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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d36601 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67130 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67130) diff --git a/old/67130-0.txt b/old/67130-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0977001..0000000 --- a/old/67130-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9402 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Woman Ventures, by David Graham -Phillips - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Woman Ventures - -Author: David Graham Phillips - -Illustrator: William James Hurlbut - -Release Date: January 8, 2022 [eBook #67130] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by - University of California libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN VENTURES *** - - -[Illustration: EMILY.] - - - - - A WOMAN - VENTURES - - _A NOVEL_ - - BY - DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS - - AUTHOR OF - THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF - JOSHUA CRAIG, THE HUSBAND’S STORY, ETC. - - WITH FRONTISPIECE BY - WILLIAM JAMES HURLBUT - - [Illustration] - - GROSSET & DUNLAP - PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1902, - BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. THE SHIPWRECK 1 - - II. THE DESERT ISLAND 8 - - III. SAIL--HO! 16 - - IV. A BLACK FLAG 23 - - V. THE PENITENT PIRATE 31 - - VI. A CHANGED CRUSOE 39 - - VII. BACK TO THE MAINLAND 45 - - VIII. AMONG A STRANGE PEOPLE 57 - - IX. AN ORCHID HUNTER 67 - - X. FURTHER EXPLORATION 79 - - XI. SEEN FROM A BARRICADED WINDOW 93 - - XII. A RISE AND A FALL 101 - - XIII. A COMPROMISE WITH CONVENTIONALITY 112 - - XIV. “EVERYTHING AWAITS MADAME” 120 - - XV. A FLICKERING FIRE 126 - - XVI. EMBERS 138 - - XVII. ASHES 152 - - XVIII. “THE REAL TRAGEDY OF LIFE” 167 - - XIX. EMILY REFUSES CONSOLATION 176 - - XX. BACHELOR GIRLS 185 - - XXI. A “MARRIED MAN” 199 - - XXII. A PRECIPICE 213 - - XXIII. A “BETTER SELF” 225 - - XXIV. TO THE TEST 238 - - XXV. MR. GAMMELL PRESUMES 248 - - XXVI. THE TRUTH ABOUT A ROMANCE 257 - - XXVII. “IN MANY MOODS” 269 - - XXVIII. A FORCED ADVANCE 278 - - XXIX. A MAN AND A “PAST” 288 - - XXX. TWO AND A TRIUMPH 299 - - XXXI. WHERE PAIN IS PLEASURE 308 - - XXXII. THE HIGHWAY OF HAPPINESS 313 - - XXXIII. LIGHT 324 - - - - -A Woman Ventures. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE SHIPWRECK. - - -WENTWORTH Bromfield was mourned by his widow and daughter with a depth -that would have amazed him. - -For twenty-one years he had been an assistant secretary in the -Department of State at Washington--a rather conspicuous position, with -a salary of four thousand a year. Influential relatives representing -Massachusetts in the House or in the Senate, and often in both, had -enabled him to persist through changes of administration and of party -control, and to prevail against the “pull” of many an unplaced patriot. -Perhaps he might have been a person of consequence had he exercised his -talents in some less insidiously lazy occupation. He had begun well at -the law; but in return for valuable local services to the party, he got -the offer of this political office, and, in what he came to regard as a -fatal moment, he accepted it. His wife--he had just married--said that -he was “going in for a diplomatic career.” He faintly hoped so himself, -but the warnings of his common sense were soon verified. “Diplomatic -career” proved to be a sonorous name for a decent burial of energy and -prospects. - -He had drawn his salary year after year. He had gone languidly through -his brief daily routine at the Department. He had been mildly fluttered -at each Presidential election, and again after each inauguration. He -had indulged in futile impulses to self-resurrection, in severe attacks -of despondency. Then, at thirty-seven, he had grasped the truth--that -he would remain an assistant secretary to the end of his days. -Thenceforth aspirations and depressions had ceased, and his life had -set to a cynical sourness. He read, he sneered, he ate, and slept. - -The Bromfields had a small additional income--Mrs. Bromfield’s twelve -hundred a year from her father’s estate. This was most important, as it -represented a margin above comfort and necessity, a margin for luxury -and for temptation to extravagance. Mr. Bromfield was fond of good -dinners and good wines, and he could not enjoy them at the expense of -his friends without an occasional return. Mrs. Bromfield had been an -invalid after the birth of Emily, long enough to form the habit of -invalidism. After Emily passed the period when dress is not a serious -item, they went ever more deeply into debt. - -While Mrs. Bromfield’s craze for doctors and drugs was in one view as -much an extravagance as Mr. Bromfield’s club, in another view it was a -valuable economy. It made entertaining impossible; it enabled Emily -to go everywhere without the necessity for return hospitalities, and -to “keep up appearances” generally. Many of their friends gave Mrs. -Bromfield undeserved credit for shrewdness and calculation in her -hypochondria. - -Emily had admirers, and, in her first season, one fairly good chance to -marry. The matchmakers who were interested in her--“for her mother’s -sake,” they said, but in fact from the matchmaking mania,--were -exasperated by her refusal. They remonstrated with her mother in vain. - -“I know, I know,” sighed Mrs. Bromfield. “But what can I do? Emily -is so headstrong and I am in such feeble health. I am forbidden the -agitation of a discussion. I’ve told Emily that a girl without money, -and with nothing but family, must be careful. But she won’t listen to -me.” - -Mrs. Ainslie, the most genuinely friendly of all the women who insured -their own welcome by chaperoning a clever, pretty, popular girl, -pressed the matter upon Emily with what seemed to her an impertinence -to be resented. - -“Don’t be offended, child,” said Mrs. Ainslie, replying to Emily’s -haughty coldness. “You ought to thank me. I only hope you will never -regret it. A girl without a dot can’t afford to trifle. A second season -is dangerous, especially here in Washington, where they bring the -babies out of the nursery to marry them off.” - -“Why, you yourself used to call Bob Fulton one of nature’s poor jokes,” -Emily retorted. “You overlooked these wonderful good qualities in him -until he began to annoy me.” - -“Sarcasm does not change the facts.” Mrs. Ainslie was irritated in -her even-tempered, indifferent fashion. “You think you’ll wait and -look about you. But let me tell you, my dear, precious few girls, even -the most eligible of them, have more than one really good chance to -marry. Oh, I know what they say. But they exaggerate flirtations into -proposals. This business--yes, _business_--of marrying isn’t so serious -a matter with the men as it is with us. And we can’t hunt; we must -sit and wait. In this day the stupidest men are crafty enough to see -through the subtlest kind of stalking.” - -Emily had no reply. She could think of no arguments except those of the -heart. And she felt that it would be ridiculous to bring them into the -battering and bruising of this discussion. - -It was in May that she refused her “good chance.” In June her father -fell sick. In mid-July they buried him and drove back from the cemetery -to face ruin. - -Ruin, in domestic finance, has meanings that range from the borderland -of comedy to the blackness beyond tragedy. - -The tenement family, thrust into the street and stripped of their goods -for non-payment of rent, find in ruin an old acquaintance. They take -a certain pleasure in the noise and confusion which their uproarious -bewailing and beratings create throughout the neighbourhood. They enjoy -the passers-by pausing to pity them, a ragged and squalid group, -homeless on the curb. They have been ruined many times, will be ruined -many times. They are sustained by the knowledge that there are other -tenements, other “easy-payment” merchants. A few hours, a day or two -at most, and they are completely reëstablished and are busy making -new friends among their new neighbours, exchanging reminiscences of -misfortune and rumours of ideal “steady jobs.” - -The rich family suddenly ruined has greater shock and sorrow. But -usually there are breaks in the fall. A son or a daughter has married -well; the head of the family gets business opportunities through rich -friends; there is wreckage enough to build up a certain comfort, to -make the descent into poverty gradual, almost gentle. - -But to such people as the Bromfields the word _ruin_ meant--ruin. They -had not had enough to lose to make their catastrophe seem important to -others; indeed, the fact that a little was saved made their friends -feel like congratulating them. But the ruin was none the less thorough. -They were shorn of all their best belongings--all the luxury that -was through habit necessity. They must give up the comfortable house -in Connecticut Avenue, where they had lived for twenty years. They -must leave their associations, their friends. They must go to a New -England factory village. And there they would have a tiny income, -to be increased only by the exertions of two women, one a helpless -hypochondriac, both ignorant of anything for which any one would give -pay. And this cataclysm was wrought within a week. - -“Fate will surely strike the finishing blow,” thought Emily, as she -wandered drearily through the dismantling house. “We shall certainly -lose the little we have left.” And this spectre haunted her wakeful -nights for weeks. - -Mr. Bromfield was not a “family man.” He had left his wife and home -first to the neglect of servants, and afterward to the care of his -daughter. As Emily grew older and able to judge his life-failure, -his vanity, his selfishness--the weaknesses of which he was keenly -conscious, he saw or fancied he saw in her clear eyes a look that -irritated him against himself, against her, and against his home. He -was there so rarely that the women never took him into account. Yet -instead of bearing his death with that resigned fortitude which usually -characterises the practical, self-absorbed human race in its dealings -with the inevitable, they mourned him day and night. - -After one of his visits of business and consolation, General Ainslie -returned home with tears in his eyes. - -“It is wonderful, wonderful!” he said in his “sentimental” voice--a -tone which his wife understood and prepared to combat. She liked his -sentimental side, but she had only too good reason to deplore its -influence upon his judgment. - -“What now?” she inquired. - -“I’ve been to see Wentworth’s widow and daughter. It was most touching, -Abigail. He always neglected them, yet they mourn him in a way that a -better man might envy.” - -“Mourn him? Why, he was never at home. They hardly knew him.” - -“Yet I have never seen such grief.” - -“Grief? Of course. But not for him. They don’t miss him; they miss his -salary--his four thousand a year. And that’s the kind of grief you -can’t soothe. The real house of mourning is the house that’s lost its -breadwinner.” - -General Ainslie looked uncomfortable. - -“Do you remember that Chinese funeral we saw at Pekin, George?” his -wife continued. “Do you remember the widows in covered cages dragging -along behind the corpse--and the big fellow with the prod walking -behind each cage? And whenever the widows stopped howling, don’t you -remember how those prods were worked until the response from inside was -satisfactory?” - -“Yes, but--really, I must say, Abbie----” - -“Well, George--poverty is the prod. No wonder they mourn Wentworth.” - -General Ainslie looked foolish. “I guess I won’t confess,” he said to -himself, “that it was this afternoon I told the Bromfields they had -only five hundred a year and the house in Stoughton. It would encourage -her in her cynicism.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE DESERT ISLAND. - - -THREE months later--August, September, and October, the months of -Stoughton’s glory--gave Emily Bromfield a minute acquaintance with all -that lay within her new horizon. She was as familiar with Stoughton as -Crusoe with his island--and was in a Crusoe-like state of depression. -She thought she had found the lowest despond of which human nature -is capable on the day she saw the top of the Washington monument -disappear, saw the last of the city of her enjoyments and her hopes. -But now she dropped to a still lower depth--that depth in which the -heart becomes a source of physical discomfort, the appetite fails, the -brain sinks into a stupor and the health begins to decline. - -“Don’t be so blue, Emmy,” Mrs. Ainslie had said at the station as they -were leaving Washington. “Nothing is as bad as it seems in advance. -Even Stoughton will have its consolations--though I must confess I -can’t think what they could be at this distance.” - -But the proverb was wrong and Stoughton as a reality was worse than -Stoughton as a foreboding. - -At first Emily was occupied in arranging their new home--creeper-clad, -broad of veranda and viewing a long sloping lawn where the sun and -the moon traced the shadows of century-old trees. She began to think -that Stoughton was not so bad after all. The “best people” had called -and had made a good impression. Her mother had for the moment lifted -herself out of peevish and tearful grief, and had ceased giving double -weight to her daughter’s oppressive thoughts by speaking them. But -illusion and delusion departed with the departing sense of novelty. - -Nowhere does nature do a kindlier summer work than in Stoughton. In -winter the trees and gardens and lawns, worse than naked with their -rustling or crumbling reminders of past glory, expose the prim rows of -prim houses and the stiff and dull life that dozes behind their walls. -In winter no one could be deceived as to what living in Stoughton -meant--living in it in the sense of being forced there from a city, -forced to remain permanently. - -But in summer, nature charitably lends Stoughton a corner of the -gorgeous garment with which she adorns its country. The sun dries the -muddy streets and walks, and the town slumbers in comfort under huge -trees, whose leaves quiver with what seems to be the gentle joy of a -quiet life. The boughs and the creepers conspire to transform hideous -little houses into crystallised songs of comfort and content. The -lawns lie soft and green and restful. The gardens dance in the homely -beauty of lilac and hollyhock and wild rose. Those who then come from -the city to Stoughton sigh at the contrast of this poetry with the -harsh prose of city life. They wonder at the sombre faces of the old -inhabitants, at the dumb and stolid expression of youth, at the fierce -discontent which smoulders in the eyes of a few. - -But if they stay they do not wonder long. For the town in the bare -winter is the real town the year round. The town of summer, tricked out -in nature’s borrowed finery, is no more changed than was the jackdaw by -his stolen peacock plumes. The smile, the gaiety, is on the surface. -The prim, solemn old heart of Stoughton is as unmoved as when the frost -is biting it. - -In the first days of November Emily Bromfield, walking through the -wretched streets under bare black boughs and a gray sky, had the full -bitterness of her castaway life forced upon her. She felt as if she -were suffocating. - -She had been used to the gayest and freest society in America. Here, to -talk as she had been used to talking and to hearing others talk, would -have produced scandal or stupefaction. To act as she and her friends -acted in Washington, would have set the preachers to preaching against -her. There was no one with whom she could get into touch. She had -instantly seen that the young men were not worth her while. The young -women, she felt, would meet her advances only in the hope of getting -the materials for envious gossip about her. - -“It will be years,” she said to herself, “before I shall be able to -narrow and slacken myself to fit this place. And why should I? Of what -use would life be?” - -She soon felt how deeply Stoughton disapproved of her, chiefly, as she -thought, because she did not conceal her resentment against its prying -and peeping inquiry and its narrow judgments. She was convinced that -but for her bicycle and her books she would go mad. Her ever-present -idea, conscious or sub-conscious, was, “How get away from Stoughton?” A -hundred times a day she repeated to herself, or aloud in the loneliness -of her room, “How? how? how?” sometimes in a frenzy; again, stupidly, -as if “how” were a word of a complex and difficult meaning which she -could not grasp. - -But there was never any answer. - -She had formerly wished at times that she were a man. Now, she wished -it hourly. That seemed the only solution of the problem of her -life--that, or marriage. And she felt she might as hopefully wish the -one as the other. - -Year by year, with a patience as slow and persevering as that of a -colony of coral insects, Stoughton developed a small number of youth -of both sexes. Year by year the railroads robbed her of her best young -men, leaving behind only such as were stupid or sluggard. Year by -year the young women found themselves a twelvemonth nearer the fate -of the leaves which the frost fails to cut off and disintegrate. For -a few there was the alternative of marrying the blighted young men--a -desperate adventure in the exchange of single for double or multiple -burdens. - -Some of the young women rushed about New England, visiting its towns, -and finding each town a reproduction of Stoughton. Some went to the -cities a visiting, and returned home dazed and baffled. A few bettered -themselves in their quest; but more only increased their discontent, -or, marrying, regretted the ills they had fled. Those who married away -from home about balanced those who were deprived of opportunities to -marry, by the girl visitors from other towns, who caught with their new -faces and new man-catching tricks the Stoughton eligible-ineligibles. - -At twenty a Stoughton girl began to be anxious. At twenty-five, the -sickening doubt shot its anguish into her soul. At thirty came despair; -and rarely, indeed, did despair leave. It was fluttered sometimes, or -pretended to be; but, after a few feeble flappings, it roosted again. -In Stoughton “society” the old maids outnumbered the married women. - -Clearly, there was no chance to marry. Emily might have overcome the -timidity of such young men as there were, and might have married almost -any one of them. But her end would have been more remote than ever. It -was not marriage in itself that she sought, but release from Stoughton. -And none of these young men was able to make a living away from -Stoughton, even should she marry him and succeed in getting him away. - -She revolved the idea of visiting her friends in Washington. But there -poverty barred the way. She had never had so very many clothes. Now, -she could afford only the simplest and cheapest. She looked over what -she had brought with her from Washington. Each bit of finery reminded -her of pleasures, keen when she enjoyed them, cruelly keen in memory. -The gowns were of a kind that would have made Stoughton open its sleepy -eyes, but they would not do for Washington again. - -The people she knew there were self-absorbed, inclined to snobbishness, -to patronising contemptuously those of their own set who were overtaken -by misfortunes and could not keep the pace. They tolerated these -reminders of the less luxurious and less fortunate phases of life, -but--well, toleration was not a virtue which Emily Bromfield cared to -have exercised toward herself. She could hear Mrs. Ainslie or Mrs. -Chesterton or Mrs. Connors-Smith whispering: “Yes--the poor dear--it’s -so sad. I really had to take pity on her. No--not a penny--I even had -to send her the railway fares. But I felt it was a duty people in our -position owe.” - -And so her prison had no door. - -Emily kept her thoughts to herself. Her mother was almost as content as -she had been in Washington. Did she not still have her diseases? Were -there not doctors and drug-shops? Was there not a circulating library, -mostly light literature of her favourite innocuous kind? And did not -the old women who called listen far more patiently than her Washington -friends to tedious recitals of symptoms and of the plots and scenes of -novels? - -Emily could keep to her room or ride about the country on her bicycle. -She at least had the freedom of her prison, and was not disturbed in -her companionship with solitude. With the bad weather, she hid in her -room more and more. She would sit there hours on hours in the same -position, staring out of the window, thinking the same thoughts over -and over again, and finding fresh springs of unhappiness in them each -time. - -Occasionally she gave way to storms of grief. - -The day she looked over her dresses under the stimulus of the idea -of visiting Washington was one of her worst days. As she stood with -her finery about her and a half-hope in her heart, she recalled her -Washington life--her school days, her first season, her flirtations, -the confident, arrogant way in which she had looked forward on life. -Then came the thought that all was over, that she could not go to -Washington, that she must stay in Stoughton--on and on and on---- - -She grew hot and cold by turns, sank to the floor, buried her face in -the heap of cloth and lace and silk. If the good people of Stoughton -had peeped at her they would have thought her possessed of an evil -spirit. She gnashed her teeth and tore at the garments, her slight -frame shaking with sobs of impotent rage and despair. - -When she came to herself and went downstairs, pale and calm and cold, -her mother was talking with a woman who had come in to gossip. She took -up a book and was gone. - -“Your daughter is not looking well,” said Mrs. Alcott, sourly resentful -of Emily’s courteous frigidity. - -“Poor child!” said Mrs. Bromfield, “she takes her father’s death _so_ -to heart.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -SAIL--HO! - - -WINTER’S swoop upon Stoughton that year was early and savage. In her -desperate loneliness and boredom Emily began occasionally to indulge in -the main distraction of Stoughton--church. On a Sunday late in March -she went for the first time since Christmas. Her mother had succumbed -to the drugs and had been really ill, so ill that Emily did not dare -let herself admit the dread of desolation which menaced. But, the -crisis past, Mrs. Bromfield had rapidly returned to her normal state. -The peril of death cowed or dignified her into silence. When she again -took up her complainings, her daughter was reassured. - -As she walked the half mile to the little church, Emily was in better -spirits than at any time since she had come to Stoughton. The reaction -from her fears had given her natural spirits of youth their first -chance to assert themselves. She found herself hopeful for no reason, -cheerful not because of benefits received or expected, but because of -calamities averted. “I might be so much worse off,” she was thinking. -“There is mother, and there is the income. I feel almost rich--and a -little ungrateful. I’m in quite a church-going mood.” - -The walk through the cold air did her good, and as she went up the -aisle her usually pale face was delicately flushed and she was carrying -her slender but very womanly figure with that erectness and elasticity -which made its charm in the days when people were in the habit of -discussing her prospects as based upon her title to beauty. Her black -dress and small black hat brought out the finest effects of her -red-brown hair and violet eyes and rosy white skin. She was, above all, -most distinguished looking--in strong contrast to the stupid faces and -ill-carried forms in “Sunday best.” - -Her coming caused a stir--that rustling and creaking of garments -feminine and starched, which in the small town church always arouses -the dozers for something uncommon. She faintly smiled a greeting to -Mrs. Cockburn as she entered the pew where that old lady was sitting. -She had just raised her head from the appearance of prayer, when Mrs. -Cockburn whispered: - -“Have you seen young Mr. Wayland?” - -Emily could not remember that she had heard of him. But Mrs. Cockburn’s -agitation demanded a show of interest, so she whispered: - -“No--where is he?” - -She would have said, “Who is he?” but that would have called for a long -explanation. And, as Mrs. Cockburn had a wide space between her upper -front teeth, every time she whispered the letter =s= the congregation -rustled and the minister was disconcerted. - -“There,” whispered Mrs. Cockburn. “Straight across--don’t look now, for -he’s looking at us--straight across to the other side two pews forward.” - -When they rose for the hymn, Emily glanced and straightway saw the -cause of Mrs. Cockburn’s excitement. He was a commonplace-looking young -man with a heavy moustache. His hair was parted in the middle and -brushed back carefully and smoothly. He was dressed like a city man, as -distinguished from the Stoughton man who, little as he owed to nature, -owed even less to art as exploited by the Stoughton tailors. - -Young Mr. Wayland would not have attracted Emily’s attention in a city -because he was in no way remarkable. But in Stoughton he seemed to her -somewhat as an angel might seem to a Peri wandering in outer darkness. -When she discovered him looking at her a few moments later, and looking -with polite but interested directness, she felt herself colouring. -She also felt pleased--and hopeful in that fantastic way in which the -desperate dream of desperate chances. - -After the service she stood talking to Mrs. Cockburn, affecting an -unprecedented interest in a woman whom she liked as little--if as -much--as any in Stoughton. Her back was toward the aisle but she felt -her “sail-ho,” coming. - -“He’s on his way to us,” said Mrs. Cockburn hoarsely--she had been -paying no attention to what Emily had been saying to her, or to her -own answers. She now pushed eagerly past Emily to greet the young man -at the door of the pew. - -“Why, I’m so glad to see you again, Mr. Wayland,” she said with a -cordiality that verged on hysteria. “It has been a long time. I’m -afraid you’ve forgotten an old woman like me.” - -“No, indeed, Mrs. Cockburn,” replied Wayland, who had just provided -himself with her name. “It’s been only four years, and you’ve not -changed.” - -Mrs. Cockburn saw his eyes turn toward Emily and introduced him. Emily -was not blushing now, or apparently interested. She seemed to be simply -waiting for her path to be cleared. - -“I felt certain it was you,” began young Wayland, a little embarrassed. -He made a gesture as if to unbutton his long coat and take something -from his inside pocket, then seemed to change his mind. “I’ve a note of -introduction to you, that is to your mother--Mrs. Ainslie, you know. -But I heard that your mother was ill. And I hesitated about coming.” - -“Mother is much better.” Emily was friendly, but not effusive. “I am -sure she--both of us--will be glad to see a friend of Mrs. Ainslie.” - -She smiled, shook hands with him, gave him a fascinating little -nod, submitted to a kiss on the cheek from Mrs. Cockburn and went -swiftly and gracefully down the aisle. Wayland looked after her with -admiration. He had been in Stoughton three weeks and was profoundly -bored. - -Mrs. Cockburn was also looking after her, but disapprovingly. “A nice -young woman in some ways,” she said. “But she carries her head too high -for the plain people here.” - -“She’s had a good deal of trouble, I’ve heard,” Wayland answered, not -committing himself. - -The next morning Mrs. Bromfield got a letter from Mrs. Ainslie. It was -of unusual length for Mrs. Ainslie, who was a bird-of-passage that -rarely paused long enough for extended communication. - -“I never could get used to that big, angular handwriting,” said Mrs. -Bromfield to her daughter. “Won’t you read it to me, please?” - -Emily began at “My Dear Frances” and read steadily through, finding in -the postscript four sentences which should have begun the letter of so -worldly-wise a woman: “Don’t on any account let Emily see this. You -know how she acted about Bob Fulton. She ought to have learned better -by this time, but I don’t trust her. Be careful what you say to her.” - -Mrs. Ainslie was urging the opportunity offered by the sojourn of young -Wayland in Stoughton. “Emily will have a clear field,” she wrote. -“He’s got money in his own right--millions when his father dies--and -he’s a good deal of a fool--dissipated, I hear, but in a prudent, -business-like way. It’s Emily’s chance for a resurrection.” - -Mrs. Bromfield was made speechless by the postscript. Emily sat silent, -looking at the letter on the table before her. - -“Don’t be prejudiced against him, dear,” pleaded her mother. - -“I imagine it doesn’t matter in the least what I think of him,” Emily -replied. She rose and left the room, sending back from the doorway a -short, queer laugh that made her mother feel how shut out she was from -what was going on in her daughter’s mind. - -If she could have seen into that small, ethereal-looking head she -would have been astounded at the thoughts boiling there. Emily had -been bred in an atmosphere of mercenary or, rather, “practical” -ideas. But she was also a woman of sound and independent mind, in the -habit of thinking for herself, and with strong mental and physical -self-respect. She would have hesitated to marry unwisely for love. -But she had been far from that state of self-degradation in which a -young woman deliberately and consciously closes her heart, locks the -door and flings the key away. Now however, the deepest instinct of -the human animal--the instinct of self-preservation--was aroused in -her. It seemed to her that an imperative command had issued from that -instinct--a command at any cost to flee the living death of Stoughton. - - * * * * * - -That same afternoon Mrs. Bromfield learned--without having to ask a -question--all that Stoughton knew about the Waylands: They were the -pride of the town and also its chief irritation. It gloried in them -because it believed that the report of their millions was as clamourous -throughout the nation as in its own ears. It was exasperated against -them, because it believed that they ought to live in Stoughton and be -content with a life which it thought, or thought it thought, desirable -above life in any other place whatsoever. - -So as long as Mrs. Wayland lived, the family had spent at least half of -each year there; and Stoughton, satisfied on that point, disliked them -for other reasons, first of all for being richer than any one else. -When Mrs. Wayland died, leaving an almost grown daughter and a son just -going into trousers, General Wayland had put the girl in school at -Dobbs Ferry-on-the-Hudson, the boy in Groton, had closed the house and -made New York his residence. The girl died two years after the death of -her mother. The boy went from Groton to Harvard, from Harvard to his -father’s business--the Cotton Cloth Trust. The Wayland homestead, the -most considerable in Stoughton with its two wings built to the original -square house, with its conservatories and its stables, was opened for -but a few weeks each winter. And then it was opened only in part--to -receive the General on his annual business visit to the factories of -the Stoughton Cotton Mills Company, the largest group in the “combine.” -Sometimes he brought Edgar. But Edgar gave the young women of Stoughton -no opportunities to ensnare him. He kept to his work and departed at -the earliest possible moment. This year he had come alone, as his -father had now put him in charge of their Stoughton interests. