began excitedly, "what have you got to say?"
"Say? What about?"
"Haven't you seen the paper?" she demanded.
"Not yet," I had to confess. "I've been terribly rushed this morning."
"You don't know what has happened, then?"
"No. What has? Out with it," I retorted a little alarmed. Edith's voice
was high-pitched and strained.
"The old lady Sewall has died."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I replied, relieved, however.
"In London--a week ago," went on Edith.
"Really? What a shame! Does Ruth know?"
"She ought to. It rather affects her."
"How's that?"
"How's that!" repeated Edith. "Good heavens, if you'd read your paper
you'd understand how. The old lady's will is published. It's terribly
thrilling."
The color mounted to my face. "What do you mean, Edith?"
"Never you mind. You go along and read for yourself, and then meet me at
one o'clock--no, make it twelve. I've got to talk to some one--quick. I
never saw the article myself until I was on the train coming down. I'm
just about bursting. Good gracious, Lucy, hustle up, and make it eleven
o'clock, sharp."
We agreed on a meeting-place and I hung up the receiver, went upstairs
to my room, sat down, and opened the paper. I found the article Edith
referred to easily enough. It was on the inside of the front page
printed underneath large letters. It was appalling! The third sentence
of the headlines contained my sister's name. There must be some
mistake. Wasn't such news as this borne by a lawyer with proper ceremony
and form, or at least delivered by mail, inside an envelope sealed with
red wax? Ruth had known nothing of this three days ago when I called to
see her. It could not be true. All the way into Boston on the electric
car, I felt self-conscious and ill-at-ease. I was afraid some one I knew
would meet me, and refer to the newspaper announcement. I would dislike
to confess, "I know no more about it than you." I hate newspaper
notoriety anyhow.
Edith greeted me as if we hadn't met for years, kissed me ecstatically
and grasped both my hands tight in hers. Her sparkling eyes expressed
what the publicity of the hotel corridor, where we met, prevented her
from proclaiming aloud.
"Where can we go to be alone for half a minute?" she whispered.
"Let's try in here," I said, and we entered a deserted reception-room,
and sat down in a bay-window.
"Did you telephone to Ruth?" was Edith's first remark.
I shook my head. "No. I didn't like to," I said.
"Nor I," confessed Edith. "She's always been touchy with me on the
subject of Mrs. Sewall since the row. Isn't it too exciting?"
"Can it be legal, Edith?" I inquired.
"Of course, silly. Wills aren't published until they're looked into.
Legal? Of course it is. I always said Ruth would do something splendid,
one of these days, and she has, she has--the rascal."
"You've got so much money yourself, Edith, why does a little more in the
family please you so?" I asked. Edith was extremely excited.
"A little. It isn't a little. It's a _lot_. But it isn't just the money.
It's more. It's what the money does. There has always been a kind of
pitying attitude toward us in Hilton since that Sewall affair of Ruth's,
for all my efforts. This clears it up absolutely. Haven't you read the
way the thing's worded? Wait a minute." She opened her folded paper.
"Here, I have it." Her eyes knew exactly where to look. Ruth's name
appeared in the will at the very end of a long list of bequests to
various charitable institutions.
"Listen. 'All the rest, residue, and remainder of my property,
wheresoever and whatsoever, including my house in New York City, my
house in Hilton, Massachusetts, known as Grassmere; my furniture, books,
pictures and jewels, I give, devise, and bequeath to the former fiancée
of my son, now deceased, in affectionate memory of our relations. This
portion of my estate to be used and to be directed, according to the
dictates of her own high discretion, during the term of her natural life
and at her death to pass to her lawful issue.' Did you ever hear
anything to equal it?" demanded Edith. "Don't you see the old lady
recognizes Ruth before the world? Don't you see, however humiliated I
was at that distressing affair three or four summers ago, it's all wiped
off the slate now, by this? She makes Ruth her heir, Lucy. Don't you
see that? And she does it affectionately, too. I can't get over it! I
don't know what made the old veteran do such a thing. I don't care much
either. All I know is, that we're fixed all right in Hilton society
_now_. Grassmere Ruth's! Good heavens--think of it! Think of the power
in my hands, if only Ruth behaves, to pay back a few old scores. I only
wish Breck was alive. She'd marry him now, I guess, with all this
recognition. I wonder whatever she'll do with Grassmere anyhow."
"Turn it into some sort of institution for making women independent
human beings, I'll wager." I laughed, recalling Ruth's words of scarcely
a fortnight ago.
"If only she hadn't gotten so abnormal, and queer!" Edith sighed.
"Perhaps this stroke of good luck will make her a little more like the
rest of us. We must all look out and not let Ruth do anything ridiculous
with this fortune of hers."
* * * * *
Will and I went over to see Ruth that evening.
"Why, hello!" she called down, surprised, through the tube, in answer
to my ring. "Will and you! Really? Come right up."
"She doesn't know," I told Will, pushing open the heavy door and
beginning to mount.
"Guess not," agreed my husband. "Here's her evening paper in her box,
untouched."
We found Ruth just finishing with the dishes. The maid-of-all-work was
out, and Ruth was alone. She called to me to come back and help her, and
sang out brightly for Will to amuse himself with the paper. He'd
probably find it downstairs in the box.
Five minutes later Ruth slipped off her blue-checked apron, and we
joined Will by the low lamp in the living-room. My sister looked very
pretty in a loose black velvet smock. Her hair was coiled into a simple
little knot in the nape of her neck. There were a few slightly waving
strands astray about her face. Her hands, still damp from recent
dish-washing, were the color of pink coral.