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -A BLACK FLAG. - - -UNTIL Wayland saw Emily at church he had no intention to seize the -opportunity which Mrs. Ainslie’s disinterested kindliness had made -for him. Ever since he left the restraint of the “prep.” school for -Harvard, with a liberal allowance and absolute freedom, women had been -an important factor in his life; and they were still second only to -money-making. But not such women as Emily Bromfield. - -In theory he had the severest ideas of woman. Practically, his -conception of woman’s sphere was not companionship or love or the -family, not either mental or sentimental, but frankly physical. And -something in that element in Emily’s personality--perhaps the warmth -of her beauty of form in contrast to the coldness of her beauty of -face--made it impossible for this indulgent and self-indulgent young -man to refrain from seeking her out. He was close with his money -in every way except where his personal comfort or amusement was -concerned. There he was generous to prodigality. And when he learned -how poor the Bromfields were and how fiercely discontented Emily -was in her Stoughton prison-cell, he decided that the only factor in -the calculation was whether or not on better acquaintance his first -up-flaring would persist. - -In one respect Washington society is unequalled. Nowhere else is a -girl able so quickly and at so early an age to get so complete an -equipment of worldly knowledge. Emily’s three years under the tutelage -of cynical Mrs. Ainslie had made her nearly as capable to see through -men as are acute married women. Following the Washington custom of her -day, she had gone about with men almost as freely as do the girls of a -Western town. And the men whom she had thus intimately known were not -innocent, idealising, deferential Western youths, but men of broad and -unscrupulous worldliness. Many of them were young diplomats, far from -home, without any sense of responsibility in respect of the women of -the country in which they were sojourners of a day. They played the -game of “man and woman” adroitly and boldly. - -Emily understood Wayland only so far as the clean can from theoretical -experience understand the unclean. Thus far she quickly penetrated into -his intentions toward her and his ideas of her. He was the reverse of -complex. He had not found it necessary to employ in these affairs the -craft he was beginning to display in business, to the delight of his -father. His crude and candid method of conquest had been successful -hitherto. Failure in this instance seemed unlikely. And there were no -male relatives who might bring him to an uncomfortable accounting. - -Two weeks after he met Emily--weeks in which he had seen her several -times--he went to her house for dinner. She had been advancing -gradually, in strict accordance with her plan of campaign. Wayland -had unwittingly disarmed himself and doubly armed her by giving undue -weight to her appearance of extreme youth and golden inexperience, and -by overestimating his own and his money’s fascinations. He had not a -suspicion that there was design or even elaborate preparation in the -vision which embarrassed and fired him as he entered the Bromfields’ -parlour. She was in a simple black dinner gown, which displayed her -arms and her rosy white shoulders. And she had a small head and a way -of doing her hair that brought out the charm of every curve of her -delicate face. Instead of looking cold this evening, she put into her -look and smile a seeming of--well, more than mere liking, he thought. - -It happened to be one of Mrs. Bromfield’s good days, so she rambled on, -covering Wayland’s silence. Occasionally--not too often--Emily lifted -her glance from her plate and gave the young man the full benefit of -her deep, dark, violet eyes. When Mrs. Bromfield spoke apologisingly of -the absence of wine, he was surprised to note that he had not missed it. - -But after dinner, when he was alone in the sitting-room with Emily, -he regretted that he had had nothing to drink. He could explain his -timidity, his inability to get near the subject uppermost in his mind -only on the ground that he had had no stimulus to his courage and -his tongue. All that day he had been planning what he would say; yet -as he went home in his automobile, upon careful review of all that -had been said and done, he found that he had made no progress. The -conversation had been general and not for an instant personal to her. -The only personalities had been his own rather full account of himself, -past, present and future--a rambling recital, the joint result of his -nervousness and her encouragement. - -“At least she understands that I don’t intend to marry,” he thought, -remembering one part of the conversation. - -“There’s nothing in marriage for me,” he had said, after a clumsy -paving of the way. - -“Of course not,” she had assented. “I never could understand how a -young man, situated as you are, could be foolish enough to chain -himself.” - -And then, as he remembered with some satisfaction, she added the only -remark she had made which threw any light upon her own feelings and -ideas: “It would be as foolish for you to marry, as it would be for me -to refuse a chance to get out of this dreadful place.” - -As he reflected on this he had no suspicion of subtlety. It did not -occur to him that she hardly deserved credit for frankly confessing -what could not be successfully denied or concealed, or that she might -have confessed in order to put him off his guard, to make him think her -guilelessly straightforward. - -A second and a third call, a drive and several long walks; still he had -done nothing to further his scheme. He put off his return to New York, -seeing her every day, each time in a fresh aspect of beauty, in a new -mood of fascination. One night, a month after he met her at church, he -found her alone on the wide piazza. She was in an evening dress, white, -clinging close to her, following her every movement. He soon reached -his limit of endurance. - -“You are maddening,” he said abruptly, stretching out his arms to -seize her. He thrust her wraps violently away from her throat and -one shoulder. He was crushing her against his chest, was kissing her -savagely. - -She wrenched herself away from him, panting with anger, with repulsion. -But he thought it was a return of his ardour, and she did not undeceive -him. “You mustn’t!” she said. “You know that it is impossible. You must -go. Good-night!” - -She left him and he, after waiting uncertainly a few moments, went -slowly down the drive, in a rage, but a rage in which anger and longing -were curiously mingled. When he called the next day, she was “not at -home.” When he called again she could not come down, she must stay -beside her mother, who had had another attack, so the servant explained -in a stammering, unconvincing manner. He wrote that he wished to see -her to say good-bye as he was leaving the next day. Then he called -and she came into the parlour--“just for an instant.” She was wearing -a loose gown, open at the throat, with sleeves falling away from -her arms. Her small feet were thrust into a pair of high-heeled red -slippers and her stockings had openwork over the ankles. She seemed so -worried about her mother that it was impossible for him to re-open the -one subject and resume progress, as he had hoped to do. But it was not -impossible for him to think. And Emily, anxiously watching him from -behind her secure entrenchments, noted that he was thinking as she -wished and hoped. His looks, his voice encouraged her to play her game, -her only possible game, courageously to the last card. - -“If he doesn’t come back,” she thought, “at least I’ve done my best. -And I think he _will_ come.” - -She sent him away regretfully, but immediately, standing two steps up -the stairway in a final effective pose. He set his teeth together and -took the train for New York. There he outdid all his previous impulses -of extravagant generosity with himself, but he could not drive her from -his mind. Those who formerly amused him, now seemed vulgar, silly, and -stale. They made her live the more vividly in his imagination. Business -gave him no relief. At his office his mind wandered to her, and the -memory of that stolen kiss made his nerves quiver and hot flushes -course over and through him. At the end of three weeks, he returned to -Stoughton. “I’ve let myself go crazy,” he thought, “I’ll see her again -and convince myself that I’m a fool.” - -As he neared her house, his mind became more at ease. When he rang the -bell he was laughing at himself for having got into such a frenzy over -“nothing but a woman like the rest of ’em.” But as soon as he saw her, -he was drunk again. - -“I love you,” he stammered. “I can’t do without you. Will you--will you -marry me, Emily?” - -There was no triumph either in her face or in her mind. She was hearing -the hammer smash in the thick walls of her prison, but she shrank from -the sound. As she looked at his commonplace, heavy-featured face; as -she listened to his monotonous voice, with its hint of tyranny and -temper; as she felt his greedy eyes and hot, trembling fingers;--a -revulsion swept over her and left her sick with disgust--disgust for -her despicable self, loathing for him and for his feeling for her--his -“love.” - -“How can I?” she thought, turning away to hide her expression from him. -“How can I? And yet, how can I refuse?” - -“I must have until--until this evening,” she said in a low voice and -with an effort. “I--I thought you had gone--for good and all--and I -tried to put you out of my thoughts.” - -She was standing near him and he crushed her in his arms. “You must, -you must,” he exclaimed. “I must have you.” - -She let him kiss her once, then pushed him away, hiding her face in no -mere pretence of modesty and maidenly repulsion. “This evening,” she -said, almost flying from him. - -She paused at the door of her mother’s sitting-room. From it came -the odor of drugs, and in it were all the evidences of the tedious -companionship of her poverty-stricken prison life--the invalid chair -with its upholstery tattering; the worn carpet; the wall paper stained, -and in one corner giving way because of a leak which they had no -money to repair; the table with its litter of bottles, of drug-boxes, -of patent-medicine advertisements and trashy novels; in the bed the -hypochondriac herself, old, yellow, fat in an unhealthy way, with her -empty, childish, peevish face. - -Emily did not enter, but went on to her own room--bare, cheerless, -proofs of poverty and impending rags and patches threatening to -obtrude. She looked out through the trees at the glimpses of the -town--every beat of the pulse of her youth was a sullen and hateful -protest against it. Beyond were the tall chimneys of the mills, -with the black clouds from them smutching the sky--there lived the -work-people, the boredom of the town driving them to brutal dissipation. - -“I must! I must!” she said, between her set teeth, then sank down in -the window seat and buried her face in her arms. - -That evening she accepted him, and the next morning her mother -announced the engagement to the first caller. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE PENITENT PIRATE. - - -WAYLAND had the commercial instinct too strongly developed not to fear -that he was paying an exorbitant price for a fancy which would probably -be as passing as it was powerful. Whenever Emily was not before his -eyes he was pushing the bill angrily aside. But in the stubbornness of -self-indulgence he refused to permit himself to see that he was making -a fool of himself. If she had not gauged him accurately, or, rather, -if she had not mentally and visibly shrunk even from the contact with -him necessary to shaking hands, he might quickly have come to his -cool-blooded senses. But their engagement made no change in their -relations. Her mother’s illness helped her to avoid seeing him for -more than a few minutes at a time. Her affectation of an extreme of -prudery--with inclination and policy reinforcing each the other--made -her continue to keep herself as elusive, as tantalising to him as she -had been at that dinner when he “fell head over heels in love--” so he -described it to her. And he thoroughly approved of her primness. For, -to him there were only two classes of women--good women, those who knew -nothing; bad women, those who knew and, knowing, must of necessity feel -and act as coarsely as himself. The most of the time which he believed -she was devoting to her mother, she was passing in her room in arguing -the two questions: “How can I give him up? How can I marry him?” - -Her acute intelligence did not permit her to deceive herself. She knew -with just what kind of man she was dealing, knew she would continue to -loathe him after she had married him, knew her reason for marrying him -was as base, if not baser, than his reason for marrying her. “He is at -least a purchaser,” she said to herself contemptuously, “while I am -merely the thing purchased.” And her conduct was condemned by her whole -nature except the one potent instinct of feminine laziness. “If only I -had been taught to work,” she thought “or taught not to look down upon -work! Yet how could it be so low as this?” - -She felt that she might not thus degrade herself if she had some -one to consult, some one to encourage her to recover and retain her -self-respect. But who was there? She laughed at the idea of consulting -her mother--that never strong mind, now enfeebled to imbecility by -drugs and novels. And even if she had had a capable mother, what -would have been her advice? Would it not have been to be “sensible” -and “practical” and not fling away a brilliant “chance”--wealth and -distinction for herself, proper surroundings and education for the -children that were sure to come? And would not that advice be sound? - -Only arguments of “sentimentality,” of super-sensitiveness, appeared -in opposition to the urgings of conventional everyday practice. And -was not Stoughton worse than Wayland? Could it possibly be more -provocative of all that was base in her to live with Stoughton than to -live with Wayland? Wayland would be one of a great many elements in her -environment after the few first weeks of marriage. If she accepted the -alternative, it would be her whole environment, in all probability for -the rest of her life. - -A month after the announcement of the engagement, her mother sank into -a stupor and, toward the end of the fifth day, died. Just as her father -had been missed and mourned more than many a father who deserved and -received love, so now her mother, never deserving nor trying to deserve -love, was missed and mourned as are few mothers who have sacrificed -everything to their children. This fretful, self-absorbed invalid was -all that Emily had in the world. - -Wayland was startled when Emily threw herself into his arms and -clinging close to him sobbed and wept on his shoulder. Sorrow often -quickens into sympathy the meanest natures. The bereaved are amazed to -find the world so strangely gentle for the time. And Wayland for the -moment was lifted above himself. There were tenderness, affection in -his voice and in the clasp of his arms about her. - -“I have no one, no one,” she moaned. “Oh, my good mother, my dear -little mother! Ah, God, what shall I do?” - -“We will bear it together, dear,” he whispered. “My dear, my beautiful -girl.” And for the first time he genuinely respected a woman, felt the -promptings of the honest instincts of manliness. - -His change had a profound effect upon the young girl in her mood of -loneliness and dependence. She reproached herself for having thought so -ill of him, for having underrated his character. With quick generosity -she was at the opposite extreme; she treated him with a friendliness -which enabled him to see her as she really was--in all respects except -the one where desperation was driving her to action abhorrent to her -normal self. - -As her sweetness and high-minded intelligence unfolded before his -surprised eyes, he began to think of her as a human being instead of -thinking only of the effect of her beauty upon his senses. He grew to -like her, to regard her as an ideal woman for a wife. But--he did not -want a wife. And as the new feeling developed, the old feeling died -away. - -Emily had gained a friend. But she had lost a lover. - -Two weeks after her mother’s funeral, Wayland kissed her good-night as -calmly as if he had been her brother. At the gate he paused and looked -back at the house, already dark except in one second-story room, where -Emily’s aunt was waiting up for her. “I am not worthy of her,” he said -to himself. “I am not fit to marry her. I should be miserable trying to -live up to such a woman. I must get out of it.” - -But how? He pretended to himself that he was hesitating because of his -regard for her and her need for him. In fact his hesitation arose from -doubt about the way to escape from this most uncongenial atmosphere -without betraying to her what a dishonourable creature he was. And -the more he studied the difficulty, the more formidable it seemed. -This however only increased his eagerness to escape, his alarm at the -prospect of being tied for life to moral and mental superiority. - -He hoped she would give him an excuse. But as she now liked him, she -was the better able to conceal the fact that she did not love him; and -had he been far less unskilled in reading feminine character, he would -still have been deceived. Emily was deceiving herself--almost. - -As soon as he felt that he could leave with decency, he told her he -must go to New York. She had been noting that he no longer spoke of -their marriage, no longer urged that it be hastened. But it occurred to -her that he might be restrained by the fear of distressing her when her -mother had been dead so short a time; and this seemed a satisfactory -explanation. Three days after he reached New York he sent this -letter--the result of an effort that half-filled the scrap-basket in a -quiet corner of the writing-room of his club: - - I have been thinking over our engagement and I am convinced that when - you know my mind, you will wish it to come to an end. I am not worthy - of you. You are mistaken in me. I could not make you happy. You - are too far above me in every way. It would be spoiling your whole - life to marry you under such false pretences. Looking back over our - acquaintance, I am ashamed of the motives which led me to make this - engagement. Forgive me for being so abrupt, but I think the truth is - best. - -“Pretty raw,” he thought, as he read it over. “But it’s the truth and -the truth _is_ best in this case. I can’t afford to trifle. And--what -can she do?” - -When Emily finished reading the letter, she was crushed. Her pride, her -vanity, her future--all stabbed in the vitals. Just when she thought -herself most secure, she was overthrown and trampled. She could see -Stoughton gloating over her--who would have thought that Stoughton -could ever reach and touch _her_? She could see herself pinioned there, -or in some similar Castle Despair, for life. - -To be outwitted by such a man--and how? She could not explain it. Her -experience of ways masculine had not been intimate enough to give her -a clue to the subtle cause of Wayland’s changed attitude. She paced -her room in fury, denouncing him as a cur, a traitor, a despicable -creature, too vile and low for adequate portrayal in any known medium -of expression. She went over scheme after scheme for holding him to -his promise, for bringing him back--some of them schemes which made -her blush when she recalled them in after years. She wrote a score of -letters--long, short; bitter, pleading; some appealing to his honour, -some filled with hypocritical expressions of love and veiling a vague -threat which she hoped might terrify him, though she knew it was -meaningless. But she tore them up. And after tossing much and sleeping -a little she sent this answer: - - DEAR EDGAR: - - Certainly, if you feel that way. But you mustn’t let any nervousness - about the past interfere with our friendship. That has become very - dear to me. The only ill luck I wish you is that you’ll have to come - to Stoughton soon. I won’t ask you to write to me, because I know - you’re not fond of writing letters--and nothing happens here that any - one would care to hear about. My aunt is staying with me for a few - months at least. Until I see you, - - EMILY. - -“It’s of no use to make a row,” she thought. “If anything can bring -him back, certainly it is not tears or reproaches or threats. And how -appeal to the honour of a man who has no honour?” - -Her mind was clear enough, but her feelings were in a ferment. She -knew that it was in some way her fault that she had lost him. “And I -deserved to lose him,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t excuse him or -help me.” - -He answered promptly: - - MY DEAR FRIEND: - - How like you your letter was. If I did not know so well how unworthy - of you I am, how I would plead for the honour of having such a woman - as my wife. I wish I could look forward to seeing you soon--but - I’m going abroad on Saturday and I shan’t return for some time. As - soon as I do, I’ll let you know. It is good of you to offer me your - friendship. I am proud to accept it. If you ever need a friend, you - will find him in - - Yours faithfully, - - EDGAR WAYLAND. - -The expression of Emily’s face was anything but good, it was the -reverse of “lady-like,” as she read this death-warrant of her last -hope. “The coward!” she exclaimed, and, as her eyes fell on the -satirical formality, “Yours faithfully,” she uttered an ugly laugh -which would have given a severe shock to Wayland’s new ideas of her. - -“Fooled--jilted--left for dead,” she thought, despair closing in, thick -and black. And she crawled into bed, to lie sleepless and tearless, her -eyes burning. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -A CHANGED CRUSOE. - - -IN the third night Emily had ten hours of the sleep of exhausted youth. -She awoke in the mood of the brilliant July morning which was sending -sunshine and song and the odour of honeysuckles through the rifts in -the lattices of her shutters. She was restored to her normal self. She -was able to examine her affairs calmly in the light of her keen and -courageous mind. - -Ever since she had been old enough to be of active use, she had had -the training of responsibility--responsibility not only for herself, -but also for her mother and the household. She had had the duties of -both woman and man forced upon her and so had developed capacity and -self-reliance. She had read and experienced and thought perhaps beyond -the average for girls of her age and breeding. Undoubtedly she had read -and thought more than most girls who are, or fancy they are, physically -attractive. Her father’s caustic contempt for shallow culture, for -ignorance thinly disguised by good manners, had been his one strong -influence on her. - -“All my own fault,” she was saying to herself now, as she lay propped -on her elbow among her pillows. “It was a base plan, unworthy of me. I -ought to be glad that the punishment was not worse. The only creditable -thing about it is that I played the game so badly that I lost.” And -then she smiled, wondering how much of her new virtue was real and how -much was mere making the best of a disastrous defeat. - -Why had she lost? What was the false move? She could not answer, but -she felt that it was through ignorance of some trick which a worse -woman would have known. - -“Never again, never again,” she thought, “will I take that road. What -I get I must get by direct means. Either I’m not crafty enough or not -mean enough to win in the other way.” - -She was singing as she went downstairs to join her aunt. The old woman, -her father’s sister who had never married, was knitting in the shady -corner of the front porch, screened from the sun by a great overhanging -tree, and from the drive and the road beyond, by the curtain of -honeysuckles and climbing roses. As Emily came into view, she dropped -the knitting and looked at her with disapproval upon her thin old face. - -“But why, auntie?” said the girl, answering the look. “I feel like -singing. I feel so young and well and--hopeful. You don’t wish me to -play the hypocrite and look glum and sad? Besides, the battle must -begin soon, and good spirits may be half of it.” - -Her aunt sighed and looked at her with the unoffending pity of -sympathy. “Perhaps you’re right, Emmy,” she said. “God knows, life is -cruel enough without our fighting to prolong its miseries. And it does -seem as if you’d had more than your share of them thus far.” She was -admiring her beautiful niece and thinking how ill that fragile fineness -seemed fitted for the struggle which there seemed no way of averting. -“You’re almost twenty-one,” she said aloud. “You ought to have had a -good husband and everything you wanted by this time.” - -Emily winced at this unconscious stab into the unhealed wound. “Isn’t -there anything in life for a woman on her own account?” she asked -impatiently. “Is her only hope through some man? Isn’t it possible for -her to make her own happiness, work out her own salvation? Must she -wait until a man condescends to ask her to marry him?” - -“I’d like to say no,” replied her aunt, “but I can’t. As the world is -made now, a woman’s happiness comes through home and children. And -that means a husband. Even if her idea of happiness were not home and -children, still she’s got to have a husband.” - -“But why? Why do you say ‘as the world is made now?’ Aren’t there -thousands, tens of thousands of women who make their own lives, working -in all sorts of ways--from teaching school to practising medicine or -law or writing or acting?” - -“Yes--but they’re still only women. They may lie about it. But with a -few exceptions, abnormal women, who are hardly women at all, they’re -simply filling a gap in their lives--perhaps trying to find husbands -in unusual ways. Everybody must have an object, to be in the least -happy. And children is the object the world has fixed for us women. -Whether we’re conscious of it or not, we pursue it. And if we’re -thwarted in it, we’re--well, we’re not happy.” - -The old woman was staring out sadly into space. The cheerfulness had -faded from the girl’s face. But presently she shook her head defiantly -and broke the silence. - -“I refuse to believe it,” she said with energy. “Oh, I don’t deny that -I _feel_ just as you describe. And why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t we -all? Aren’t we brought up that way? Are we ever taught anything else? -It’s the way women have been trained from the beginning. But--that -doesn’t make it so.” - -“No, it doesn’t,” replied her aunt. “And probably it isn’t so. But -don’t make the mistake, child, of thinking that the world is run on -a basis of what’s so. It isn’t. It’s run on a basis of think-so and -believe-so and hope-so.” - -Emily stood up beside her aunt and looked out absently through the -leaves. “I don’t care what any one says or what every one says,” she -said. “I don’t say that I don’t want love and home and all that. I -do want it. But I think I want it as a man wants it. I want it as -my very own, not as the property of some man which he graciously or -grudgingly permits me to share. And I purpose to try to make my own -life. If I marry, it will be as a man marries--when I’m pleased and not -before. No, don’t look frightened, auntie. I’m not going to do anything -shocking. I understand that the game must be played according to the -rules, or one is likely to be excluded.” - -“Well, you’ve got to make your living--at least for the present,” -replied her aunt. “And it doesn’t matter much what your theory is. The -question is, what can you do; and if you can do something, how are you -to get the chance to do it. I can’t advise you. I’m only a useless old -maid--waiting in a corner for death, already forgotten.” - -Emily put on an expression of amused disbelief that was more flattering -than true, and full of vague but potent consolation. “I don’t think I -need advice,” she said, “so much as I need courage. And there you can -help me, auntie dear--can, and will.” - -“I?” The old woman was pleased and touched. “What can I say or do? I -can only tell you what you already know--though I must say I didn’t -when I was your age--can only tell you that there’s nothing to be -afraid of in all this wide world except false pride.” - -She looked thoughtfully at her knitting, then anxiously at the -resolute face of her niece. “In our country,” she went on, “it’s been -certain from the start, it seems to me, that what you’ve been saying -would be the gospel of the women as well as of the men. But it takes -women a long time to get over false pride. You are going to be a -working-woman. If only you can see that all honest work is honourable! -If only you can remember that your life must be made by yourself, that -to look timidly at others and dread what they will say about you is -cowardly and contemptible! How I wish I had your chance! How I wish I’d -had the courage to take my own chance!” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -BACK TO THE MAINLAND. - - -WITHIN a month old Miss Bromfield was again with her sister at -Stockbridge; the house in Stoughton was sold; there were twenty-two -hundred dollars to Emily’s credit in the Stoughton National Bank--her -whole capital except a hundred and fifty dollars which she had with -her; and she herself was standing at the exit from the Grand Central -Station in New York City, facing with a sinking heart and frightened -eyes the row of squalid cabs and clamourous cabmen. One of these took -her to the boarding-house in East Thirty-first Street near Madison -Avenue where her friend, Theresa Duncan, lived. - -“Of course there’s a chance,” Theresa had written. “Come straight on -here. Something is sure to turn up. And there’s nothing like being on -the spot.” - -Of the women of her acquaintance who made their own living, Theresa -alone was in an independent position--with her time her own, and with -no suggestion of domestic service in her employment. They had been -friends at school and had kept up the friendship by correspondence. -Before Mr. Bromfield died, Theresa’s father had been swept under by -a Wall Street tidal wave and, when it receded, had been found on the -shore with empty pockets and a bullet in his brain. Emily wrote to her -at once, but the answer did not come until six months had passed. Then -Theresa announced that she was established in a small but sufficient -commission business. “I shop for busy New York women and have a growing -out-of-town trade,” she wrote. “And I am almost happy. It is fine to be -free.” - -At the boarding-house Emily looked twice at the number to assure -herself that she was not mistaken. She had expected nothing so imposing -as this mansion-like exterior. When a man-servant opened the door and -she saw high ceilings and heavy mouldings, she inquired for Miss Duncan -in the tone of one who is sure there is a mistake. But before the man -answered, her illusion vanished. He was a slattern creature in a greasy -evening coat, a day waistcoat, a stained red satin tie, its flaming -colour fighting for precedence with a huge blue glass scarf pin. And -Emily now saw that the splendours of what had been a fine house in New -York’s modest days were overlaid with cheap trappings and with grime -and stain and other evidences of slovenly housekeeping. - -The air was saturated with an odour of inferior food, cooking in poor -butter and worse lard. It was one of the Houses of the Seem-to-be. The -carpets seemed to be Turkish or Persian, but were made in Newark and -made cheaply. The furniture seemed to be French, but was Fourteenth -street. The paper seemed to be brocade, but was from the masses of poor -stuff tossed upon the counters of second-class department stores for -the fumblings of noisome bargain-day crowds. The paintings seemed to be -pictures, but were such daubs as the Nassau street dealers auction off -to swindle-seeking clerks at the lunch hour. In a corner of the “salon” -stood what seemed to be a cabinet for bric-a-brac but was a dilapidated -folding bed. - -“Dare I sit?” thought Emily. “What seems to be a chair may really be -some hollow sham that will collapse at the touch.” - -“A vile hole, isn’t it?” was one of Theresa’s first remarks, after an -enthusiastic greeting and a competent apology for not meeting her at -the station. “We may be able to take a flat together. I would have done -it long ago, if I’d not been alone.” - -“Yes,” said Emily, “and I may persuade Aunt Ann to come and live with -us as chaperon.” - -“Oh, that will be so nice,” replied Theresa in a doubtful, reluctant -tone, with a quizzical look in her handsome brown eyes. “If there is a -prime necessity for a working-woman, it is a chaperon.” - -“You’re laughing at me,” said Emily, flushing but good-humoured. “I -meant simply that my aunt could look after the flat while we’re away. -You don’t know her. She’d never bother us. She understands how to mind -her own business.” - -“Well, the flat and the chaperon are still in the future. The first -question is, what are you going into? You used to write such good -essays at school and your letters are clever. Why not newspaper work?” - -“But what could I do?” - -“Get a trial as a reporter.” - -Before Emily’s mind came a vision of a ball she had attended in -Washington less than two years before--the lofty entrance, the -fashionable guests incrowding from their carriages; at one side, a -dingy group, two seedy-looking men and a homely, dowdy woman, taking -notes of names and costumes. She shuddered. - -Theresa noted the shudder, and laid her hand on Emily’s arm. “You must -drop that, my dear--you must, must, must.” - -Emily coloured. “I will, will, will,” she said with a guilty laugh. -“But, Theresa, you understand, don’t you?” - -“Oh, yes, I remember. But I’ve left all that behind--at least I’ve -tried to. You’ve got to be just like a man when he makes the start. -As Mr. Marlowe was saying the other night, it’s no worse than being a -bank messenger and presenting notes to men who can’t pay; or being a -lawyer’s clerk and handing people dreadful papers that they throw in -your face. No matter where you start there are hard knocks. And----” - -“I know it, I expect it, and I’m not sorry that it is so. It’s part of -the price of learning to live. I’m not complaining.” - -“I hope you’ll be able to say that a year from now. I confess I did, -and do, complain. I can’t get over my resentment at the injustice of -it. Why doesn’t everybody see that we’re all in the same boat and that -snubbing and sneering only make it harder all round?” - -Emily had expected to find the Theresa of school days developed -along the lines that were promising. Instead, she found the Theresa -of school days changed chiefly by deterioration. She was undeniably -attractive--a handsome, magnetic, shrewd young woman full of animal -spirits. But her dress was just beyond the line of good taste, and on -inspection revealed tawdriness and lapses; her manners were a little -too pronounced in their freedom; her speech barely escaped license. -Her effort to show hostility to conventions was impudent rather than -courageous. Worst of all, she had lost that finish of refinement which -makes merits shine and dims even serious defects. She had cultivated a -shallow cynicism--of the concert hall and the “society” play. It took -all the brightness of her eyes, all the brilliance of her teeth, all -her physical charm to overcome the impression of this gloze of reckless -smartness. - -In her room were many copies of a weekly journal of gossip and scandal, -filled with items about people whom it called “the Four Hundred” and -“the Mighty Few” and of whom it spoke with familiarity, yet with the -deference of pretended disdain. Emily noticed that Theresa and her -acquaintances in the boarding-house talked much of these persons, in -a way which made it clear that they did not know them and regarded the -fact as greatly to their own discredit. - -The one subject which Theresa would not discuss was her shopping -business. Emily was eager to hear about it, and, as far as politeness -permitted, encouraged her to talk of it, but Theresa always sheered -off. Nor did she seem to be under the necessity of giving it close or -regular attention. - -“It looks after itself,” she said, with an uneasy laugh. “Let’s talk of -your affairs. We’re going to dine Thursday night with Frank Demorest -and a man we think can help you--a man named Marlowe. He writes for the -_Democrat_. He goes everywhere getting news of politics and wars. I -see his name signed every once in a while. He’s clever, much cleverer -to talk with than he is as a writer. Usually writers are such stupid -talkers. Frank says they save all their good wares to sell.” - -On Thursday at half-past seven the two men came. Demorest was tall and -thin, with a languid air which Emily knew at once was carefully studied -from the best models in fiction and in the class that poses. One could -see at a glance that he was spending his life in doing deliberately -useless things. His way of speaking to admiring Theresa was after -the pattern of well-bred insolence. Marlowe was not so tall, but his -personality seemed to her as vivid and sincere as Demorest’s seemed -colourless and false. He had the self-possession of one who is well -acquainted with the human race. His eyes were gray-green, keen, rather -small and too restless--Emily did not like them. He spoke swiftly yet -distinctly. Demorest seemed a man of the world, Marlowe a citizen of -the world. - -They got into Demorest’s open automobile, Marlowe and Emily in the back -seat, and set out for Clairmont. For the first time in nearly two years -Emily was experiencing a sensation akin to happiness. The city looked -vast and splendid and friendly. Wherever her eyes turned there were -good-humoured faces--the faces of well-dressed, healthy women and men -who were out under that soft, glowing summer sky in a determined search -for pleasure. She saw that Marlowe was smiling as he looked at her. - -“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked, as the automobile slowed down -in a press of cabs and carriages. - -“Not _at_ you, but _with_ you,” he replied. - -“But why?” - -“Because I’m as glad to be here as you are. And you are very glad -indeed, and are showing it so delightfully.” He looked frank but polite -admiration of her sweet, delicate face--she liked his expression as -much as she had disliked the way in which Demorest had examined her -face and figure and dress. - -She sighed. “But it won’t last long,” she said, pensively rather than -sadly. She was thinking of to-morrow and the days thereafter--the days -in which she would be facing a very different aspect of the city. - -“But it will last--if you resolve that it shall,” he said. “Why make up -your mind to the worst? Why not the best? Just keep your eyes on the -present until it frowns. Then the future will be bright by contrast, -and you can look at it.” - -“This city makes me feel painfully small and weak.” Emily hid her -earnestness in a light tone and smile. “And I’m not able to take myself -so very seriously.” - -“You should be glad of that. It seems to me absurd for one to take -himself seriously. It interferes with one’s work. But one ought always -to take his work seriously, I think, and sacrifice everything to it. Do -you remember what Cæsar said to the pilot?” - -“No--what was it?” - -“The pilot said, ‘It’s too stormy to cross the Adriatic to-night. You -will be drowned.’ And Cæsar answered: ‘It is not important whether -I live or die. But it _is_ important that, if I’m alive to-morrow -morning, I shall be on the other shore. Let us start!’ I read that -story many years ago--almost as many as you’ve lived. It has stood me -in good stead several times.” - -At the next slowing down, Marlowe went on: - -“You’re certain to win. All that one needs to do is to keep calm -and not try to hurry destiny. He’s sure to come into his own.” He -hesitated, then added. “And I think your ‘own’ is going to be worth -while.” - -They swung into the Riverside Drive--the sun was making the crest of -the wooded Palisades look as if a forest fire were raging there; the -Hudson, broad and smooth and still, was slowly darkening; the breeze -mingled the freshness of the water and the fragrance of the trees. And -Emily felt a burden, like an oppressively heavy garment, falling from -her. - -“What are you thinking?” asked Marlowe. - -“Of Stoughton--and this,” she replied. - -“Was Stoughton very bad, as bad as those towns usually are to impatient -young persons who wish to live before they die?” - -“Worse than you can imagine--a nightmare. It seems to me that -hereafter, whenever I feel low in my mind, I’ll say ‘Well, at least -this is not Stoughton,’ and be cheerful again.” - -They were at Clairmont, and as Emily saw the inn and its broad porches -and the tables where women and men in parties and in couples were -enjoying themselves, as she drank in the lively, happy scene of the -summer and the city and the open air, she felt like one who is taking -his first outing after an illness that thrust him down to death’s door. -They went round the porch and out into the gravelled open, to a table -that had been reserved for them under the big tree at the edge of the -bluff. - -There was enough light from the electric lamps of the inn and pavilions -to make the table clearly visible, but not enough to blot out the -river and the Palisades. It was not an especially good dinner and was -slowly served, so Frank complained. But Emily found everything perfect, -and astonished Theresa and delighted the men with her flow of high -spirits. Theresa drank more, and Emily less, than her share of the -champagne. As Emily had nothing in her mind which the frankness of wine -could unpleasantly reveal, the contrast between her and Theresa became -strongly, perhaps unjustly, marked with the progress of the “party,” as -Theresa called it; for Theresa, who affected and fairly well carried -off a man-to-man frankness of speech, began to make remarks at which -Demorest laughed loudly, Marlowe politely, and which Emily pretended -not to hear. Demorest drank far too much and presently showed it by -outdoing Theresa. Marlowe saw that Emily was annoyed, and insisted that -he could stay no longer. This forced the return home. - -As they were entering the automobile, Demorest made a politely -insolent observation to Theresa on “her prim friend from New England,” -which Emily could not help overhearing. She flushed; Marlowe frowned -contemptuously at Demorest’s back. - -“Don’t think about him,” said he to Emily, when they were under way. -“He’s too insignificant for such a triumph as spoiling your evening.” - -Emily laughed gaily. “Oh, it is a compliment to be called prim by -some men,” she said, “though I’d not like to be thought prim by those -capable of judging.” - -“Only low-minded or ignorant people are prim,” replied Marlowe. - -“There’s one thing worse,” said Emily. - -“And what is that?” - -“Why, the mask off a mind that is usually masked by primness. I like -deception when it protects me from the sight of offensive things.” - -At the boarding-house Marlowe got out. “Frank and I are going to -supper,” said Theresa to Emily. “You’re coming?” - -“Thanks, no,” answered Emily. “I’m tired to-night.” - -Marlowe accompanied her up the steps and asked her to wait until he had -returned from giving the key to Theresa. When he rejoined her, he said: - -“If you’ll come to my office to-morrow at two, I think I can get you a -chance to show what you can or can’t do.” - -Emily’s eyes shone and her voice was a little uncertain as she said, -after a silence: - -“If you ever had to make a start and suddenly got help from some one, -as I’m getting it from you, you’ll know how I feel.” - -“I’m really not doing you a favour. If you get on, I shall have done -the paper a service. If you don’t, I’ll simply have delayed you on your -way to the work that’s surely waiting for you somewhere.” - -“I shall insist upon being grateful,” said Emily, as she gave him her -hand. She was pleased that he held it a little longer and a little -more tightly than was necessary. - -“I don’t like his eyes,” she thought, “but I do like the way he can -look out of them. They must belie him.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -AMONG A STRANGE PEOPLE. - - -AS the office boy, after inquiry, showed Emily into Marlowe’s office on -the third floor of the _Democrat_ building, he was putting on his coat -to receive her. - -“Good morning,” he said, in a business tone. “You’ll forgive me. I’m -in a rush to get away to Saratoga this evening--for the Republican -convention. Let’s go to the City Editor at once, if you please.” - -They went down a long hall to a door marked “News Room--Morning -Edition.” Marlowe held open the door and she found herself in a large -room filled with desks, at many of which were men in their shirt -sleeves writing. They crossed to a door marked, “City Editor.” Marlowe -knocked. - -“Come in,” an irritated voice responded, “if you must. But don’t stay -long.” - -“What a bear,” said Marlowe cheerfully, not lowering his voice. “It’s a -lady, Bobbie. So you must sheathe your claws.” - -“Bobbie”--or Mr. Stilson--rose, an apology in his strong-featured, -melancholy face. - -“Pardon me, Miss Bromfield,” he said, when he had got her name. -“They’ve been knocking at that door all day long, and coming in and -driving me half mad with their nonsense.” - -“Excuse me,” said Marlowe, “I must get away. This is the young woman -I talked to you about. Don’t mind his manner, Miss Bromfield. He’s -a ‘soft one’ in reality, and puts on the burrs to shield himself. -Good-bye, good luck.” And he was gone, Emily noted vaguely that his -manner toward “Bobbie” was a curious mixture of affection, admiration, -and audacity--“like the little dog with the big one,” she thought. - -Emily seated herself in a chair with newspapers in it but less -occupied in that way than any other horizontal part of the little -office. Stilson was apparently examining her with disapproval. But as -she looked directly into his eyes, she saw that Marlowe had told the -truth. They were beautiful with an expression of manly gentleness. And -she detected the same quality in his voice, beneath a surface tone of -abruptness. - -“I can’t give you a salary,” he said. “We start our beginners on space. -We pay seven and a half a column. You’ll make little at first. I hope -Marlowe warned you against this business.” - -“No,” replied Emily, doing her best to make her manner and voice -pleasing. “On the contrary, he was enthusiastic.” - -“He ought to be ashamed of himself. However, I suppose you’ve got to -make a living. And if a woman must work, or thinks she must, she can’t -discover the superiority of matrimony at its worst more quickly in any -other business.” - -Stilson pressed an electric button and said to the boy who came: “Tell -Mr. Coleman I wish to speak to him.” - -A fat young man, not well shaved, his shirt sleeves rolled up and -exposing a pair of muscular, hairy arms to the elbows and above, -appeared in the doorway with a “Yes, sir,” spoken apologetically. - -“Miss Bromfield, Mr. Coleman. Here is the man who makes the -assignments. He’ll give you something to do. Let her have the desk in -the second row next to the window, Coleman,” Stilson nodded, opened a -newspaper and gave it absorbed attention. - -Emily was irritated because he had not risen or spoken the commonplaces -of courtesy; but she told herself that such details of manners could -not be kept up in the rush of business. She followed Coleman dejectedly -to the table-desk assigned her. He called a poorly preserved young -woman of perhaps twenty-five, sitting a few rows away, and introduced -her as “Miss Farwell, one of the society reporters.” Emily looked at -her with the same covert but searching curiosity with which she was -examining Emily. - -“You are new?” Miss Farwell asked. - -“Very new and very frightened.” - -“It is terrible for us women, isn’t it?” Miss Farwell’s plaintive smile -uncovered irregular teeth heavily picked out with gold. “But you’ll -find it not so unpleasant here after you catch on. They try to make it -as easy as they can for women.” - -Emily’s thoughts were painful as she studied her fellow-journalist, -“Why do women get themselves up in such rubbish?” she said to herself -as she noted Miss Farwell’s slovenly imitation of an imported model. -“And why don’t they make themselves clean and neat? and why do they let -themselves get fat and pasty?” Miss Farwell’s hair was in strings and -thin behind the ears. Her hands were not well looked after. Her face -had a shine that was glossiest on her nose and chin. Her dress, with -its many loose ends of ruffle and puff, was far from fresh. She looked -a discouraged young woman of the educated class. And her querulous -voice, a slight stoop in her shoulders, and soft, projecting, pathetic -eyes combined to give her the air of one who feels that she is out of -her station, but strives to bear meekly a doom of being down-trodden -and put upon. “If ever she marries,” thought Emily, “she will be humbly -grateful at first, and afterwards a nagger.” - -In the hope of seeing a less depressing object, Emily sent her glance -straying about the room. The men had suspended work and were watching -her with interest and frank pleasure. “No wonder,” she thought, as she -remembered her own neatness, the freshness and simplicity of her blue -linen gown--she had been able to get it at a fashionable shop for fifty -dollars because it was a model and the selling season was ended. In -the far corner sat another woman. Miss Farwell, noting on whom Emily’s -glance paused, said: “That is Miss Gresham. She’s a Vassar girl who -came on the paper last year. She’s a favorite with Mr. Stilson, so she -gets on.” - -Miss Gresham looked up from her writing and Miss Farwell beckoned. -Emily’s spirits rose as Miss Gresham came. “This,” she thought, “is -nearer my ideal of an intelligent, self-respecting working woman,” Miss -Gresham was dressed simply but fitly--a properly made shirt-waist, -white and clean and completed at the neck with a French collar; a short -plain black skirt that revealed presentable feet in presentable boots. -She shook hands in a friendly business-like way, and Emily thought; -“She would be pretty if her hair were not so severely brushed back. As -it is, she is handsome--and _so_ clean.” - -“I was just going out to lunch. Won’t you come with me?” asked Miss -Gresham. - -“I don’t know what I’m permitted to do.” Emily looked toward Mr. -Coleman’s desk. He was watching her and now called her. As she -approached, his grin became faintly flirtatious. - -“Here is a little assignment for you,” he said graciously, extending -one of his unpleasant looking arms with a cutting from the _Evening -Journal_ held in the large, plump hand. As he spoke the door of Mr. -Stilson’s office immediately behind him opened, and Mr. Stilson -appeared. - -“What are you doing there?” he demanded. - -Coleman jumped guiltily. “I was just going to start Miss Bromfield.” -His voice was a sort of wheedling whine, like that of a man persuading -a fractious horse on which he is mounted and of which he is afraid. - -“Let me see.” Stilson took the cutting. “Won’t do. Send her with Miss -Gresham.” And he turned away without looking at Emily or seeming -conscious of her presence. But she sent a grateful glance after him. -“How much more sensible,” she thought, “than turning me out to wander -helplessly about alone.” - -Miss Gresham’s assignment was a national convention of women’s -clubs--“A tame affair,” said she, “unless the delegates get into a -wrangle. If men squabble and lose their tempers and make fools of -themselves, it’s taken as a matter of course. But if women do the very -same thing in the very same circumstances, it’s regarded as proof of -their folly and lack of capacity.” - -“I suppose the men delight in seeing the women writhe under criticism,” -said Emily. - -“Well, it isn’t easy to endure criticism,” replied Miss Gresham. “But -it must be borne, and it does one good, whether it’s just or unjust. It -teaches one to realise that this world is not a hothouse.” - -“I wish it were--sometimes,” confessed Emily. The near approach of “the -struggle for existence” made her faint-hearted. - -Miss Gresham could not resist a smile as she looked at Emily, in face, -in dress, in manner, the “hothouse” woman. “It could be for you, if -you wished it.” - -“But I don’t,” said Emily, with sudden energy and a change of -expression that brought out the strong lines of her mouth and chin. And -Miss Gresham began to suspect that there were phases to her character -other than sweetness and a fondness for the things immemorially -feminine. “I purpose to learn to like the open air,” she said, and -looked it. - -Miss Gresham nodded approvingly. “The open air is best, in the end. It -develops every plant according to its nature. The hothouses stunt the -best plants, and disguise lots of rank weeds.” - -As they were coming away from the convention, Miss Gresham said: -“Instead of handing in your story to the City Desk, keep it, and we’ll -go over it together this evening, after I’m through.” - -“Thank you--it’s so good of you to take the trouble. Yes, I’ll try.” -Emily hesitated and grew red. - -“What is it?” asked Miss Gresham, encouragingly. - -“I was thinking about--this evening. I never thought of it before--do -you write at night? And how do you get home?” - -“Certainly I write at night. And I go home as other business people do. -I take the car as far as it will take me, then I walk.” - -“I shall be frightened--horribly frightened.” - -“For a few evenings, but you’ll soon be used to it. You don’t know -what a relief it will be to feel free to go about alone. Of course, -they’re careful at the office what kind of night-assignments they give -women. But I make it a point not to let them think of my sex any more -than is absolutely necessary. It’s a poor game to play in the end--to -shirk on the plea of sex. I think most of the unpleasant experiences -working-women have are due to that folly--dragging their sex into their -business.” - -Emily felt and looked dismal as she sat at her desk, struggling to put -on paper her idea of what the newspaper would want of what she had seen -and heard. She wasted so many sheets of paper in trying to begin that -she was ashamed to look at the heap they made on the floor beside her. -Also, she felt that every one was watching her and secretly laughing at -her. After three hours of wretchedness she had produced seven loosely -written pages--“enough to fill columns,” she thought, but in reality -a scant half-column. “I begin to understand why Miss Farwell looks so -mussy,” she said to herself, miserably eyeing her stained hands and -wilted dress, and thinking of her hair, fiercely bent upon hanging out -and down. She was so nervous that if she had been alone she would have -cried. - -“It is impossible,” she thought. “I can never do it. I’m of no account. -What a weak, foolish creature I am.” - -She looked round, with an idea of escaping, to hide herself and never -return. But Miss Gresham was between her and the door. Besides, had she -not burned her bridges behind her? She simply must, must, must make the -fight. - -She remembered Marlowe’s story of Cæsar and the pilot--“I can’t more -than fail and die,” she groaned, “and if I am to live, I must work.” -Then she laughed at herself for taking herself so seriously. She -thought of Marlowe--“What would he say if he could see me now?” She -went through her list of acquaintances, picturing to herself how each -would look and what each would say at sight of her sitting there--a -working-girl, begrimed by toil. She thought of Wayland--the contrast -between her present position and what it would have been had she -married him. Then she recalled the night he seized her and kissed -her--her sensation of loathing, how she had taken a bath afterward -and had gone to bed in the dark with her neck where he had kissed her -smarting like a poisoned sore. - -“You take the Madison Avenue car?” Miss Gresham interrupted, startling -her so that she leaped in her chair. “We’ll go together and read what -you’ve written.” - -Miss Gresham went through it without changing expression. At the end -she nodded reassuringly. “It’s a fairly good essay. Of course you -couldn’t be expected to know the newspaper style.” - -And she went on to point out the crudities--how it might have been -begun, where there might have been a few lines of description, -why certain paragraphs were too stilted, “too much like magazine -literature.” She gave Emily a long slip of paper on which was about -a newspaper column of print. “Here’s a proof of my story. I wrote it -before dinner and it was set up early. Of course, it’s not a model. -But after you leave me you can read it over, and perhaps it may give -you some points. Then you might try--not to-night, but to-morrow -morning--to write your story again. That’s the easiest and quickest way -to catch on.” - -At Emily’s corner Miss Gresham said, “I’ll take you home this once,” -and left the car with her. As they went through the silent, empty -street, their footsteps lightly echoing from house wall to house wall, -Emily forgot her article and her other worriments in the foreboding of -these midnight journeys alone. “It seems to me that I simply can’t,” -she thought. “And yet I simply must--and of course I will. If only I -had been doing it for a month, or even a week, instead of having to -look forward to the first time.” - -Miss Gresham took her to her door, then strode away down the street--an -erect, resolute figure, business-like from head to heels. Emily looked -after her with rising courage, “What a brave, fine girl she is,” she -thought, “how intelligent, how capable. She is the kind of woman I have -dreamt about.” - -And she went in with a lightening heart. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -AN ORCHID HUNTER. - - -THE first night that Emily ventured home alone a man spoke to her -before she had got twenty feet from the car tracks. She had thought -that if this should happen she would faint. But when he said, “It’s a -pleasant evening,” she put her head down and walked steadily on and -told herself she was not in the least frightened. It was not until she -was inside her door that her legs trembled and her heart beat fast. She -sank down on the stairs in the dark and had a nervous chill. And it was -a very unhappy, discouraged, self-distrustful girl that presently crept -shakily up to bed. - -On the second night-journey she thought she heard some one close and -stealthy behind her. She broke into a run, arriving at the door out of -breath and ashamed of herself. “You might have been arrested,” said -Miss Gresham when Emily confessed to her. “If a policeman had seen you, -he’d have thought you were flying from the scene of your crime.” - -A few nights afterwards a policeman did stop her. “You’ve got to keep -out of this street,” he began roughly. “I’ve noticed you several times -now.” - -Instead of being humiliated or frightened, Emily became angry. “I’m a -newspaper woman--on the _Democrat_,” she said haughtily, and just then -he got a full view of her face and of the look in her eyes. - -He took off his helmet. “Beg pardon, miss,” he said humbly, and with -sincerity of regret. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t see you distinctly. I’ve -got a sister that does night work. I ought to a knowed better.” - -Emily made no reply, but went on. She was never afraid again, and after -a month wondered how it had been possible for her to be afraid, and -pitied women who were as timid and helpless as she had been. Whenever -the policeman passed her he touched his hat. She soon noticed that it -was not always the same policeman and understood that the first one had -warned the entire force at the station house. Often when there were -many loungers in the street the policeman turned and followed her at a -respectful distance until she was home; and one rainy night he asked -her to wait in the shelter of a deep doorway at the corner while he -went across to a saloon and borrowed an umbrella. He gave it to her and -dropped behind, coming up to get it at her door. - -Thus what threatened to be her greatest trial proved no trial at all. - -On the last day of her first week, Mr. Stilson sent for her and gave -her an order on the cashier for twelve dollars. “Are they treating you -well?” he asked, his eyes kind and encouraging. - -“Yes, _you_ are treating me well.” - -Stilson coloured. - -“And I honestly don’t think I’ve earned so much money,” she went on. - -“I’m not in the habit of swindling the owners of the _Democrat_,” he -interrupted curtly. - -Emily turned away, humiliated and hurt. “He is insulting,” she said to -herself with flashing eyes and quivering lips. “Oh, if I did not have -to endure it, I’d say things he’d not forget.” - -She was sitting at her desk, still fuming, when he came out of his -office and looked round. As he walked toward her, she saw that he was -limping painfully. “Pardon me, Miss Bromfield,” he said. “I’m suffering -the tortures of hell from this infernal rheumatism.” And he was gone -without looking at her or giving her a chance to reply. - -“So, it’s only rheumatism,” she thought, mollified as to the rudeness, -but disappointed as to the office romance of the City Editor’s “secret -sorrow.” She did not tell Miss Gresham of the apology, but could not -refrain from saying: “I have heard that Mr. Stilson is rude because he -is rheumatic.” - -“That may have something to do with it. I remember when he got it. -He was a writer then, and went down to the Oil River floods. The -correspondents had to sleep on the wet ground, and endure all sorts -of hardships. He was in a hospital in Pittsburg for two months. But -there’s something else besides rheumatism in his case. Long before -that, I saw----” - -Miss Gresham stopped short, seemed irritated against herself, and -changed the subject abruptly. - -Emily timidly joined the crowd at the cashier’s window and, when her -turn came, was much disconcerted by the sharp, suspicious look which -the man within cast at her. She signed and handed in her order. He -searched through the long rows of envelopes in the pay drawer--searched -in vain. Another suspicious look at her and he began again. “I’m not to -get it after all” she thought with a sick, sinking feeling--how often -afterward she remembered those anxious moments and laughed at herself. -The cashier’s man searched on and presently drew out an envelope. Again -that sharp look and he handed her the money. She could not restrain a -deep sigh of relief. - -She went home in triumph to Theresa and displayed the ten dollar bill -and the two ones as if they were the proofs of a miracle. “It’s a -thrilling sensation,” she said, “to find that I can really do something -for which somebody will pay.” She remembered Stilson’s rudeness. “It -was not so bad after all,” she thought. “He convinced me that I had -really earned the money. If he’d been polite I should have feared he -was giving it to me out of good-nature.” - -“Oh, you’re getting on all right,” said Theresa. “I saw Marlowe last -night at Delmonico’s. Frank and I were dining there, and he stopped to -speak to us. I asked him about you, and--shall I tell you just what he -said?” - -“I want to know the worst.” - -“Well, he said--of course, I asked about you the first thing--and -he said that he and your City Editor had been dining at the Lotos -Club--Mr. Stilson, isn’t it? And Mr. Stilson said: ‘If she wasn’t so -good-looking, there might be a chance of her becoming a real person.’ -Marlowe says that’s a high compliment for Mr. Stilson, because he is -mad on the subject of idle, useless women and men. And, Mr. Stilson -went on to say that you had judgment and weren’t vain, and that you had -as much patience and persistence as Miss--I forget her name----” - -“Was it Gresham?” asked Emily. - -“No--that wasn’t the name. Was it Tarheel or Farheel or -Farville--no--it was----” - -“Oh.” Emily looked disappointed and foolish. She had seen Miss Farwell -an hour before--patient and persevering indeed, but frowzier and more -“put upon” than ever. - -“Yes--Miss Farwell. Who is she?” - -“One of the women down at the office,” Emily said, and hurried on with: -“What else did Marlowe say?” - -“That’s all, except that he wanted us four to dine together soon. When -can you go--on a Sunday?” - -“No, Monday--that’s my free day. I took it because it is also Miss -Gresham’s day off. She’s the only friend I’ve made downtown thus far.” - -Marlowe came to Emily’s desk one morning in her third week on the -_Democrat_. “What did you have in the paper to-day?” he asked, after -he had explained that he was just returned from Washington and Chicago. - -“A few paragraphs,” she replied, drawing a space slip from a drawer and -displaying three small items pasted one under the other. - -“Not startling, are they?” was Marlowe’s comment. “I’ve asked Miss -Duncan to bring you to dine with Demorest and me--the postponed dinner. -But I’d rather dine with you alone. I don’t think Demorest shines in -your society; then, too, we can talk shop. I’ve a great deal to say to -you, and I think I can be of some use. We could dine in the open air up -at the Casino--don’t you like dining in the open air?” - -Emily had been brought up under the chaperon system. While she had no -intention of clinging to it, she hesitated now that the occasion for -beginning the break had come. Also, she remembered what Marlowe had -said to her at her door. She wished that she were going unchaperoned -with some other man first. - -“There’s a prejudice against the Casino among some conventional -people,” he said. “But that does not apply to us.” - -“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that,” and she accepted. - -She asked Miss Gresham about him a few hours afterward. - -“You’ve met Mr. Marlowe?” she said, in a cordial tone. “Don’t you -think him clever? You may hear some gossip about him--and women. He’s -good-looking, and--and much like all men in one respect. He’s the sort -of man that is suspected of affairs, but whose name is never coupled -with any particular woman’s. That’s a good sign, don’t you think? It -shows that the gossip isn’t started or encouraged by him.” - -“Is it--proper for me to go to dinner with him alone?” - -“Why not? Of course, if they see you, they may talk about you. But what -does that matter? It would be different if you were waiting with folded -hands for some man to come along and undertake to support you for life. -Then gossip might damage your principal asset. But now your principal -asset isn’t reputation for conventionality, but brains. And you don’t -have to ask favours of anybody.” - -Marlowe and Emily had a table at the end of the walk parallel with the -entrance-drive. The main subject of conversation was Emily--what she -had done, what she could do, and how she could do it. “All that I’m -saying is general,” he said. “I’ll help you to apply it, if I may. -There’s no reason why you should not be doing well--making at least -forty dollars a week--within six months. We’ll get up some Sunday -specials together to help you on faster. The main point is a new way of -looking at whatever you’re writing about. Your good taste will always -save you from being flat or silly, even when you’re not brilliant.” - -While Marlowe talked, Emily observed, as accurately as it is possible -for a young person to observe when the person under observation -is good-looking, young, of the opposite sex, and when both are, -consciously and unconsciously, doing their utmost to think well each of -the other. He had a low, agreeable voice, and an unusually attractive -mouth. His mind was quick, his manner simple and direct. Although he -was clearly younger than thirty-five, his hair was sprinkled with gray -at the temples, and there were wrinkles in his forehead and at the -corners of his eyes. He made many gestures, and she liked to watch his -hands--the hands of an athlete, but well-shaped. - -“I ride and swim almost every day,” he said incidentally to some -discussion about the sedentary life. And she knew why he looked in -perfect health. Emily admired him, liked him, with the quick confidence -of youth trusted him, before they had been talking two hours. And it -pleased her to see admiration of her in his eyes, and to feel that he -was physically and mentally glad to be near her. - -As they were drinking champagne (slightly modified by apollinaris), the -acquaintance progressed swiftly. It would have been all but impossible -for her to resist the contagion of his open-mindedness, had she been -so inclined. But she herself had rapidly changed in her month in New -York. She felt that she was able to meet a man on his own ground now, -and that she understood men far better, and she seemed to herself to -be seeing life in a wholly new aspect--its aspect to the self-reliant -and free. She helped him to hasten through those ante-rooms to close -acquaintance, where, as he put it, “stupid people waste most of their -time and all their chances for happiness.” - -He had a way of complimenting her which was peculiarly insidious. He -was talking earnestly about her work, his mind apparently absorbed. -Abruptly he interrupted himself with, “Don’t mind my talking so much. -It’s happiness. One is not often happy. And I feel to-night”--this -with raillery in his voice--“like an orchid hunter who has been -dragging himself through jungles for days and is at last rewarded with -the sight of a new and wonderful specimen--high up in a difficult -tree, but still, perhaps, accessible.” And then he went on to discuss -orchids with her and told a story of an acquaintance, a half-mad orchid -hunter--all with no further reference to her personality. - -It was not until they were strolling through the Park toward -Fifty-ninth street that the subject which is sure to appear sooner or -later in such circumstances and conjunctions started from cover and -fluttered into the open. - -He glanced at the moon. “It would be impossible to improve upon that -nice old lady up there as a chaperon, wouldn’t it?” - -“I’m not sure that I’d give my daughter into her charge,” said Emily. - -“Why do you say that?” - -“Oh, I think it all depends upon the woman.” - -“Any woman who couldn’t be trusted with the moon as a chaperon, either -wouldn’t be safe with any chaperon or wouldn’t be worth saving from the -consequences of her own folly.” - -“Possibly. But--I confess I wouldn’t trust even myself implicitly to -that old lady up there, as you call her.” - -“But you are doing so this evening.” - -“Mercy, no. I’ve two other guardians--myself and you.” - -“Thank you for including me. I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.” - -“Then I’ll try to arrange it so that I sha’n’t have to call you in to -help me.” - -“Would you think me very absurd if I told you, in the presence of your -chaperon, that”--His look made her’s waver for an instant--“I must have -my orchid?” - -“Not absurd,” replied Emily. “But abrupt and----” - -“And--what?” - -“And”--She laughed. “And interesting.” - -“There’s only a short time to live,” he answered, “and I’m no longer -so young as I once was. But I don’t wish to hurry you. I don’t expect -any answer now--it would be highly improper, even if your answer were -ready.” He looked at her with a very agreeable audacity. “And I’m not -sure that it isn’t ready. But I can wait. I simply spoke my own mind, -as soon as I saw that it would not be disagreeable to you to hear it.” - -“How did you know that?” - -“Instinct, pure instinct. No sensitive man ever failed to know whether -a woman found him tolerable or intolerable.” - -“Don’t think,” said Emily, seriously but not truthfully, “that I’m -taking your remark as a tribute to myself. I understand that you are -striving to do what is expected of a man on such a night as this.” - -“Does one have to tear his hair, and foam at the mouth, in order to -convince you?” asked Marlowe, his eyes laughing, yet earnest too. - -“Yes,” said Emily calmly. “Begin--please.” - -“No--I’ve said enough, for the evening.” He was walking close to her, -and there was no raillery in either his tone or his eyes. “It’s so new -and wonderful a sensation to me, that as yet, just the pleasure of it -is all that I ask.” - -“But you don’t fit in with my plans--not at all,” she said, in a -way that must have been encouraging since it was not in the least -discouraging. “I’m a working-woman, and must not bother with--with -orchid hunters.” - -“Your plans? Oh!” He laughed, “Let me help you revise them.” He saw -her face change. “Or rather,” he quickly corrected, “let me help you -realise them.” - -They were to join Theresa and Frank at the New York roof-garden. Just -before they entered the street doors, he said: “I think there are only -two things in the world worth living for--work and love. And I think -neither is perfect without the other. Perhaps--who knows?--” - -Her answering look was not directed toward him, but it was none the -less an answer. It made him feel that they were both happy in the -anticipation of greater happiness imminent. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -FURTHER EXPLORATION. - - -WHEN Emily came into the sitting-room the next morning at ten she -found that Theresa had ordered breakfast for both sent there, and was -waiting. She was in a dressing-gown, her hair twisted in a careless -knot, her eyes tired and clouded. The air was tainted with the sweet, -stale, heavy perfume which was an inseparable part of her personality. -“I wish Theresa wouldn’t use that scent,” thought Emily--her first -thought always when she came near Theresa or into any place where -Theresa had recently been. - -“How well you have slept,” began Theresa, looking with good-natured -envy at Emily’s fresh face and fresh French shirt-waist. - -“Not very,” replied Emily. “I was awake until nearly daylight.” - -“Did you hear me come in?” - -“I heard you moving about your room just as I was going to sleep.” -Emily knew Theresa’s mode of life. But she avoided seeming to know, and -ignored Theresa’s frequent attempts to open the subject of herself and -Frank. She thought she had gone far enough when she made it clear that -she was not sitting in judgment upon her. - -“I’m blue--desperately blue,” continued Theresa. “I don’t know which -way to turn.” There was a long pause, then with a flush she looked at -Emily and dropped her uneasy eyes. “How----” - -“I think it most unwise,” interrupted Emily, “to confide one’s private -affairs to any other, and I know it’s most impertinent for any other to -peer into them.” - -“You’re right--but I’ve got to talk it over with some one.” - -“I hope you won’t tell me more than is absolutely necessary, Theresa.” - -“Well--I’m ‘up against it’--to use the kind of language that fits -such a vulgar muddle. And I’ve neglected my business until there’s -nothing left of it.” A long pause, then in a strained voice: “I’ve been -planning all along to marry Frank Demorest and--I find not only that he -wouldn’t marry me if he could, but couldn’t if he would. He’s going to -marry money. He’s got to. He told me frankly last night. He’s down to -less than ten thousand a year, about a third of what it costs him to -live. And he’s living up his principal.” - -“This is the saddest tale of privation and poverty I ever heard,” said -Emily. Then more seriously: “You’re not in love with him?” - -“Well--he’s good-looking; he knows the world; he has the right sort -of manners, and goes with the right sort of people, and he comes of a -splendid old family.” - -“His father kept a drygoods shop, didn’t he?” - -“Yes--but that was when Frank was a young man. And it was a big -shop--wholesale, you know--not retail. He never worked in it or -anywhere else. You could tell that he’d never worked, but had always -been a gentleman, and only looked after the property.” - -“I understand,” Emily nodded with great solemnity. “We’ll concede that -he’s a gentleman. What next?” - -“Well, I wanted to marry him. It would have been satisfactory in every -way. I’d have got back my position in society that we had to give up -when father lost everything and--and died--and mother wanted to drag me -off to live in Blue Mountain. Just think of it--Blue Mountain, Vermont!” - -“I am thinking of it--or, rather, of Stoughton,” said Emily, with a -shiver. - -“And I simply wouldn’t go. I went to work instead.--But--well--I’m too -lazy to work. I couldn’t--and I can’t. I can talk about it and pretend -about it--but I can’t _do_ it. And now I’ve got to choose between work -and Blue Mountain once more.” - -“But you had that choice before, and you didn’t go to Blue Mountain. -Why are you so cut up now?” - -“I’ve been skating on thin ice these last four years. And I’ve begun to -think about the future.” - -“How could I advise you? I can only say that you do well to think -seriously about what you’re to do--if you won’t work.” - -“I can’t, I simply can’t, work. It’s so common, so--Oh, I don’t see it -as you do, as I was trying to make believe I saw it when I first talked -to you. I feel degraded because I am not as we used to be. I want a big -house and lots of servants and social position. You don’t know how low -I feel in a street car. You don’t know how wretched I am when I am in -the Waldorf or Sherry’s or driving in the Park in a hired hansom, or -when I see the carriages in the evening with the women on their way to -swell dinners or balls. You don’t know how I despise myself, how I have -despised myself for the last four years. No wonder Frank wouldn’t marry -me. He’d have been a fool to.” The tears were rolling down Theresa’s -face. - -It was impossible for Emily not to sympathize with a grief so genuine. -“Poor girl,” she thought, “she can no more help being a snob than she -can help being a brunette.” And she said aloud in a gentle voice: “What -have you thought of doing?” - -“I’ve got to marry,” answered Theresa. “And marry quick. And marry -money.” - -A queer look came into Emily’s face at this restatement of her own -attempted solution of the Stoughton problem. Theresa misunderstood the -look. “You are so unsympathetic,” she said, lighting a cigarette. - -Emily was putting on her hat. “No--not unsympathetic,” she replied. -“Anything but that. Only--you are healthy and strong and capable, -Theresa. Why should you sell yourself?” - -“Oh, I know--you imagine you think it fine and dignified to work for -one’s living. But in the bottom of your heart you know better. You know -it is not refined and womanly--that it means that a woman has been -beaten, has been unable to get a man to support her as a lady should be -supported.” - -Emily faced her and, as she put on her gloves, said in a simple, -good-tempered way: “I admit that I’m conventional enough at times and -discouraged enough at times to feel that it would be a temptation if -some man--not too disagreeable--were to offer to take care of me for -life. But I’m trying to outgrow it, trying to come up to a new ideal of -self-respect. And I believe, Theresa, that the new ideal is better for -us. Anyhow in the circumstances, it’s certainly wiser and--and safer.” - -“What are you going to do about Marlowe?” Theresa thrust at her with -deliberate suddenness and some malice. - -Emily kept the colour out of her face, but her eyes betrayed to Theresa -that the thrust had reached. “Well, what about Marlowe?” She decided to -drop evasion and was at once free from embarrassment. - -“He’ll not marry you. He isn’t a marrying man.” - -“And why should he marry me? And why should I marry him? I have no wish -to be tied. It was necessity that forced me to be free; but I know more -certainly every day that it isn’t necessity that will keep me free. -You see, Theresa. I don’t hate work, as you do. I feel that every one -has to work anyhow, and I prefer to work for myself and be paid for it, -rather than to be some man’s housekeeper and get my wages as if they -were charity.” - -“If I married, you may be sure I’d be no man’s housekeeper,” said -Theresa, with a toss of the head. - -“I was making the position as dignified as possible. Suppose you found -after marriage that you didn’t care for your husband; or suppose you -deliberately married for money. I should say that mere housekeeper -would be enviable in comparison.” - -“There’s a good deal of pretence about that, isn’t there, honestly?” -Theresa was laughing disagreeably. “It’s a thoroughly womanish remark. -But it’s a remark to make to a man, not when two women who understand -woman-nature are talking quietly, with no man to overhear.” - -“Certainly I’ve known a great many women, nice women, who seemed to be -living quite comfortably and contentedly with husbands they did not -in the least like. And I am no better, no more sensitive than other -women. Still--I feel as I say. Let’s call it a masculine quality in -me. I doubt if there are many husbands who live with wives they don’t -like--like a little for the time, at any rate.” - -“I’ve often thought of that. It’s the most satisfactory thing about -being a woman and having a man in love with one. One knows, as a man -never can know about a woman, that he means at least part of it. But -you ought to be at your beloved office. You don’t think I’m so horribly -horrid, do you?” - -Emily stood behind Theresa and put her arms around her shoulders. -“You’ve a right to feel about yourself and do with yourself as you -please,” she said. “And in the ways that are important to me, you are -the most generous, helpful girl in the world.” - -“Well, I don’t believe I’m mean. But what is a woman to do in such a -hard world?” - -“Go to the office,” said Emily. She patted Theresa’s cheek -encouragingly. “Put off being blue, dear, until the last minute. Then -perhaps you won’t need to be blue or won’t have time. Good-bye!” - -What _was_ she going to do about Marlowe? She began to think of it as -she left the house, and she was still debating it as she entered the -_Democrat_ building and saw him waiting for the elevator. - -“Just whom I wish to see,” he began. “No, not for that -reason--altogether,” he went on audaciously answering her thought, as -if she had spoken it or looked it, when she had done neither. “This -is business. I’m going to Pittsburg to get specials on the strike. -Canfield’s sending you along.” - -“Why?” Resentment was rising in her. How could he, how dare he, -advertise her to the Managing Editor thus falsely?