"I'm tired tonight," she said, sighing audibly, and pulling herself up
on the top of the high carved chest. She tucked a dull red pillow behind
her head, and leaned back in the corner. "There! This is comfort," she
went on. "Read the news out loud to me, Will, while I sit here and
luxuriate." She closed her eyes.
"All right," Will agreed. "By the way," he broke off, as unconsciously
as possible, a minute or so later, "Have you heard anything from Mrs.
Sewall lately?"
There was a slight pause. The lady's name invariably clouded my sister's
bright spirit. She opened her eyes. They were wistful.
"No," she replied quietly, "I haven't. She's in England. Why do you
ask?"
"Oh, I was just wondering," my husband replied, losing his splendid
courage. "I suppose you two got to be pretty good friends."
"Yes, we did," Ruth replied shortly. There was another pause. Then in a
low, troubled voice Ruth added, "But not now. We're not friends now.
Something happened. All her affection for me has died. I have never been
forgiven for something."
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," belittled Will, making violent signs to me
to announce the news we bore.
I had a clipping in my shopping-bag cut from the morning paper. I took
it out of the envelope that contained it.
"Ruth," I began, "here's something I ran across today."
The telephone interrupted sharply.
"Just a minute," she said, and slid down off the chest and went out into
the hall. "Hello," I heard her say. "Hello," and then in a changed
voice, "Oh, you?" A pause and then, "Really? Tonight?" Another pause,
and more gently. "Of course you must. Of course I do," and at last very
tenderly, "Yes, I'll be right here. I'll be waiting. Good-by."
I looked at Will, and he lifted his eyebrows. Ruth came back and stood
in the doorway. There was a peculiar, shining quality about her
expression.
"That was Bob," she said quietly.
"Bob?" I exclaimed.
"Bob Jennings?" ejaculated Will.
Ruth nodded and smiled. Standing there before us, dressed simply in the
plain black smock, cheeks flushed, eyes like stars, she reminded me of
some rare stone in a velvet case. The bareness of the room, with its
few genuine articles, set off the jewel-like brightness of my sister in
a startling fashion.
"You don't mean to say old Bob's turned up," commented Will.
"Tell us," bluntly I demanded, "what in the world is Robert Jennings
doing around here, Ruth?"
"Bob's been in town for several days," she replied. "He has just
telephoned that he is called back on business. His train leaves in a
little over an hour. He's dropping in here in ten minutes."
"Why, I didn't know you even wrote to each other," I said.
Ruth came over to the table and sat down in a low chair, stretching out
her folded hands arms-length along the table's surface, and leaning
toward us.
"I'm going to tell you two about it," she announced with finality. "I
wrote to Bob," she confessed, half proud, half apologetic. "I wrote to
Bob without any excuse at all, except that I wanted to tell him what I'd
found out. I wanted to tell him that I had discovered that this sort of
thing," she opened her hands, and made a little gesture that included
everything that those few small rooms of Oliver's epitomized, "that this
sort of thing," she resumed, "was what most women want more than
anything else in the world. Any other activity was simply preparation,
or courageous makeshift if this was denied. I made it easy for Bob, in
my letter, to answer me in the spirit of friendly argument if he chose,
but he didn't. He came on instead. We're going to be married," she said,
in a voice as casual as if she were announcing that they were going out
for dinner.
"You're going to be married?" I repeated.
"Yes," she nodded. "After all these years! Once," she went on in a
triumphant voice, "our fields of vision were so small that our
differences of opinion loomed up like insurmountable barriers. Now the
differences are mere specks on our broadened outlooks. Oh, I know," she
went on as if inspired, "I've been a long journey, simply to come back
to Bob again. But it hasn't been in vain. There was no short cut to the
perfect understanding that is Bob's and mine today."
"And when," timidly I inquired, "do you intend to be married, Ruth?"
My sister's expression clouded. She smiled, and shook her head. "I don't
know," she said, "I wish I did. Years are so precious when one is
concealing a little nest of gray hairs behind one's left ear. Bob and I
have got to wait. You see Bob wasn't planning for this. He had some idea
a career would always satisfy me. He hasn't been saving. He has put
about all he has been able to earn into fighting for clean politics. I
myself haven't been able to lay by but a paltry thousand. Madge comes
home in May. I shall then probably have to look up another job for
myself somewhere or other, while Bob's establishing himself and making
ready for me out there."
Will cleared his throat and coughed. He had simply stared until now. "I
suppose," he said, as if in an attempt to lighten the conversation with
a little light humor, "I suppose a legacy of some sort wouldn't prove
unwelcome to you and Bob just about now."
It must have struck Ruth as a stereotyped attempt at fun. But she smiled
and replied in the same vein, "I think we'd know how to make use of a
portion of it." Then she rose. The door bell had rung sharply twice.
"There he is," she explained. "There's Bob now. I'll let him in."
She went out into the hall and pressed the button that released the lock
of the door three floors below.
I knew how fleeting every minute of last hours before train-time can be.
I motioned to Will, and when Ruth came back to us I said, "We'll just
run down the back way, Ruth."
She flashed me an appreciative glance. "You don't need to," she
deprecated.
"Still, we will," I assured her, and then I went over and kissed my
radiant sister.
Her face was illumined as it used to be years ago when Robert Jennings
was on his way to her. The same old tenderness gleamed in her
larger-visioned eyes.
"When he comes read this together," I said, and I slipped the envelope,
with the clipping inside it, into her hands.
Then Will and I went out through the kitchen, and down the back stairs.
THE END
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