--“Why should he send -me?” - -“Because I asked him. He opposed it, but I finally persuaded him. I -wanted you for my own sake. Incidentally I saw that it was a chance -for you. I laid it on rather strong about your talents, and so you’ve -simply got to give a good account of yourself.” - -“I cannot go,” she said coldly. “It’s impossible.” - -They went into the elevator. “Come up to the Managing Editor’s office -with me,” he said. He motioned her into a seat in Canfield’s anteroom -and sat beside her. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Let us never be -afraid to tell each other the exact truth.” - -“How could I go out there alone with you? The whole office, everybody -we meet there, would be talking about us.” - -“I see,” he said with raillery. “You thought I had sacrificed your -reputation in my eagerness to get you within easy reach of my wiles? -Well, perhaps I might have done it in some circumstances. But in this -case that happens not to have been my idea. I remembered what you have -for the moment forgotten--that you are on the staff of the _Democrat_. -I got you the assignment to do part of this strike. My private reasons -for doing so are not in the matter at all. You may rest assured that, -if I had not thought you’d send good despatches and make yourself -stronger on the paper and justify my insistence, I should not have -interfered.” - -She sat silent, ashamed of the exhibition of vanity and suspicion into -which she had been hurried. “I beg your pardon,” she said at last. - -“I love you,” he answered in a low voice. “And those three little words -mean more to me--than I thought they could mean. Let us go in to see -Canfield.” - -“I don’t in the least trust Marlowe’s judgment about you, now that I’ve -seen you,” said Mr. Canfield--polite, pale, thin of face, with a sharp -nose; his dark circled eyes betrayed how restlessly and sleeplessly his -mind prowled through the world in the daily search for the newest news. -“But my own judgment is gone too. So if you please, go to Furnaceville -for us.” He dropped his drawing-room tone and poured out a flood of -instructions--“Send us what you see--what you really see. If you see -misery, send it. If not, for heaven’s sake, don’t ‘fake’ it. Put -humour in your stuff--all the humour you possibly can--‘fake’ that, if -necessary. But it won’t be necessary, if you have real eyes. Go to the -workmen’s houses. Look all through them--parlours, bedrooms, kitchen. -Look at the grocer’s bills and butcher’s. Tell what their clothes cost. -Describe their children. Talk to their children. Make us see just what -kind of people these are that are making such a stir. You’ve a great -opportunity. Don’t miss it. And don’t, don’t, don’t, do ‘fine writing.’ -No ‘literature’--just life--men, women, children. Here’s an order for a -hundred dollars. If you run short, Marlowe will telegraph you more.” - -“Then we don’t go together after all?” she said to Marlowe, as they -left Canfield’s office. - -“I’m sorry you’re to be disappointed,” he replied, mockingly. “I -stay in Pittsburg for the present. You go out to the mills--out to -Furnaceville first.” - -“Where the militia are?” - -“Yes--they’re expecting trouble there next week. I’ll probably be on in -a day or so. But I must see several people in Pittsburg first. You’ll -have the artist with you, though. Try to keep him sober. But if he -_will_ get drunk, turn him adrift. He’ll only hamper you.” - -Emily was in a fever as she cashed the order and went uptown to pack -a small trunk and catch the six o’clock train. Going on an important -mission thus early in her career as a working-woman would have been -exciting enough, however quiet the occasion. But going among militia -and rioters, going unchaperoned with two men, going the wildest part -of the excursion with one man and he an artist of unsteady habits who -would need watching--she could not grasp it. However, an hour after -they were settled in the Pullman, she had forgotten everything except -the work she was to do--or fail to do. Indeed, it had already begun. -Marlowe brought with him a big bundle of newspapers, and a boy from the -_Democrat’s_ Philadelphia office came to the station there, and gave -him another and bigger bundle. - -“I’m reading up,” said Marlowe, “and it won’t do you any harm to do the -same. Then, when we arrive, we’ll know all that’s been going on, and -we’ll be able to step right into it without delay.” - -The artist went to the smoking compartment. She and Marlowe attacked -the papers. Both read until dinner, and again after dinner until the -berths were made. When they talked it was of the strike. Marlowe -neither by word nor by look indicated that he was conscious of any -but a purely professional bond between them. And she soon felt as he -acted--occasionally hoping that _he_ did not altogether feel as he -acted, but was restraining himself through fine instinct. - -When they separated at Pittsburg, and she and the artist were on the -way in the chill morning to the train for Furnaceville, she remembered -that he had not shown the slightest anxiety about the peril into which -she was going--and going by his arrangement. But she was soon deep in -the Pittsburg morning papers, her mind absorbed in the battle between -brain-workers and brawn-workers of which she was to be a witness. She -was impatient to arrive, impatient to carry out the suggestions which -her imagination had evolved from what she had been reading. To her the -strike, with its anxieties and perils for thousands, meant only her own -opportunity, as she noted with some self-reproach. - -“I hope they’ll get licked,” said the artist. - -“Who?” asked Emily, looking at him more carefully than she had thus -far, and remembering that he had not been introduced to her and that -she did not know his name. - -“The workingmen, of course,” he replied. “I know them. My father was -one of ’em. I came from this neighbourhood.” - -“I should think your sympathies would be with them.” Emily was -coldly polite. She did not like the young man’s look of coarse -dissipation--dull eyes, clouded skin, and unhealthy lips and teeth. - -“That shows you don’t know them. They are the most unreasonable lot, -and if they had the chance they’d be brutal tyrants. They have no -respect for brains.” - -“But they might be right in this case. I don’t say that they are. It’s -so difficult to judge what is right and what wrong.” - -“You may be sure they’re wrong. My father was always wrong. Why, if -he and his friends had been able to carry out all they used to talk, -the whole world would be a dead level of savages. They used to call -everybody who didn’t do manual labour a ‘parasite on the toiling -masses.’ As if the toiling masses would have any toiling to do to -enable them to earn bread and comfortable homes for themselves if it -were not for the brain-workers.” - -“Oh, it seems to me that we’re all toilers together, each in his own -way. Perhaps it’s because I’m too stupid to understand it, but I don’t -think much of theories about these things.” - -The train stopped, the brakeman shouted, “Furnaceville!” Emily and the -artist descended to the station platform, there to be eyed searchingly -by a crowd of roughly dressed men with scowling faces. When the train -had moved on without discharging the load of non-union workers they -were expecting, their faces relaxed and they became a cheerful crowd -of Americans. They watched the “lady from the city,” with respectful, -fascinated side-glances. Those nearest her looked aimlessly but -earnestly about, as if hoping to see or to imagine some way of being -of service to her. Through the crowd pushed a young man, whom Emily at -once knew was of the newspaper profession. - -“Is this Miss Bromfield?” he asked. - -“Yes,” replied Emily, “from the New York _Democrat_.” - -“My name is Holyoke. I’m the Pittsburg correspondent of the _Democrat_. -Mr. Marlowe telegraphed me to meet you and see that you did not get -into any danger, and also to engage rooms for you.” - -Emily beamed upon Mr. Holyoke. Marlowe _had_ thought of her--had been -anxious about her. And instead of saying so, he had acted. “Thank you -so much,” she said. “This gentleman is from the _Democrat_ also.” - -“My name is Camp,” said the artist, making a gesture toward the -unwieldy bundle of drawing sheets wrapped flat which he carried under -his arm. - -“I have arranged for you at the Palace Hotel,” continued Holyoke. -“Don’t build your hopes too high on that name. I took back-rooms on the -second floor because the hotel is just across an open space from the -entrance to the mills.” - -Emily thought a moment on this location and its reason, then grew -slightly paler. Holyoke looked at her with the deep sympathy which a -young man must always feel for the emotions of a young and good-looking -woman. “If there is any trouble, it’ll be over quickly once it begins,” -he said, “and you can easily keep out of the way.” - -They climbed a dreary, rough street, lined with monotonous if -comfortable cottages. It was a depressing town, as harsh as the iron by -which all of its inhabitants lived. “People ought to be well paid to -live in such a place as this,” said Emily. - -“I don’t see how they stand it,” Holyoke replied. “But the local paper -has an editorial against the militia this morning, and it speaks of the -town as ‘our lovely little city, embowered among the mountains, the -home of beauty and refinement.’” - -The Palace was a three-story country-town hotel, with the usual group -of smoking and chewing loungers impeding the entrance. Emily asked -Holyoke to meet her in the small parlour next to the office in half an -hour. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -SEEN FROM A BARRICADED WINDOW. - - -SHE was in the parlour when Holyoke returned. The loungers and her -fellow-guests had been wandering through the room to inspect her--“the -lady writer from New York.” She herself was absorbed in the view of the -mills rising above a stockade fence not five hundred feet away, across -a flagged public square. There were three entrances, and up and down in -front of each marched a soldier with a musket at shoulder-arms. In each -entrance Emily saw queer-looking little guns on wheels. Their tubes and -mountings flashed in the sunlight. - -“What kind of cannon are those?” she asked. - -“They’re machine-guns,” explained Holyoke. “You put in a belt full of -cartridges, aim the muzzle at the height of a man’s middle or calves as -the case may be. Then you turn the crank and the muzzle waggles to and -fro across the line of the mob and begins to sputter out bullets--about -fifteen hundred a minute. And down go the rioters like wheat before a -scythe. They’re beauties--those guns.” - -Emily looked from Holyoke to the guns, but she could not conceive his -picture. It seemed impossible that this scene of peace, of languor, -could be shifted to a scene of such terror as some of the elements in -it ought to suggest. How could these men think of killing each other? -Why should that soldier from the other end of the State leave his home -to come and threaten to shoot his fellow citizen whom he did not know, -whose town he had not seen until yesterday, and in whose grievance, -real or fancied, he had no interest or part? She felt that this was -the sentimental, unreasoning, narrow view to take. But now that she -was face to face with the possibility of bloodshed, broad principles -grew vague, unreal; and the actualities before her eyes and filling her -horizon seemed all-important. - -She and Holyoke wandered about the town, he helping her quickly to -gather the materials for her first “special,” her impression of the -town and its people and their feelings and of the stockaded mills with -the soldiers and guns--her supplement to the strictly news account -Holyoke would send. Camp accompanied them, making sketches. He went -back to the hotel in advance of them to draw several large pictures -to be sent by the night mail that they might reach New York in time -for the paper of the next day but one. Toward four o’clock Emily shut -herself in her room, and began her first article. - -An hour of toil passed and she had not yet made a beginning. She was -wrought to a high pitch of nervous terror. “Suppose I should fail -utterly? Can it be possible that I shall be unable to write anything -at all?” The floor was strewn with sheets of paper, a sentence, a few -sentences--failed beginnings--written on each. Her hands were grimed -with lead dust from sharpened and resharpened pencils. There was a -streak of black on her left cheek. Her hair was coming down--as it -seemed to her, the forewarning of complete mental collapse. She rose -and paced the floor in what was very nearly an agony of despair. - -There was a knock and she opened the door to take in a telegram. It was -from the Managing Editor: - - If there should be trouble to-night, please help Holyoke all you can. - Do not be afraid of duplicating his stuff. - - _The Democrat._ - -This put her in a panic. She began to sob hysterically. “What possessed -Marlowe to drag me into this scrape? And they expect me to do a man’s -work! Oh, how could I have been such a fool as to undertake this? I -can’t do it! I shall be disgraced!” - -She washed her face and hands and put her hair in order. She was so -desperate that her sense of humour was not aroused by the sight of her -absurdly tragic expression. She sat at the table and began again. She -had just written: - - “The shining muzzles of six machine-guns and the spotless new - uniforms of the three soldiers that march up and down on guard at the - mill stockade are the most conspicuous----” - -when there was a knock and her door was flung open. She started up, her -eyes wide with alarm, her cheeks blanched, her lips apart, her throat -ready to release a scream. It was only Holyoke. - -“Beg pardon,” he gasped out. “No time for ceremony. The company is -bringing a gang of ‘scabs’ through the mountains on foot. The strikers -are on to it. There’ll be a fight sure. Don’t stir out of your room, no -matter what you hear. If the hotel’s in any danger, I’ll let you know. -Camp’ll be looking out for you too--and the other newspaper boys. As -soon as it’s over, I’ll come. Sit tight--remember!” - -He rushed away. Emily looked at her chaos of failures. Of what use to -go on now--now, when real events were impending? From her window she -could see several backyards. In one, three children were making mud -pies and a woman was hanging out the wash--blue overalls, red flannel, -and cheap muslin underclothes, polkadot cotton slips and dresses in -many sizes, yarn stockings and socks, white and gray. - -Crack! - -The woman paused with one leg of a pair of overalls unpinned. The -children straightened up, feeling for each other with mud-bedaubed -hands. Emily felt as if her ears were about to burst with the strain of -the silence. - -Crack! Crack! Crack! An answering volley of oaths. A scream of derision -and rage from a mob. - -The children fled into the house. The woman gathered in a great armful -of clothes from the line as if a rain storm had suddenly come. She ran, -entangled in her burden, her thick legs in drab stockings interfering -one with the other. Emily jumped to her feet. - -“I cannot stay here,” she exclaimed. “I must _see_!” - -She flew down the hall to the front of the house. There was a parlour -and Camp’s paper and drawing materials were scattered about. He was -barricading a window with the bedding from a room to the rear. He -glanced at her. “Go back!” he said in a loud, harsh voice. “This is no -place for a woman.” - -“But it’s just the place for a reporter,” she replied. “I’ll help you.” - -They arranged the mattresses so that, sheltered by them and the thick -brick wall, they could peer out of the window from either side. - -The square was empty. The gates in the stockade were closed. In each -of the barricaded upper windows of the mill appeared the glittering -barrels of several rifles at different heights. - -“See that long, low building away off there to the left?” said Camp. -“The ‘scabs’ and their militia guard are behind it. The strikers are in -the houses along this side of the street.” - -Crack! A bullet crashed into the mirror hanging on the rear wall of -their parlour. It had cut a clean hole through the window pane without -shivering it and had penetrated the mattresses as if they had been a -single thickness of paper. - -“Now will you go back to your room?” angrily shouted Camp, although he -was not three feet from her. - -“Why are they firing at the hotel?” was Emily’s reply. - -“Bad aim--that’s all. The strikers aren’t here. That must have been -an answer to a bullet from next door. The soldiers shoot whenever a -striker shows himself to aim.” - -Crack! There was a howl of derision in reply. “That’s the way they let -the soldiers know it was a close shot but a miss,” said Camp. - -A man ran from behind a building to the right and in front of the -stockade, and started across the open toward where the strikers were -entrenched. He was a big, rough-looking fellow. As he came, Emily could -see his face--dark, scowling, set. - -Crack! - -The man ran more swiftly. There was a howl of delight from the -strikers. But, a few more leaps and he stumbled, flung up his hands, -pitched forward, fell, squirmed over so that he lay face upward. -His legs and arms were drawing convulsively up against his body and -shooting out to their full length again. His face was twisting and grew -shiny with sweat and froth. A stream of blood oozed from under him and -crawled in a thin, dark rivulet across the flagging to a crack, then -went no further. He turned his face, a wild appeal for help in it, -toward the house whence he had come. - -At once from behind that shelter ran a second man, younger than the -first. He had a revolver in his right hand. Emily could plainly see his -clinched jaws, his features distorted with fury. His lips were drawn -back from his teeth like an angry bulldog’s. - -“He’s a madman!” shrieked Camp. “He can do nothing!” - -“He’s a hero,” panted Emily. - -Crack! - -He stopped short. Emily saw his face change in expression--from fury to -wonder, from wonder to fear, from fear to a ghastly, green-white pallor -of pain and hate. He tossed his arms high above his head. The revolver -flew from his hand. Then, within a few feet of the still-twitching -body of the other, he crashed down. The blood spurted from his mouth, -drenching his face. He worked himself over and around, half rose, wiped -his face with his sleeve, fell back. Emily saw that he was looking -toward the shelter, his features calm--a look of love and longing, a -look of farewell for some one concealed there. - -And now a third figure ran from the shelter into that zone of death--a -boyish figure, lithe and swift. As it came nearer she saw that it was a -youth, a mere lad, smooth faced, with delicate features. He too carried -a revolver, but the look in his face was love and anguish. - -Crack! - -The boy flung the revolver from him and ran on. One arm was swinging -limp. Now he was at the side of the second man. He was just kneeling, -just stretching out his hand toward the dear dead-- - -Crack! - -He fell forward, his arm convulsively circling the head of his beloved. -As he fell, his hat slipped away and a mass of brown hair uncoiled and -showered down, hiding both their faces. - -“Oh!” Emily drew back, sick and trembling. She glanced at Camp. He -looked like a maniac. His eyes bulged, bloodshot. His nostrils stood -out stiff. His long yellow teeth were grinding and snapping. - -“God damn them!” he shrieked. “God damn the hell-hounds of the -capitalists! Murderers! Murderers! killing honest workingmen and women!” - -And as Emily crouched there, too weak to lift herself, yet longing to -see those corpse-strewn, bloodstained stones--the stage of that triple -tragedy of courage, self-sacrifice, love and death--Camp raved on, -poured out curses upon capitalists and militia. Camp!--who that very -morning had been trying to impress Emily with his superiority to his -origin, his contempt of these “mere machines for the use of men of -brains.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -A RISE AND A FALL. - - -WHEN Emily looked again two of the strikers, one waving a white rag at -the end of a pole, were advancing toward the limp bodies in the centre -of the square. They made three trips. Neither shots nor shouts broke -the silence. Soon the only evidences of the tragedy were the pools and -streaks of blood on the flagging. - -Camp was once more at his drawing, rapidly outlining a big sketch of -the scene they had witnessed. “Good stuff, wasn’t it?” he said, looking -up with an apologetic grin and flush. “It couldn’t have been better if -it had been fixed for a theatre.” - -“It’ll make a good story,” replied Emily, struggling with some success -to assume the calmly professional air and tone. “I’m going to my room. -If I hear any more shots, I’ll come again. When Mr. Holyoke returns, -please tell him I’d like to see him.” - -She had rushed through that hall an hour before, a panic-stricken girl. -She returned a woman, confident of herself. She had seen; she had felt; -she had lived. She sat at her table, and, with little hesitation, -wrote. When she had been at work an hour and a half, Holyoke -interrupted her. - -“Oh, I see you’re busy,” he began. - -“I wanted to say,” said Emily, “that I shall send a little about the -trouble a while ago--quite independently of the news, you know. So, -just write as if I were not here at all.” - -“All right. They’ll want every line we can both send.” Holyoke looked -at her with friendly anxiety. “You look tired,” he said, “as if you’d -been under a strain. It must have been an awful experience for you, -sitting here. Don’t bother to write anything. I’ll sign both our names -to my despatch.” - -“Thank you, but I couldn’t let you do that. What were the names of -those people who were killed out in the square?” - -“They were a puddler named Jack Farron, and his son Tom, and Tom’s -wife. Tom got married only last week. She insisted on going out with -him. They had been scouting, and had news that the militia were moving -to take the strikers from the rear and rout them out of their position. -You heard about the shooting?” - -“No--I saw it,” said Emily. “Mr. Camp and I watched from the parlour -window. Is there going to be more trouble?” - -“Not for a good many hours. The ‘scabs’ retreated, and won’t come back -until they’re sure the way is clear.” - -Emily took up her pencil and looked at her paper. “I’ll call again -later,” said Holyoke, as he departed. “You can file your despatch -downstairs. The Postal telegraph office is in the hotel.” - -She wrote about four thousand words, and went over her “copy” carefully -three times. It did not please her, but she felt that she had told the -facts, and that she had avoided “slopping over”--the great offence -against which every newspaper man and woman who had given her advice -had warned her. She filed the despatch at nine o’clock. - -“We can put it on the wire at once,” said the telegraph manager. “We’ll -get a loop straight into the _Democrat_ office. We knew you people -would be flocking here, and so we provided against a crush. We’ve got -plenty of wires and operators.” - -Emily ate little of the dinner that had been saved for her, and at each -sudden crash from the kitchen where noisy servants were washing dishes, -her nerves leaped and the blood beat heavily against her temples. She -went back to the little reception room and stood at the window, looking -out into the square. In the bright moonlight she saw the soldiers -marching up and down before the entrance to the stockade. The open -space between it and her was empty, and the soft light flooded round -the great dark stains which marked the site of the tragedy. - -“Why aren’t you in bed?” It was Marlowe’s voice, and it so startled -her that she gave a low cry and clasped her clinched hands against her -breast. She had been thinking of him. The death of those lovers, its -reminder of the uncertainty of life and of the necessity of seizing -happiness before it should escape forever, had brought him, or, rather, -love with him as the medium, vividly into her mind. - -“You frightened me--I’m seeing ghosts to-night,” she said. “How did you -reach here when there is no train?” - -“Several of us hired a special and came down--just an engine and -tender. We fancied there might be more trouble. But it’s all over. -The Union knows it can’t fight the whole State, and the Company is -very apologetic for the killing of those people, especially the woman. -Still, her death may have saved a long and bloody strike. That must -have been an awful scene this afternoon.” He was talking absently. His -eyes, his thoughts were upon her, slender, pale, yet golden. - -Emily briefly described what she had seen. - -“It’s a pity you didn’t telegraph an account of it. Your picture of -it would have been better than Holyoke’s, even if you didn’t see the -shooting.” - -“But I _did_ see it!” - -Marlowe’s look became dazed. “What?” he said. “How? Where were you?” - -“Upstairs--in the parlour. I was so fascinated that I forgot to be -afraid. And a bullet came through the window.” - -He made a gesture as if to catch her in his arms. Instead he took her -hands and kissed them passionately. - -“I never dreamed you would be actually in danger,” he said pleadingly. -“I was heedless--I--heedless of you--you who are everything to me. -Forgive me, dear.” - -She leaned against the casement, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the sky, -the moonlight making her face ethereal. - -“Was I too abrupt?” he asked. “Have I offended in saying it again at -this time?” His exaggerated, nervous anxiety struck him as absurd, for -him, but he admitted that his unprecedented fear of what a woman might -think of him was real. - -“No,” she answered. “But--I must go. I’m very tired. And I’m beginning -to feel queer and weak.” She put out her hand. “Good-night,” she said, -her eyes down and her voice very low. - -When she was in her room she half-staggered to the bed. “I’ll rest -a moment before I undress,” she thought, and lay down. She did not -awaken until broad daylight. She looked at her watch. “Ten minutes to -twelve--almost noon!” she exclaimed. She had been asleep twelve hours. -As she took a bath and dressed again, she was in high spirits. “It’s -good to be alive,” she said to herself, “to be alive, to be young, to -be free, to be loved, and to--to like it.” - -Was she in love with Marlowe? She thought so--or, at least, she was -about to be. But she did not linger upon that. The luxury of being -loved in a way that made her intensely happy was enough. She liked to -think of his arms clasping her. She liked him to touch her. She liked -to remember that look of exalted passion in his eyes, and to know that -it was glowing there for her. - -The late afternoon brought news that the strike had been settled by a -compromise. Within an hour the New York special correspondents were -on the way home. At Philadelphia the next morning Emily came into -the restaurant car. “This way, Miss Bromfield,” said the steward, -with a low bow. She wondered how he knew her. She noticed that the -answering smiles she got as she spoke to the newspaper men she had met -at Furnaceville were broader than the occasion seemed to warrant. She -glanced at herself in the mirror to see whether omission or commission -in dressing was the cause. Then she took the seat Marlowe had reserved -for her, opposite himself. - -“There were three of us in the dressing-room making it as disagreeable -for each other as possible after the usual feminine fashion,” she -began, and her glance fell upon the first page of the _Democrat_ of the -day before, which Marlowe was holding up. She gasped and stared. “Why!” -she exclaimed, the red flaring up in her face, “where did they get it? -It’s disgraceful!” - -“It” was a large reproduction of a pen and ink sketch of herself. Under -“it” in big type was the line, “Emily Bromfield, the _Democrat’s_ -Correspondent at the Strike.” Beside “it” under a “scare-head” was the -main story of the strike, and the last line of the heading read, “By -Emily Bromfield.” Then followed her account of what she had seen from -the parlour window. What with astonishment, pleasure, and mortification -over this sudden brazen blare of publicity for herself and her work, -she was on the verge of a nervous outburst. - -“Be careful,” said Marlowe. “They’re all looking at you. What I want to -know is where did they get that sketch of you in a dreamy, thoughtful -attitude at a desk covered with papers. It looks like an idyll of a -woman journalist. All the out-of-town papers will be sure to copy that. -But where did our people get it?” - -Just then Camp came through on his way to the smoking car. “Who drew -this, Camp?” asked Marlowe, stopping him. - -Camp looked embarrassed and grinned. “I made it one day in the office,” -he said to Emily. “They must have fished it out of my desk in the art -room.” - -Emily did not wish to hurt his feelings, so she concealed her -irritation. Marlowe said: “A splendid piece of work! Lucky they knew -about it and got it out.” - -“Thanks,” said Camp, looking appealingly at Emily. “You’re not -offended?” he asked. - -“It gave me a turn,” Emily replied evasively. Camp took her smile for -approval, thanked her and went on. - -“You don’t altogether like your fame?” said Marlowe with a teasing -expression. “But you’ll soon get used to it, and then you’ll be cross -if you look in the papers and don’t find your name or a picture of -yourself. That’s the way ‘newspaper notoriety’ affects everybody. They -first loathe, then endure, then pursue.” - -“Don’t mock at me, please. It’s good in a business way, isn’t it? -And I’m sure the picture is not bad--in fact, it makes me look -very--intellectual. And as they printed my despatch, that can’t have -been so horribly bad. Altogether I’m beginning to be reconciled and -shall presently be delighted.” - -“You can get copies of the paper ready for mailing in the business -office--a reduction on large quantities,” said Marlowe. “And you won’t -need to unwrap them to mark where your friends must look.” - -Emily was glancing at her story with pretended indifference. “It makes -more than I thought,” she said carelessly, giving him the paper. - -“Vanity! vanity! You know you are dying to read every word of it. I’ll -wager you’ll go through it a dozen times once you are alone. We always -do--at first.” - -“Well, why not? It’s a harmless vanity and it ought to be called honest -pride. And--I owe it to you--all to you. And I’m glad it is to _you_ -that I owe it.” - -At the office she was the centre of interest--for a few hours. “Isn’t -she a perfect picture?” said Miss Farwell to Miss Gresham, as they -watched her receiving congratulations. “And she doesn’t exaggerate -herself. She probably knows that it was her looks and her dresses that -got her the assignment and that make them think she’s wonderful. She -really didn’t write it so very well. You could tell all the way through -that it was a beginner, couldn’t you?” - -“Of course it wasn’t a work of genius,” admitted Miss Gresham. “But it -was very good indeed.” - -“A story like that simply tells itself.” Miss Farwell used envy’s most -judicial tone. “It couldn’t be spoiled.” - -Miss Gresham and Emily went uptown together. “I’ve read my special -several times,” said Emily, “and I don’t feel so set up over it as I -did at first. I suspect they would have rewritten it if it had not got -into the office late.” - -“You did wonderfully well,” Miss Gresham assured her. “And you’ve put -yourself in a position where your work will be noted and, if it’s good, -recognised. The hardest thing in the world is to get disentangled from -the crowd so that those above are able to see one.” - -The routine of petty assignments into which she sank again was -wearisome and distasteful. She had expected a better kind of work. -Instead, she got the same work as before. As Coleman was giving her one -of these trifles, he looked cautiously round to make sure that no one -was within hearing distance, then said in a low voice: “Don’t blame me -for giving you poor assignments. I have orders from Mr. Stilson--strict -orders.” - -Emily did not like Coleman’s treachery to his superior, but her -stronger feeling was anger against Stilson. “Why does he dislike me?” -she thought. “What a mean creature he is. It must be some queer sort -of jealous envy.” She laughed at herself for this vanity. But she had -more faith in it than she thought, and it was with the latent idea of -getting it a prop that she repeated to Miss Gresham what Coleman had -said. “Why do you think Mr. Stilson told him that?” she asked. - -“I don’t know, I can’t imagine,” replied Miss Gresham. She reflected -a moment and then turned her head so that Emily could not see her -eyes. She thought she had guessed the reason. “Stilson is trying to -save her from the consequences of her vanity,” she said to herself, -“I had better not tell her, as it would do no good and might make her -dislike me.” And watching Emily more closely, she soon discovered -that premature triumph had been a little too much for her good sense. -Emily was entertaining an opinion of herself far higher than the facts -warranted. “Stilson is doing her a service,” Miss Gresham thought, as -Emily complained from time to time of trifling assignments. “He’ll -restore her point of view presently.” - -After a month of this Stilson called her into his office. He stood at -the window, tall and stern--he was taller than Marlowe and dark; and -while Marlowe’s expression was one of good-humoured, rather cynical -carelessness, his was grave and haughty. - -Without looking at her he began: “Miss Bromfield, we’ve been giving you -a very important kind of work--the small items. They are the test of -a newspaper’s standard of perfection. I’m afraid you don’t appreciate -their importance.” - -“I’m doing the best I can,” said Emily coldly. - -He frowned, but she watched him narrowly, and saw that he was -suffering acute embarrassment. “It isn’t easy for me to speak to you,” -he went on. “But--it’s necessary. At first you did well. Now--you’re -_not_ doing well.” - -There was a long, a painful silence. Then he suddenly looked at -her. And in spite of herself, his expression melted resentment and -obstinacy. “You can do well again,” he said. “Please try.” - -The tone of the “Please try” made her feel his fairness and -friendliness as she had not felt it before. “Thank you,” she said -impulsively. “I _will_ try.” She paused at the door and turned. -“Thank you,” she said again, earnestly. He was bending over his -desk and seemed to be giving his attention to his papers. But Emily -understood him well enough now to know that he was trying to hide his -embarrassment. When she was almost hidden from him by the closing door, -she heard him begin to speak. “I beg your pardon,” she said, showing -her head round the edge of the door, “What did you say?” - -“No matter,” he replied, and she thought she saw, rather than heard, -something very like a sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -A COMPROMISE WITH CONVENTIONALITY. - - -MARLOWE was as responsible for Emily’s self-exaggeration as was Emily -herself. He had been enveloping her in an atmosphere of adulation, -through which she could see clearly and sensibly neither him nor -herself nor her affairs. - -When she first appeared he was deeply entangled elsewhere. But at once -with the adroitness of experience, he extricated himself and boldly -advanced into the new and unprecedently attractive net which fate was -spreading for him. He was of those men who do not go far on the journey -without a woman, or long with the same woman. He abhorred monotony -both in work and in love; a typical impressionist, he soon found one -subject, whether for his mind or for his heart, exhausted and wearisome. - -Emily in her loneliness and youth, yearning for love and companionship, -was so frankly attracted that he at first thought her as easy a -conquest as had been the women who dwelt in the many and brief chapters -of the annals of his conquering career. But he, and she also, to -her great surprise, discovered that, while she had cast aside most -conventionality in practice and all conventionality in theory there -remained an immovable remnant. And this, fast anchored in unreasoning -inherited instinct, stubbornly resisted their joint attack. In former -instances of somewhat similar discoveries, he had winged swiftly, and -gracefully, away; now, to his astonishment, he found that his wings -were snared. Without intention on his part, without effort on her part, -he was fairly caught. Nor was he struggling against the toils. - -They had been together many times since the return from Furnaceville. -And usually it was just he and she, dining in the open air, or taking -long drives or walks, or sailing the river or the bay. But their -perplexed state of mind had kept them from all but subtle reference to -the one subject of which both were thinking more and more intently and -intensely. One night they were driving in a hansom after a dinner on -the Savoy balcony--he suddenly bent and kissed the long sleeve of her -thin summer dress at the wrist. “You light a flame that goes dancing -through my veins,” he said. “I wish I could find new words to put it -in. But I’ve only the old ones, Emily--I love you and I want your -love--I want you. This is an unconditional surrender and I’m begging -you to receive it. You won’t say no, will you, Emily?” - -Her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks pale. But she succeeded in -controlling her voice so that she could put a little mockery into her -tone when she said: “What--you! You, who are notoriously opposed to -unconditional surrender. I never expected to live to see the day when -you would praise treason and proclaim yourself a traitor.” - -“I love you,” he said--“that’s all the answer I can make.” - -“And only a few days ago some one was repeating to me a remark of -yours--let me see, how did you put it? Oh, yes--‘love is a bird that -does not sing well in a cage.’” - -“I said it--and I meant it,” he replied. “And I love you--that’s all. I -still believe what I said, but--please, Emily, dear--bring the cage!” - -The mockery in her face gave place to a serious look. “I wonder,” she -said, “does love sing at all in a cage? I’ve never known an instance, -though I’ve read and heard of them. But they’re almost all a long way -off, or a long time ago, or among old-fashioned people.” - -“But I’m old-fashioned, I find--and won’t you be, dear? And I think we -might teach our wild bird to sing in a cage, don’t you?” - -Emily made no answer but continued to watch the dark trees, that closed -in on either side of the shining drive. - -“Since I’ve known you, Emily, I’ve found a new side to my nature--one I -did not suspect the existence of. Perhaps it didn’t exist until I knew -you.” - -“It has been so with me,” she said. She had been surprised and even -disquieted by the upbursting of springs of tenderness and gentleness -and longing since she had known Marlowe. - -“Do you care--a little, dear?” he asked. - -She nodded. “But what were you going to say?” - -“I’ve always disliked the idea of marriage,” he went on. “There’s -something in me--not peculiar to me, I imagine, but in most men as -well--that revolts at the idea of a bond of any kind. A man falls in -love with a woman or a woman with a man. And heretofore I’ve always -said to myself, how can they know that love will last?” - -“They can’t know it,” replied Emily. “And when they pledge themselves -to keep on loving and honouring, they must know, if they are capable of -thinking, that they’ve promised something they had no right to promise. -I hate to be bound. I love to be free. Nothing, nothing, could induce -me to give up my freedom.” - -Marlowe had expected that she would gladly put aside her idea of -freedom the moment he announced that he was willing to sacrifice his -own. Her earnestness disconcerted, alarmed him. “Emily!” he said in -a low, intense tone, putting his hand upon hers. “Tell me”-- She -had turned her head and they were now looking each into the other’s -eyes--“do you--can’t you--care for me?” He wondered at the appeal in -his voice, at the anxiety with which he waited for her answer. “I -cannot live without you, Emily.” - -“But if I were tied to you,” she said, “if I felt compelled, if I felt -that you were being compelled, to keep on with me--well, I’m not sure -that I could continue to care or to believe that you cared.” - -“Then”--he interrupted. - -“But,” she went on, “I’m not great enough or wise enough, or perhaps -I was too long trained to conventionality, or am too recently and -incompletely freed,--to----” - -“It isn’t necessary,” he began, as she hesitated and cast about for a -phrase. “Perhaps--in some circumstances--I’d have hoped that it would -be so. But with you--it’s different. I can’t explain myself even to -myself. All I know is that my theories have gone down the wind and -that--I want you. I want you on the world’s terms--for better or for -worse, for ever and a day. Dear, can’t you care enough for me to take -the risk?” - -He put his arm round her and kissed her. She said in a faint voice, -hardly more than a murmur, “I think so--yes.” - -“Will you marry me, Emily?” he asked eagerly, and then he smiled with -a little self-mockery. “I’ve always loathed that word ‘marry’--and all -other words that mean finality. I’ve always wished to be free to change -my mind and my course at any moment. And now----” - -She pushed him from her, but left her hand on his shoulder. “Yes, dear, -but it isn’t a finality with us. We go through a ceremony because--say, -because it is convenient. But if we--either of us--cease to love, each -must feel free to go. If I ever found out that you had kissed me -once, merely because you thought it was expected of you, I’d despise -myself--and you. If I promise to marry you, dear, you must promise to -leave me free.” - -“Since I could not hold you--the real you--an instant longer than you -wished--I promise.” He caught her in his arms and kissed her again and -again. “But you’ll never call on me to redeem my promise, will you, -dear?” - -“That’s why I ask you to make it. If we’re both free, we may not ever -care to test it,” she answered. The words came from her mind, but with -them came a tone and a look from the heart that were an answer to his. - -“We--you talk the new wisdom,” he said, “but--” and he kissed her once -more “feel the old wisdom, or folly--which is it? No matter--I love -you.” - -“The road is very bright here and carriages are coming,” she answered, -sitting up and releasing herself from him. And then they both laughed -at their sensitiveness to conventions. - -Marlowe was all for flinging their theories overboard in the mass and -accepting the routine as it is marked out for the married. But Emily -refused. She could not entertain the idea of becoming a dependent -upon him, absorbed in his personality. “I wish to continue to love -him,” she said to herself. “And also I’d be very foolish to bind him, -though he wishes to be bound. The chances are, he’d grow weary long -before I did. A man’s life is fuller than a woman’s, even than a -working-woman’s. And he has more temptations to wander.” - -“We will marry,” she said to him, “but we will not ‘settle down’.” - -“I should hope _not_,” he answered, with energy, as before his eyes -rose a vision of himself yawning in carpet-slippers with a perambulator -in the front hall. - -“We will compromise with conventionality,” she went on. “We will marry, -but we won’t tell anybody. And I’ll take an apartment with Joan Gresham -and will go on with my work. And-- Dearest, I don’t wish to become an -old story to you--at least not so long as we’re young. I don’t want -you as my husband. I want you to be my lover. And I want to be always, -every time we meet, new and interesting to you.” - -“But--why, I’d be little more than a stranger.” - -“Do you think so?” She put her arms about his neck and looked him full -in the eyes. “You know it wouldn’t be so.” - -He thought a moment. “I see what you mean,” he said. “I suppose it -is familiarity that drives love out of marriage. Whatever you wish, -Strange Lady--anything, everything. We can easily try your plan.” - -“And if it fails, we can ‘settle down’ just like other people, where, -if we ‘settled down’ first and failed at that, we’d have nothing left -to try.” - -“You are so--so different from any other woman that ever was,” he -said. “No wonder I love you in the way that a man loves only once.” - -“And I’m determined that you shall keep on loving me.” - -“I can see that you are getting ready to lead me a wild life.” There -was foreboding as well as jest in his tone. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -“EVERYTHING AWAITS MADAME.” - - -FRANK wished to see Theresa well provided for--he was most amiable -and generous where serving a friend cost him nothing and agreeably -filled a few of his many vacant hours. He cast shrewdly about among the -susceptible and eligible widowers and bachelors of his club and fixed -upon Edgar Wayland’s father. The old General and “cotton baron” was -growing lonelier and lonelier. He was too rich to afford the luxury -of friendship. He suspected and shunned sycophants. He dreaded being -married for his money, yet longed for a home with some one therein who -would make him comfortable, would listen patiently to his reminiscences -and moralisings. He had led an anything but exemplary life, but having -reached the age and condition where his kinds of self-indulgence are -either highly dangerous or impossible, he wished to become a bulwark of -the church and the social order. - -“He needs me even more than I need him,” said Theresa, when she -disclosed her scheme to Emily, “and that’s saying a good deal. He -thinks I’ve been living in Blue Mountain, thinks I’m simple and -guileless--and I am, in comparison with him. I’ll make a new and better -man of him. If he got the sort of woman he thinks he wants, he’d be -miserable. As it is, he’ll be happy.” - -Theresa offered to introduce the General to Emily, but she refused, -much to Theresa’s relief. “It’s just as well,” she said, with the -candour that was the chief charm of her character. “You’re entirely too -fascinating with your violet eyes and your wonderful complexion, my -dear. But after he’s safe, you must visit us.” - -When the time came for Theresa to go to Blue Mountain for her marriage, -she begged Emily to go with her. “I didn’t know how fond I was of you,” -she said, “until now that we’re separating. And when I look at you, -and forget for the moment what a sensible, self-reliant girl you are, -it seems to me that you can’t possibly get along without me to protect -you.” - -But Emily could not go to the wedding. She was moving into an apartment -in Irving Place which she and Joan had taken. Also she was marrying. - -The wedding was set for a Thursday, but Marlowe found that he must -leave town on Wednesday night to go with the President on a short -“swing round the circle.” So on Wednesday afternoon he and Emily went -to a notary in One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street and were married by -certificate. - -“Certainly the modern improvements do go far toward making marriage -painless,” said Marlowe as they left with the certificates. “I haven’t -felt it at all. Have you?” And he stopped at a letter box to mail the -duplicate for the Board of Health. As he balanced it on the movable -shelf, he looked at her with a queer expression in his eyes. “You -can still draw back,” he said. “If we tear up the papers, we’re not -married. If I mail this one we are.” - -She made a movement toward the balancing letter and he hastily let it -drop into the box. “Too late,” he said, in a mock tragic tone. “We are -married--tied--bound!” - -“And now let us forget it,” was Emily’s reply. “No one knows it except -us; and we need never think of it.” - -They were silent on the journey downtown, and her slight depression -seemed to infect him deeply. Two hours after the ceremony he was dining -alone in the Washington express, and she and Joan were having their -first dinner in their first “home.” - -Two weeks later--in the last week of September--she took the four -o’clock boat for Atlantic Highlands and the train there for Seabright. -At the edge of the platform of the deserted station she found the -yellow trap with stripes of red on the body and shafts--the trap he had -described in his letter. - -“For Germain’s?” she asked the driver, after she had looked round -carefully, as if she were not going to meet her husband. - -“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “They’re expecting you.” - -Her trunk and bag were put on the seat with the driver and they were -soon in the Rumson road, gorgeous with autumn finery. There were -the odours of the sea and the woods, and the air was tranquil yet -exhilarating. The trim waggon, the brilliant trees arching overhead, -the attractive houses and lawns on either side--it seemed to her that -she was in a dream. They turned down a lane to the right. It led -through a thick grove of maples, its foliage a tremulous curtain of -scarlet and brown lit by the declining sun. Another turn and they were -at the side entrance to an old-fashioned brick house with creepers -screening verandas and balconies. There were tables on the verandas, -and tables out in the garden under the trees. She could hear only the -birds and the faint sigh of the distant surf. - -Rapid footsteps, and a small, fat, smooth man appeared and bowed -profoundly. “Monsieur has not arrived yet,” he said. “Madame Marlowe, -is it not?” - -She blushed and answered nervously, “Yes--that is--yes.” It was the -first time she had heard her legal name, or even had definitely -recognised its existence. - -“Monsieur telegraphed for madame”--He had a way of saying madame which -suggested that it was a politeness rather than an actuality--“to order -dinner, and that he will presently come to arrive by the Little Silver -station from which he will drive. He missed his train unhappily. But -madame need not derange herself. Monsieur comes to arrive now.” - -Emily seated herself on the veranda at its farthest table from the -entrance. “How guilty and queer and--happy I feel,” she thought. - -Monsieur Germain brought the dinner card. “I’m sure we can trust to you -for the dinner,” she said. - -“Bien, madame. It will be a pleasure. And will madame have a refreshing -drink while she passes the time?” - -“Yes--a little--perhaps--a little brandy?” she said tentatively. - -“Excellent.” And Germain himself brought a “pony” of brandy, a tall -empty glass and a bottle of soda. He opened the soda and went away. -She drank the brandy from the little glass, and then some of the soda. -Almost instantly she felt her timidity flying before a warm courage -that spread through her veins and sparkled in her eyes. “It is even -more beautiful here than I imagined it would be,” she thought, as -she looked round. “And I’m glad I got here first and had a chance to -get--the brandy.” - -When her husband came he found her leaning against a pillar of the -veranda looking out into space, an attitude that was characteristic of -her. She greeted him with a blush, with downcast eyes, with mischievous -radiance. - -“I just saw my first star,” she said, “and I made a wish.” - -He put his arm round her and his head against hers. “Don’t tell me what -you wished,” he said, “for--I--we--want it to come true. It _must_ -come true. And it will, won’t it?” - -“I’m very, very happy--thus far,” she answered. - -They stood in silence, watching Germain and the waiter set a table -under the trees--the linen, the silver and glass and china, the -candlesticks. And then Germain came to the walk below them and beamed -up at them. - -“Everything awaits madame,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -A FLICKERING FIRE. - - -THEY made several journeys to Monsieur Germain that fall, as he did -not close his inn and return to Philadelphia until the second week in -December. He had the instinctive French passion for the romantically -unconventional; and, while he was a severely proper person in his own -domestic relations, the mystery of the quiet visits of this handsome -young couple delighted him. He made them very comfortable indeed, and -his big smooth face shone like a sun upon their happiness. - -As Marlowe had always been most irregular in his appearances at the -office, Emily’s absences did not connect her with him in the minds of -their acquaintances. Even Joan suspected nothing. She saw that Marlowe -was devoted to her beautiful friend and she believed that Emily loved -him, but she had seen love go too often to be much affected by its -coming. - -After three months of this prolonged and peculiar honeymoon, Marlowe -showed the first faint signs of impatience. It was a new part to him, -this of being the eluded instead of the eluder, the uncertain, not the -creator of uncertainty. And it was a part that baffled his love and -irritated his vanity. He thought much upon ways and means of converting -his Spartan marriage into one in which his authority, his headship -would be recognized, and at last hit upon a plan of action which he -ventured to hope might bring her to terms. He stayed away from her -for two weeks, then went to Chicago for a month, writing her only an -occasional brief note. - -Before he left for Chicago, Emily was exceeding sick at heart. She -kept up appearances at the office, but at home went about with a long -and sad face. “They’ve quarrelled,” thought Joan, “and she’s taking it -hard.” Emily was tempted to do many foolish things--for example, she -wrote a dozen notes at least, each more or less ingeniously disguising -its real purpose. But she sent none of them. “If he doesn’t care,” she -reflected, “it would be humiliating myself to no purpose. And if he -does care, he has a good reason which he’ll tell when he can.” - -Then came his almost curt note announcing his departure for Chicago. -She was angry--“he’s treating his wife as he wouldn’t treat a girl he’d -been merely attentive to.” But, worse than angry, she was wounded, in -the mortal spot in her love for him--her unquestioning confidence in -him. - -This might be called her introduction to the real Marlowe, the -beginning of her acquaintance with the man she had married after a look -at the outside of him and a distorted glimpse of such parts of the -inside man as are shown by one bent upon making the most favourable -impression. - -When he had been in Chicago three weeks, came a long letter from -him--“Forgive me. I was not content as we were living. I want -you--all of you, all of the time. I want you as my very own. And I -thought to win you to my way of thinking. But you seem to be stronger -than I.” And so on through many pages, filled with passionate -outpourings--extravagant compliments, alternations of pride and -humility, all the eloquence of a lover with an emotional nature and a -gift for writing. It was to her an irresistible appeal, so intensely -did she long for him. But there drifted through her mind, to find -lodgment in an obscure corner, the thought: “Why is he dissatisfied -with a happiness that satisfies me? Why do I feel none of this desire -to abandon my independence and submerge myself?” At the moment her -answer was, that if she were to do as he wished he would remain free, -while she would become his dependent. Afterward that answer did not -satisfy her. - -He came back, and their life went on as before until---- - -She overheard two men at the office talking of an adventure he had -had while he was in Chicago. She did not hear all, and she got no -details, but there was enough to let her see that he had not lived up -to their compact. “Now I understand his letter,” she said. “It was -the result of remorse.” And with a confused mingling of jealousy and -indignation, she reviewed his actions toward her immediately after -his return. She now saw that they were planned deliberately to make -it impossible for her to think him capable of such a lapse. She could -follow the processes of his mind as it worked out the scheme, gauging -her credulity and his own adroitness. When she had done, she had found -him guilty of actions that concerned their most sacred relations, and -that were tainted with the basest essence of hypocrisy. - -“I shouldn’t care what he had done,” she said to herself bitterly, “if -he had been honest with me--honestly silent or honestly outspoken. I -cannot, shall not, ever trust him again. And such needless deception! -He acted as if I were the ordinary silly woman who won’t make -allowances and can’t generously forgive. I love him, but----” - -“I love him, but--” that is always the beginning of a change which at -least points in the direction of the end. At first she was for having -it out with him. But she decided that he would only think her vulgarly -jealous; and so, with unconscious inconsistency, she resolved to -violate her own fundamental principle of absolute frankness. - -A few weeks and these wounds to her love, inflicted by him and -aggravated by herself, seemed to have healed. They were again together -almost every day and were apparently like lovers in the first ecstasy -of engagement. But while he was completely under her spell, her -attitude toward him was slightly critical. She admired his looks, his -physical strength, his brilliant quickness of mind, as much as ever. At -the same time she began to see and to measure his weaknesses. - -She was often, in the very course of laughter or admiration at his -cleverness, brought to a sudden halt by the discovery that he was not -telling the truth. Like many men of rapid and epigrammatic speech, he -would sacrifice anything, from a fact of history to the reputation of -a friend, for the sake of scoring a momentary triumph. And whenever -she caught him in one of these carelessly uttered falsehoods she was -reminded of his falsehood to her--that rankling, cankerous double -falsehood of unfaithfulness and deceit. - -Another hastener of the mortal process of de-idealisation was the -discovery that his sparkle was hiding a shallowness which was so -lacking in depth that it offended even her, a woman--and women are not -easily offended by pretence in men. His mind was indeed quick, but -quick only to see and seize upon that which had been discovered and -shown to him by some one else. And so forgetful or so used to borrowing -without any sort of credit was he, that he would even exhibit to Emily -as original with himself the ideas which she had expressed to him -only a few days before. He had a genius for putting everything in the -show-window; but he could not conceal from her penetrating, and now -critical and suspicious eyes, the empty-shelved shop behind, with him, -full of vanity and eagerness to attract any wayfarer, and peering out -to note what effect he was producing. She discovered that one of the -main sources of his education was Stilson--that it was to an amazing, -a ridiculous, a pitiful extent Stilson’s views and ideas and knowledge -and sardonic wit which he bore away and diluted and served up as his -own. Comparison is the life and also the death of love. As soon as she -began to compare him with Stilson and to admit that he was the lesser, -she began to neglect love, to leave it to the alternating excessive -heat and cold of passion. - -But all these causes of a curious decline were subordinate to one great -cause--she discovered that he was a coward, that he was afraid of her. -The quality which she admired in a man above every other was courage. -She had thought Marlowe had it. And he was physically brave; but, when -she knew him well and had got used to that cheapest form of courage -which dazzles the mob and deceives the unthinking, she saw a coward -lurking beneath. He wrote things he did not believe; he shirked issues -both in his profession and in his private life; he lied habitually, not -because people intruded upon his affairs and so compelled and excused -misrepresentation, but because he was afraid to face the consequences -of truth. - -In February she was saying sadly to herself: “If he’d been brave, he -would have made me come to him, could have made me do as he wished. -Instead----” She was not proud, yet neither was she ashamed, of the -conspicuous tyranny she had established over him. - -“It seems to me,” she said to Joan at breakfast one morning, to draw -her out, “that the only way to be married, is for each to live his own -life. Then at least there can be none of that degrading familiarity and -monotony.” - -Joan shook her head in vigorous dissent. - -“Why not?” asked Emily. - -“Because it is certain to end in failure--absolutely certain.” - -Emily looked uncomfortable, “I don’t see why,” she said, somewhat -irritably. “Don’t you think people can get too much of each other?” - -“Certainly--and in marriage they always do; but if it’s to be a -marriage, if there’s to be anything permanent about it, they must live -together, see each other constantly, become completely united in the -same current of life; all their interests must be in common, and they -must have a common destiny and must never forget it.” - -“But that isn’t love,” objected Emily. - -“No, it isn’t love--love of the kind we’re all crazy about nowadays. -But it is married love--and that’s the kind we’re talking about. If I -were married I shouldn’t let my husband out of my sight for a minute, -except when it was necessary. I’d see to it that we became one. If he -were the stronger, he’d be the one. If I were the stronger, I’d be the -one--but I’d try to be generous.” - -Emily laughed at this picture of tyranny, so directly opposed to her -own ideas and to her own tyranny over her husband. She mocked Joan for -entertaining such “barbaric notions.” But later in the day, she caught -herself saying, with a sigh she’d have liked to believe was not regret, -“It’s too late now.” - -There were days when she liked him, hours when she wrought herself -into an exaltation which was a feeble but deceptive imitation of his -adoration of her--and how he did adore her then, how he did strain -to clasp her more tightly, believing her still his, and not heeding -instinctive, subtle warnings that she was slipping from him. But in -contrast to these days of liking and hours of loving were her longer -periods of indifference and, occasionally, of weariness. - -Early in the summer, there was a revival of her interest--a six weeks’ -separation from him; an attack of the “blues,” of loneliness; a sudden -appreciation of the strength and comfort of the habit which a husband -had become with her. - -On a Friday evening in June he was coming to dine, and Miss Gresham -was dining out. He arrived twenty minutes late. “I’ve been making my -arrangements to sail to-morrow,” he explained. “You can come on the -Wednesday or Saturday steamer--if you can arrange to leave on such -short notice.” - -She looked surprised--she was no longer astonished at the newspaper -world’s rapid shifts. - -“They’re sending me to reorganise the foreign service. They also wish -to send a woman to Paris, and didn’t know whom to ask. I suggested -you, and reminded them that you speak French. They soon consented. My -headquarters will be London, but I’ll be free to go where I wish. Will -you come? Won’t you come?” - -Evidently he was assuming that she would; but she said, “I’ll have to -think it over.” - -He looked at her nervously. “Why, I may be away several years,” he -said. “And over there----” - -“You forget--I’m tied up with Joan. We have a lease. But that might be -arranged. Do you know what salary they’ll give me?” - -“Sixty a week--and your travelling expenses.” - -“Yes,” said Emily, after a moment’s silent casting up of figures. -“Yes--the lease can be taken care of. Then, there is my work--what are -the advantages?” - -“Experience--a change of scene--a chance to do more individual work--and -last, and, of course, least in your eyes, lady-with-a-career-to-make, -the inestimable advantages of----” - -The servant was out of the room. He went behind her chair, and bent -over and kissed her. “We shall be happy as never before, dear--happy -though we have been, haven’t we? Think what we can do together--how -free we shall be, how many beautiful places we can visit.” - -She was looking at him tenderly and dreamily when he was sitting -opposite her again. “Yes, we shall be happy,” she said, and to herself -she added, “again.” - -The next morning, at about the hour when Marlowe’s boat was dropping -down the bay, Joan went into Emily’s room and awakened her. “I can’t -wait any longer,” she said. “Did you know you were going abroad?” - -“Yes,” said Emily, sleepily rubbing her eyes, “Marlowe was dining here -last night, and he told me.” - -“It’s very evident that Stilson likes and appreciates you,” continued -Joan. “He selected you.” - -Emily smiled faintly--she was remembering what Marlowe had said. - -“I happened to be in Stilson’s office,” continued Joan, “when he was -deciding. It seems the London man suddenly resigned and something had -to be done at once. You know Stilson is acting Managing Editor. He -asked me if you spoke French. He said: ‘I’m just sending for Marlowe to -come down, as I wish him to go to London for us; and if Miss Bromfield -can speak French, I’ll send her to Paris.’ I told him that you spoke -it almost like a native. ‘That settles it,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell her -to-morrow--but I don’t mind if you tell her first. You live together, -don’t you?’ And you were asleep when I came last night, and I’m _so_ -disappointed that I’m not the first to tell you.” - -Emily had sunk back into her pillow and was concealing her face from -Joan. “I wish they’d sent you,” she said presently, in a strained voice. - -“Oh, I couldn’t have gone. The fact is I’ve written a play and had it -accepted. It’s to be produced at the Lyceum in six weeks.” - -“But why didn’t you tell me?” Emily could not uncover her face, could -not put interest in her tone--she could think only of Marlowe, of -his petty, futile, vainglorious lie to her. A few hours before--it -seemed but a few minutes--they had been so happy together. She had -fancied that the best was come again. Her nerves were still vibrating -to his caresses. And now--this adder-like reminder of all his lies, -deceptions, hypocrisies. - -“I thought I’d surprise you,” replied Joan. “Besides, it’s not a very -good play. And when you’re in Paris, you might watch the papers for the -notices of the first night of ‘Love the Liar, by Harriette Stone’--that -will be my play and I.” - -“Love the Liar,” Emily repeated, and then Joan saw her shoulders -shaking. - -“Laughing at me? I don’t wonder; it’s very sentimental--but then, you -know, I have a streak of sentiment in me.” - -When Joan left her, Emily brushed the tears from her eyes and slowly -rose. “I ought to be used to him by this time,” she said. “But--oh, why -did he spoil it! Why does he _always_ spoil it!” - -At the office, she was apparently bright again, certainly was looking -very lovely and a little mischievous as she went in to see Stilson. -“I’d thank you, if I dared,” she said, “but I know that you’d cut -me short with some remark about my thanks being an insinuation that -you were cheating the proprietors of the _Democrat_ by showing -favouritism.” She was no longer in the least afraid of him. “Perhaps -you’d like it better if I told you I was angry about it.” - -“And why angry, pray?” There was a twinkle deep down in his sombre -sardonic eyes. - -“Because you’re sending me away to get rid of me.” - -He winced and flushed a deep red. He rose abruptly and bowed. “No -thanks are necessary,” he said, and he was standing at the window with -his back to her. - -“I beg your pardon,” she said to his strong, uncompromising shoulders. -“I did not mean to offend you--you must know that.” - -“_Offend_ me?” He turned his face toward her but did not let her see -his eyes. He put out his hand and just touched hers before drawing it -away. “My manner is unfortunate. But--that is not important. Success to -you, if I don’t see you before you sail.” - -As she left his office she could see his face, his eyes, in profile. -His expression was more than sad--it was devoid of hope. - -“Where have I seen an expression like that before?” she wondered. But -she could not then remember. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -EMBERS. - - -ON the way across the Atlantic her painful thoughts faded; and, -after the mid-ocean period when the worlds on either side of those -infinite waters dwindle into unreality, she found her imagination -looking forward to her new world as a place where there would be a new -beginning in her work and in her love. At Cherbourg Marlowe came out -on the lighter. “How handsome he is,” she was saying to herself, as -she leaned against the rail, watching his eyes search for her. “And -how well he wears his clothes. His head is set upon his shoulders -just right--what a strong, graceful figure he has.” And she again -felt something resembling her initial interest and pride in him, her -mind once more, as at first, interpreting his character through his -appearance, instead of reading into his appearance the man as she knew -him. - -When their eyes met she welcomed and returned the thought he sent her -in his look. - -They were soon together, bubbling over with the joy of living like two -children let out into the sunshine to play after a long imprisonment -with lessons. They had a compartment to themselves down to Paris -and sat very near each to the other, with illustrated papers as the -excuse for prolonging the enormous pleasure of the physical sensation -of nearness. They repeated again and again the commonplaces which all -human beings use as public coaches to carry their inarticulate selves a -visiting each other. - -She went to sleep for a few minutes, leaning against him; and a -breeze teased his nerves into an ecstasy of happiness with a stray of -her fine red-brown hair. “I’ve never been so happy,” she thought as -she awakened, “I could never be happier.” She did not move until it -became impossible for her to refrain from some outward expression of -her emotions. Then she only looked up at him. And his answer showed -that his mood was hers. As they sank back in the little victoria -outside the station, she gave a long look round the busy, fascinating -scene--strange, infectious of gaiety and good-humour. “Paris!” she -said, with a sigh of content in her dream realised. - -“Paris--and Emily,” he replied. - -They went to a small hotel in the Avenue Montaigne--“Modern enough,” he -said, “but very French and not yet discovered by foreigners.” At sunset -they drove to d’Armenonville to dine under the trees and to watch the -most interesting groups in the world--those groups of the civilised -through and through, in dress, in manners, in thought. After two days -he was called back to London. When he returned at the end of two weeks -she had transformed herself. A new gown, a new hat, a new way of -wearing her hair, an adaptation of her graces of form and manner to the -fashion of the moment, and she seemed a Parisienne. - -“You _have_ had your eyes open,” he said, as he noted one detail after -another, finally reaching the face which bloomed so delicately beneath -the sweeping brim of her hat. “And what a gorgeous hat! And put on at -the miraculous angle--how few women know how to put on a hat.” Of his -many tricks in the art at which he excelled--the art of superficially -pleasing women--none was more effective than his intelligent -appreciation of their dress. - -They staid at her pretty little apartment in a maison meublèe -in the Rue des Capucines; in a few days they went down into -Switzerland, and then, after a short pause at Paris, to Trouville. -In all they were together about a month, he neglecting his work in -spite of her remonstrances and her example. For she did her work -conscientiously--and she had never written so well. He tried to stay on -with her at Paris, but she insisted on his going. - -“I believe you wish to be rid of me,” he said, irritation close beneath -the surface of his jesting manner. - -“This morning’s is the third complaining cable you’ve had from the -office,” she answered. - -He looked at her, suspecting an evasion, but he went back to London. -The unpleasant truth was that he had worn out his welcome. She had -never before been with him continuously for so much as a week. Now, in -the crowded and consecutive impressions of these thirty uninterrupted -days, all the qualities which repelled her stood out, stripped of the -shimmer and glamour of novelty. And as she was having more and more -difficulty in deceiving herself and in spreading out the decreasing -area of her liking for him over the increasing gap where her love for -him had been, he, in the ironical perversity of the law of contraries, -became more and more demonstrative and even importunate. Many times -in her effort to escape him and the now ever-impending danger of open -rupture, she was driven to devices which ought not to have deceived -him, perhaps did not really deceive him. - -When he was gone she sat herself down to a “good cry”--an expression of -overwrought nerves rather than of grief. - -But after a few weeks she began to be lonely. The men she met were -of two kinds--those she did not like, all of whom were willing to -be friends with her on her terms; those she did like more or less, -none of whom was willing to be with her on any but his own terms. And -so she found herself often spending the most attractive part of the -day--the evening--dismally shut up at home, alone or with some not very -interesting girl. She had never been so free, yet never had she felt so -bound. With joy all about her, with joy beckoning her from the crowded, -fascinating boulevards, she was a prisoner. She needed Marlowe, and she -sent for him. - -She was puzzled by the change in him. She had only too good reason to -know that he loved her as insistently as ever, but there was a strain -in his manner and speech, as if he were concealing something from her. -She caught him looking at her in a peculiar way--as if he were angry -or resentful or possibly were suspecting her changed and changing -feelings toward him. And he had never been less interesting--she had -never before heard him talk stupidities and lifeless commonplaces or -break long silences with obvious attempts to rouse himself to “make -conversation.” - -She was not sorry when he went--he stayed four days longer than he -had intended; but she was also glad to get a message from him ten -days later, announcing a week-end visit. The telegram reached her -at _dejeuner_ and afterward, in a better mood, she drove to the -Continental Hotel, where she sometimes heard news worth sending. She -sat at a long window in the empty drawing-rooms and watched a light and -lazy snow drift down. - -As it slowly chilled her to a sense of loneliness, of disappointment -in the past, of dread of the future, she became conscious that a man -was pointedly studying her. She looked at him with the calm, close, yet -repelling, stare which experience gives a woman as a secure outlook -upon the world of strange men. This strange man was not ungracefully -sprawled in a deep chair, his top hat in a lap made by the loose -crossing of his extremely long and extremely strong legs. His feet -and hands were proportionate to his magnitude. His hands were white -and the fingers in some way suggested to her a public speaker. He had -big shoulders and a great deal of coat--a vast overcoat over a frock -coat, all made in the loosest English fashion. She had now reached his -head--a large head with an aggressive forehead and chin, the hair dark -brown, thin on top and at the temples, the skin pallid but healthy. His -eyes were bold and keen, and honest. He looked a tremendous man, and -when he rose and advanced toward her she wondered how such bulk could -be managed with so much grace. “An idealist,” she thought, “of the kind -that has the energy to be very useful or very dangerous.” - -“You are alone, mademoiselle,” he said, in French that was fluent but -American, “and I am alone. Let us have an adventure.” - -Emily’s glance started up his form with the proper expression of icy -oblivion. But by the time it reached the lofty place from which his -eyes were looking down at her it was hardly more than an expression -of bewilderment. To give him an icy stare would have seemed as futile -as for the valley to try to look scorn upon the peak. Before Emily -could drop her glance, she had seen in his eyes an irresistible -winning smile, as confiding as a boy’s, respectful, a little nervous, -delightfully human and friendly. - -“I can see what you are,” he continued in French, “and it may be that -you see that I am not untrustworthy. I am lonely and shall be more so -if you fail me. It seemed to me that--pardon me, if I intrude--you -looked lonely also--and sad. Why should we be held from helping each -the other by a convention that sensible people laugh at even when they -must obey it?” - -His voice pleaded his cause as words could not; and there was a -certain compulsion in it also. Emily felt that she wished to yield, -that it would be at once unkind and absurd not to yield, and that she -must yield. The impression of mastering strength was new and, to her -surprise, agreeable. - -“Why not?” she said slowly in French, regarding him with unmistakable -straightforwardness and simplicity. “I am depressed. I am alone. I have -been looking inside too much. Let us see. What do you propose?” - -“We might go to the Louvre. It is near, and perhaps we can think of -something while we are there.” - -They walked to the Louvre, he talking appreciatively of France and the -French people. He showed that he thought her a Frenchwoman and she did -not undeceive him. She could not decide what his occupation was, but -felt that he must be successful, probably famous, in it. “He is not so -tall after all,” she said to herself, “not much above six feet. And he -must be about forty-five.” - -As they went through the long rooms, she found that he knew the -paintings and statuary. “You paint?” she asked. - -“No,” he replied with an impatient shrug. “I only talk--talk, -talk, talk, until I am sick of myself. Again, I am compelled to -listen--listen to the outpourings of vanity and self-excuse and -self-complacence until I loathe my kind. It seems to me that it is only -in France that one finds any great number of people with a true sense -of proportion.” - -“But France is the oldest, you know. It inherited from Greece and Rome -when the rest of Europe was a wilderness.” - -“And we inherited a little from France,” he said. “But, unfortunately, -more from England. I think the strongest desire I have is to see my -country shake off the English influence--the self-righteousness, the -snobbishness. In England if a man of brains compels recognition, they -hasten to give him a title. Their sense of consistency in snobbishness -must not be violated. They put snobbishness into their church service -and create a snob-god who calls some Englishmen to be lords, and others -to be servants.” - -“But there is nothing like that in America?” - -“Not officially, and perhaps not among the mass of the people. But in -New York, in one class with which my--my business compels me to have -much to do, the craze for imitating England is rampant. It is absurd, -how they try to erect snobbishness into a virtue.” - -Emily shrugged her shoulders. “What does it matter?” she said. “Caste -is never made by the man who looks down, but always by the man who -looks up.” - -“But it is evil. It is a sin against God. It----” - -“I do not wish to dispute with you,” interrupted Emily. “But let us not -disturb God in his heaven. We are talking of earth.” - -“You do not believe in God?” He looked at her in astonishment. - -“Do you?” - -“I--I think I do. I assume God. Without Him, life would be--monstrous.” - -“Yet the most of the human race lives without Him. And of those who -profess to believe in Him, no two have the same idea of Him. Your God -is a democrat. The Englishman’s God is an autocrat and a snob.” - -“And your God?” - -Emily’s face grew sad. “Mine? The God that I see behind all the -mischance and stupidity and misery of this world--is--” She shook her -head. “I don’t know,” she ended vaguely. - -“It seems strange that a woman so womanly--looking as you do, should -feel and talk thus.” - -“My mode of life has made me see much, has compelled me to do my -own thinking. Besides, I am a child of this generation. We suspect -everything that has come down to us from the ignorant past. Even so -ardent a believer as you, when asked, ‘Do you believe?’ stammers, ‘I -_think_ I do.’” - -“I am used to one-sided arguments,” said the stranger with a laugh. -“Usually, I lay down the law and others listen in silence.” - -Emily looked at him curiously. Could he be a minister? No, it was -impossible. He was too masculine, too powerful. - -“Oh, I was not arguing,” she answered lightly. “I was only trying to -suggest that you might be more charitable.” - -“I confess,” he said, “that I am always talking to convince myself. -I do not know what is right or what is wrong, but I wish to know. I -doubt, but I wish to believe. I despair, but I wish to hope.” - -She had no answer and they were silent for a few minutes. Then he began: - -“I have an impulse to tell you what I would not tell my oldest and -dearest friend--perhaps because we are two utter strangers whose paths -have crossed in their wanderings through infinity and will never cross -again. Do you mind if I speak of myself?” - -“No.” Emily intensely wished to hear. “But I warn you that our paths -_may_ cross again.” - -“That does not matter. I am obeying an instinct. It is always well to -obey instincts. I think now that the instinct which made me speak to -you in the first place was this instinct to tell you. But it is not a -tragic story or even exciting. I am rather well known in the community -where I live. I am what we call in America a self-made man. I come -from the people--not from ignorance and crime and sensuality, but from -the real people--who think, who aspire, who advance, who work and -take pleasure and pride in their work, the people who have built our -republic which will perish if they decline.” - -He hesitated, then went on with increasing energy: “I am a clergyman. I -went into the ministry because I ardently believed in it, saw in it an -opportunity to be a leader of men in the paths which I hoped it would -help me to follow. I have been a clergyman for twenty-five years. And -I have ceased to believe that which I teach. Louder than I can shout -to my congregation, louder than my conscience can shout to me, a voice -continually gives me the lie.” He threw out his arm with a gesture -that suggested a torrent flinging aside a dam. “I preach the goodness -of God, and I never make a tour among the poor of my parish that I do -not doubt it. I preach the immortality of the soul, and I never look -out upon a congregation and remember what an infinite multitude of -those same commonplace, imperfect types there have been, that I do not -think: ‘It is ridiculous to say that man, the weak, the insignificant, -the deformity, is an immortal being, each individual worth preserving -through eternity.’ I preach the conventional code of morals, and----” - -“You ought not to tell me these things,” said Emily, as he paused. She -felt guilty because she was permitting him to think her a Frenchwoman, -when she was of his own country and city. - -“Well--I have said enough. And how much good it has done me to confess! -You could not possibly have a baser opinion of me than I deserve. -Telling such things is nothing in comparison with living them. I have -lied and lied and lied so long that the joy of telling the truth -intoxicates me. I am like a man crawling up out of years in a slimy -dungeon to the light. Do you suppose it would disturb his enjoyment to -note that spectators were commenting upon his unlovely appearance?” - -“After all, what you tell me is the commonplace of life. Who doesn’t -live lies, cheating himself and others?” - -“But I do not wish the commonplace, the false, the vulgar. There -is something in me that calls for higher things. I demand a _good_ -God. I demand an _immortal_ soul. I demand a _right_ that is clear -and absolute. And I long for real love--ennobling, inspiring. Why -have I all these instincts when I am compelled to live the petty, -swindling, cringing life of a brute dominated by the passion for -self-preservation?” - -Emily thought a moment, then with a twinkle of mockery in her eyes, yet -with seriousness too, quoted: “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it -shall be opened unto you.” - -He smiled as the waters of his own fountain thus unexpectedly struck -him in the face. “But my legs are weary, and my knuckles sore,” he -replied. “Still--what is there to do but to persist? One must persist.” - -“Work and hope,” said Emily, musingly. And she remembered Marlowe’s -“work and love”; love had gone, but hope--she felt a sudden fresh -upspringing of it in her heart. - -When they set out from the hotel she had been in a reckless mood of -despondency. She had lost interest in her work, she had lost faith in -her future--was not the heart-interest the central interest of life, -and what had become of her heart-interest? This stranger to whose -power she had impulsively yielded in the first instance, had a magical -effect upon her. His pessimism was not disturbing, for beneath it lay -a tremendous belief in men and in destiny. It was his energy, his -outgiving of a compelling masculine force, that aroused her to courage -again. She looked at him gratefully and at once began to compare him -with Marlowe. “What a child this man makes him seem,” she thought. -“This is the sort of man who would inspire one. And what inspiration to -do or to be am I getting from my husband?” - -“You are disgusted with me.” The stranger was studying her face. - -“No--I was thinking of some one else,” she replied--“of my own -troubles.” And then she flushed guiltily, as if she had let him into -her confidence--“a traitor’s speech” she thought. Aloud she said: “I -must go. I thank you for the good you have done me. I can’t tell you -how or why, but--” She ended abruptly and presently added, “I mustn’t -say that I hope we shall meet again. You see, I have your awful secret.” - -He laughed--there was boyishness in his laugh, but it was not -boisterous. “You terrify me,” he exclaimed. Then, reflectively, “I have -an instinct that we shall meet again.” - -“Perhaps. Why not? It would be far stranger if we did not than if we -did?” - -He went with her to a cab and, with polite consideration, left her -before she could give her address to the cabman. “I wish he had asked -to see me again,” she thought, looking after his tower-like figure as -he strode away. “But I suspect it was best not. There are some men -whom it is not wise to see too much of, when one is in a certain mood. -And I must do my duty.” She made a wry face--an exaggeration, but the -instinct to make it was genuine. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -ASHES. - - -EMILY’S “adventure” lingered with increasing vagueness for a few days, -then vanished under a sudden pressure of work. When she was once more -at leisure Marlowe came, and she was surprised by the vividness and -persistence with which her stranger returned. She struggled in vain -against the comparisons that were forced upon her. Marlowe seemed to -her a clever “understudy”--“a natural, born, incurable understudy,” -she thought, “and now that I’m experienced enough to be able to -discriminate, how can I help seeing it?” She was weary of the tricks -and the looks of a man whom she now regarded as a trafficker in stolen -bits of other men’s individualities--and his tricks and his looks were -all there was left of him for her. - -“Some people--two I want you to meet, came with me--that is, at the -same time,” he said. “Let’s dine with them at Larue’s to-morrow night.” - -“Why not to-night? I’ve an engagement to-morrow night. You did not warn -me that you were coming.” - -Marlowe looked depressed. “Very well,” he said, “I can arrange it, I -think.” - -“Are they Americans--these friends of yours?” - -There was a strain in his voice as he answered, which did not escape -Emily’s supersensitive ears. “No--English,” he said. “Lord Kilboggan -and Miss Fenton--the actress. You may have heard of her. She has been -making a hit in the play every one over there is talking about and -running to see--‘The Morals of the Marchioness.’” - -“Oh, yes--the play with the title _rôle_ left out.” - -“It _is_ pretty ‘thick’--and Miss Fenton was the marchioness. But -she’s not a bit like that in private life. Even Kilboggan gives her a -certificate of good character.” - -“_Even_ Kilboggan?” - -“He’s such a scoundrel. He blackguards every one. But he’ll amuse you. -He’s witty and good-looking and one of those fascinating financial -mysteries. He has no known source of income, yet he’s always idle, -always well-dressed, and always in funds. He would have been a famous -adventurer if he’d lived a hundred years ago.” - -“But as he lives in this practical age, he comes dangerously near to -being a plain ‘dead beat’--is that it?” Emily said this carelessly -enough, but something in her manner made Marlowe wince. - -“Oh, wait until you see him. We can’t carry our American ideas among -these English. They look upon work as a greater disgrace than having -a mysterious income. Kilboggan is liked by every one, except women -with daughters to marry off and husbands whose vanity is tempered by -misgivings.” - -“And what is your friend doing in Miss Fenton’s train?” - -“Well--at first I didn’t know what to make of it. But afterward I saw -that I was probably mistaken. I suppose she tolerates him because he’s -an earl. It’s in the blood.” - -“And why do _you_ tolerate him?” Emily’s tone was teasing, but it made -Marlowe wince again. - -“I don’t. I went with Denby--the theatrical man over in New -York--several times to see Miss Fenton. He has engaged her for next -season. And Kilboggan was there or joined us at dinner or supper. They -were coming over to Paris at the same time. I thought it might amuse -you to meet them.” - -Marlowe’s look and speech were frank, yet instinctively Emily paused -curiously upon his eager certificate of good character to Miss Fenton -in face of circumstances which a man of his experience would regard -as conclusive. Also she was puzzled by the elaborateness of his -explanation. She wished to see Miss Fenton. - -They met that evening at Larue’s and dined downstairs. Emily instantly -noted that Marlowe’s description of Kilboggan was accurate. “How can -any one be fooled by these frauds?” she thought. “He carries his -character in his face, as they all do. I suppose the reason they get -on is because the first impression wears away.” Then she passed to her -real interest in the party--Miss Fenton. Her first thought was--“How -beautiful!” Her second thought--“How shallow and stupid!” - -Victoria Fenton was tall and thin--obtrusively thin. Her arms and legs -were long, and they and her narrow hips and the great distance from -her chin to the swell of her bosom combined to give her an appearance -of snake-like grace--uncanny, sensuous, morbidly fascinating. Her -features were perfectly regular, her skin like an Amsterdam baby’s, -her eyes deep brown, and her hair heavy ropes of gold. Her eyes seemed -to be brilliant; but when Emily looked again, she saw that they were -dull, and that it was the colouring of her cheeks which made them -seem bright. In the mindless expression of her eyes, in her coarse, -wide mouth and long white teeth, Emily found the real woman. And -she understood why Miss Fenton could say little, and eat and drink -greedily, and still could shine. - -But, before Miss Fenton began to exhibit her appetite, Emily had made -another discovery. As she and Marlowe entered Larue’s, Victoria gave -him a look of greeting which a less sagacious woman than she would -not have misunderstood. It was unmistakably the look of potential -proprietorship. - -Emily glanced swiftly but stealthily at Marlowe by way of the mirror -behind the table. He was wearing the expression of patient and bored -indifference which had become habitual with him since he had been -associating with Englishmen. Their eyes met in the mirror--“He is -trying to see how I took that woman’s look at him,” she thought, -contemptuously. “But he must have known in advance that she would -betray herself and him. He must have brought me here deliberately -to see it or brought her here to see me--or both.” A little further -reflection, and suspicion became certainty, and her eyelids hid a look -of scorn. - -She made herself agreeable to Kilboggan, who proved to be amusing. -As soon as the food and drink came, Victoria neglected Marlowe. He, -after struggling to draw her out and succeeding in getting only dull -or silly commonplaces, became silent and ill-at-ease. He felt that so -far as rousing Emily’s jealousy was concerned, he had failed dismally, -“Victoria is at her worst to-night,” he thought. “She couldn’t make -anybody jealous.” But he had not the acuteness to see that Emily had -penetrated his plan--if he had been thus acute, he would not have tried -such a scheme, desperate though he was. - -All he had accomplished was to bring the two women before his eyes -and mind in the sharpest possible contrast, and so increase his own -infatuation for Emily. The climax of his discomfiture came when -Victoria, sated by what she had eaten and inflamed by what she had -drunk, began to scowl jealously at Emily and Kilboggan. But Marlowe -did not observe this; his whole mind was absorbed in Emily. He was not -disturbed by her politeness to Kilboggan; he hardly noted it. He was -revolving her fascinations, her capriciousness, her unreachableness. “I -have laughed at married men,” he said to himself. “They are revenged. -Of all husbands I am the most ridiculous.” And he began to see the -merits of the system of locking women away in harems. - -He and she drove to her apartment in silence. He sent away the cab and -joined her at the outside door which the concierge had opened. “Good -night.” She spoke distantly, standing in the doorway as if she expected -him to leave. “I’m afraid I can’t see you to-morrow. Theresa and her -General arrived at the Ritz to-night from Egypt, and I’ve engaged to -lunch and drive and dine with them.” - -“I will go up with you,” he said, as if she had not spoken. There -was sullen resolve in his tone, and so busy was he with his internal -commotion that he did not note the danger fire in her eyes. But she -decided that it would not be wise to oppose him there. When they were -in her tiny salon, she seated herself, after a significant glance at -the clock. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantel-shelf. He -could look down at her--if she had been standing also, their eyes would -have been upon a level. - -“How repellent he looks,” she thought, as she watched him expectantly. -“And just when he needs to appear at his best.” - -“Emily,” he began with forced calmness, “the time has come when we must -have a plain talk. It can’t be put off any longer.” - -She was sitting with her arms and her loosely-clasped, still gloved -hands upon the table, staring across it into the fire. “I must not -anger him,” she was saying to herself. “The time has passed when a -plain talk would do any good.” Aloud she said: “I’m tired, George--and -not in a good humour. Can’t you----” - -Her impatience to be rid of him made him desperate. “I must speak, -Emily, I must,” he replied. “For many months--in fact for nearly a year -of our year and four months--I’ve seen that our plan was a failure. -We’re neither bound nor free, neither married nor single. We--I, at -least--am exposed to--all sorts of temptations. I need you--your -sympathy, your companionship--all the time. I see you only often -enough to tantalise me, to keep me in a turmoil that makes happiness -impossible. And,” he looked at her uneasily, appealingly, “each time I -see you, I find or seem to find that you have drifted further away from -me.” - -She did not break the silence--she did not know what to say. To be -frank was to anger him. To evade was impossible. - -“Emily,” he went on, “you know that I love you. I wish you to be happy -and I know that you don’t wish me to be miserable. I ask you to give -up, or at least put aside for the time, these ideas of yours. Let us -announce our marriage and try to work out our lives in the way that the -experience of the world has found best. Let us be happy again--as we -were in the beginning.” - -His voice vibrated with emotion. She sighed and there were tears in -her eyes and her voice was trembling as she answered: “There isn’t -anything I wouldn’t do, George, to bring back the happiness we had. -But--” she shook her head mournfully, “it is gone, dear.” A tear -escaped and rolled down her cheek. “It’s gone.” - -He was deceived by her manner and by his hopes and longings into -believing that he was not appealing in vain; and there came back to him -some of the self-confidence that had so often won for him with women. -“Not if we both wish it, and will it, and try for it, Emily.” - -“It’s gone,” she repeated, “gone. We can’t call it back.” - -“Why do you say that, dear?” - -“Don’t ask me. I can’t be untruthful with you, and telling the truth -would only rouse the worst in us both. You know, George, that I -wouldn’t be hopeless about it, if there were any hope. We’ve drifted -apart. We can go on as we are now--friends. Or we can--can--drift still -further--apart. But we can’t come together again.” - -“Those are very serious words, my dear,” he said, trying to hide his -anger. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” - -“Please, George--let me write it to you, if you must have it. Spare me. -It is so hard to speak honestly. Please!” - -“If you can find the courage to speak, I can find the patience to -listen,” he said with sarcasm. “As we are both intelligent and -sensible, I don’t think you need be alarmed about there being a -‘scene.’ What is the matter, Emily? Let us clear the air.” - -“We’ve changed--that’s all. I’m not regretting what we did. I wouldn’t -give it up for anything. But--we’ve changed.” - -“_I_ have not changed. I’m the same now as then, except that I -appreciate you more than I did at first. Month by month you’ve grown -dearer to me. And----” - -“Well, then, it is I who have changed,” she interrupted, desperately. -“It’s not strange, is it, George? I was, in a way, inexperienced -when we were married, though I didn’t think so. And life looks very -different to me now.” She could not go on without telling him that she -had found him out, without telling him how he had shrivelled and shrunk -until the garb of the ideal in which she had once clothed him was now a -giant’s suit upon a pigmy--pitiful, ridiculous. “How can I help it that -my mind has changed? I thought so and so--I no longer think so and so. -Put yourself in my place, dear--the same thing might have happened to -you about me.” - -Many times the very same ideas had formed in his mind as he had -exhausted his interest in one woman after another. They were familiar -to him--these ideas. And how they mocked him now! It seemed incredible -that he, hitherto always the one who had broken it off, should be in -this humiliating position. - -“It’s all due to that absurd plan of ours,” he said bitterly. “If -we had gone about marriage in a sensible way, we should have grown -together. As it is, you’ve exaggerated trifles into mountains and are -letting them crush our happiness to death.” His tone became an appeal. -“Emily--my dear--my wife--you must not!” - -She did not answer. “If we’d lived together I’d have found him out just -the same--more quickly,” she thought. “And either I’d have degraded -myself through timidity and dependence, or else I’d have left him.” - -“You admit that our plan has been a failure?” he went on. - -She nodded. - -“Then we must take the alternative.” - -She grew pale and looked at him with dread in her eyes--the universal -human dread of finalities. - -“We must try my plan,” he said. “We must try married life in the way -that has succeeded--at least in some fashion--far oftener than it has -failed.” - -“Oh!” She felt relieved, but also she regretted that he had not spoken -as she feared he would speak. She paused to gather courage, turned her -face almost humbly up to him, and said: “I wish I could, George. But -don’t urge me to do that. Let us go on as we are, until--until--Let us -wait. Let us----” - -He threw back his head haughtily. The patience of his vanity was worn -through. “No,” he said. “That would be folly. It must be settled one -way or the other, Emily.” He looked at her, his courage quailing before -the boldness of his words. But he saw that she was white and trembling, -and misunderstood it. He said to himself: “She must be firmly dealt -with. She’s giving in--a woman always does in the last ditch.” - -“No,” he repeated. “The door must be either open or shut. Either I am -your husband, or I go out of your life.” - -“You _can’t_ mean that, George?” She was so agitated that she rose and -came round the table to face him. “Why shouldn’t we wait--and hope? We -still care each for the other, and--it hurts, oh, how it _hurts_--even -to think of you as out of my life.” - -He believed that she was yielding. He put his hand on her arm. -“Dearest, there has been too much indecision already. You must choose -between your theories and our happiness. Which will you take? You must -choose here and now. Shall I go or stay?” - -She went slowly back to her chair and sat down and again stared into -the fire. “To-morrow,” she said at last. “I will decide to-morrow.” - -“No--to-night--now.” He went to her and sat beside her. He put his arm -around her. “I love you--I love you,” he said in a low tone, kissing -her. “You--my dearest--how can you be so cruel? Love is best. Let us be -happy.” - -At the clasp of his arm and the touch of his lips, once so potent to -thrill her, she grew cold all over. - -What he had thought would be the triumphant climax of his appeal made -every nerve in her body cry out in protest against a future spent -with him. She would have pushed him away, if she had not pitied him -and wished not to offend him. “Don’t ask me to decide to-night,” she -pleaded. “Please!” - -“But you have decided, dearest. We shall be happy. We shall----” - -She gradually drew away from him, and to the surface of her expression -rose that iron inflexibility, usually so completely concealed by her -beauty and gentleness and sweetness. “If I must decide--if you force -me to decide, then--George, my heart is aching with the past, aching -with the loneliness that stares horribly from the future. But I cannot, -I cannot do as you ask.” And she burst into tears, sobbing as if her -heart were breaking. “I cannot,” she repeated. “I must not.” - -All the ugliness which years of unbridled indulgence of his vanity had -bred in him was roused by her words. Such insolence from a woman, one -of the sex that had been his willing, yielding instrument to amusement, -and that woman his wife! But he had talked so freely to her of his -alleged beliefs in the equality of the sexes, he had urged and boasted -and professed so earnestly, that he did not dare unmask himself. -Instead, with an effort at self-control that whitened his lips, he -said: “You no doubt have reasons for this--this remarkable attitude. -Might I venture to inquire what they are? I do not fancy the idea of -being condemned unheard.” - -“Unheard? _I_--condemn _you_ unheard! George, do not be unjust to me. -You know--you must know--that there was not a moment when my heart -was not pleading your cause. Do you think I have not suffered as I saw -my love being murdered--my love which I held sacred while you were -outraging and desecrating it.” - -“It is incredible!” he exclaimed. “Emily, who has been lying to you -about me? Who has been poisoning your mind against me?” - -“You--George.” She said it quietly, sadly. “No one else in all this -world could have destroyed you with me.” - -“I do not understand,” he protested. But his eyes shifted rapidly, then -turned away from her full gaze, fixed upon him without resentment or -anger, with only sorrow and a desire to spare him pain. - -“I could remind you of several things--you remember them, do you -not? But they were not the real cause. It was, I think, the little -things--it always is the little things, like drops of water wearing -away the stone. And they wore away the feeling I had for you--carried -it away grain by grain. Forgive me, George--.” The tears were streaming -down her face. “I loved you--you were my life--I have lost you. And -I’m alone--and a woman. No, no--don’t misunderstand my crying--my love -is dead. Sometimes I think I ought to hate you for killing it. But I -don’t.” - -“Thank you,” he said, springing to his feet. His lips were drawn -back in a sneer and he was shaking with anger. He took up his hat -and coat. “I shall not intrude longer.” He bowed with mock respect. -“Good-night--good-_bye_.” - -“George!” She started up. “We must not part, with you in anger against -me.” - -He gave her a furious look and left the apartment. “What a marriage!” -he said to himself. “Bah! She’ll send me a note in the morning.” But -this prophecy was instantly faced with the memory of her expression as -she gave her decision. - -And Emily did not send for him. She tore up in the morning the note she -rose in the night to write. - -The next evening while she and the Waylands were dining at the Ritz, -Victoria Fenton came in with Kilboggan and sat where Emily could study -her at leisure. - -“Isn’t that a beautiful woman?” she said to Theresa. - -“Yes--a gorgeous animal,” Theresa replied, after a critical survey. -“And how she does love food!” - -Emily was grateful. - -“She looks rather common too,” Theresa continued. “What a bad face the -fellow she’s with has.” - -Emily tried to extract comfort out of these confirmations of her -opinion of the couple she was blaming for Marlowe’s forcing the -inevitable issue at a most inopportune time. But her spirits refused to -rise. “It’s of no use to deny it,” she said to herself, with a sick and -sinking heart. “I shall miss him dreadfully. What can take his place?” - -She wished to be alone; the dinner seemed an interminable prospect, was -an hour and a half of counted and lingering minutes. When the coffee -was served she announced a severe headache, insisted on going at once -and alone, would permit escort only to a cab. As she went she seemed -to be passing, deserted and forlorn, through a world of comrades and -lovers--men two and two, women two and two, men and women together in -pairs or in parties. Out in the Champs Elysees, stars and soft, warm -air, and love-inviting shadows among the trees; here and there the -sudden dazzling blaze of the lights of a café chantant, and music; -a multitude of cabs rolling by, laughter or a suggestion of romance -floating in the wake of each. “Hide yourself!” the city and the night -were saying to her, “Hide your heartache! Nobody cares, nobody wishes -to see!” - -And she hastened to hide herself, to lie stunned in the beat of a black -and bitter sea. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -“THE REAL TRAGEDY OF LIFE.” - - -MARLOWE had been held above his normal self, not by Emily, but by -an exalting love for her. Except in occasional momentary moods of -exuberant animalism, he had not been low and coarse. Whatever else -might be said of the love affairs whose tombstones strewed his past, it -could not be said that they were degrading to the parties at interest. -But there was in his mind a wide remove between all the others and -Emily. His love for her was as far above him as her love for him -after she ceased to respect him had been beneath her. And her courage -and independence came to her rescue none too soon. He could not much -longer have persisted in a state so unnatural to his character and -habit. Indeed it was unconsciously the desire to get her where he could -gradually lead her down to his fixed and unchangeable level, that -forced him on to join that disastrous issue. - -As he journeyed toward London the next night, he was industriously -preparing to eject love for her by a vigorous campaign of consolation. -Vanity had never ceased to rule him. It had tolerated love so long as -love seemed to be coöperating with it. It now resumed unchecked sway. - -Before he went to Paris he was much stirred by Victoria’s beauty. He -thought that fear of her becoming a menace to his loyalty had caused -him to appeal to Emily. And naturally he now turned toward Victoria, -and made ready for a deliberately reckless infatuation. He plunged the -very afternoon of his return to London, and he was soon succeeding -beyond the bounds which his judgment had set in the planning. This -triumph over a humiliating defeat was won by many and powerful -allies--resentment against Emily for her wounds to his vanity, craving -for consolation, a vigorous and passionate imagination, the desire to -show his superiority over the fascinating Kilboggan, and, strongest of -all, Victoria’s fame and extraordinary physical charms. If Emily could -have looked into his mind two weeks after he left her, she would have -been much chagrined, and would no doubt have fallen into the error of -fancying that his love had not been genuine and, for him, deep. - -He erected Victoria into an idol, put his good sense out of commission, -fell down and worshipped. He found her a reincarnation of some -wonderful Greek woman who had inspired the sculptors of Pericles. -He wrote her burning letters. When he was with her he gave her no -opportunity to show him whether she was wise or silly, deep or shallow, -intelligent or stupid. When she did speak he heard, not her words, -but only the vibrations of that voice which had made her the success -of the season--the voice that entranced all and soon seemed to him to -strike the chord to which every fibre of his every nerve responded. -He dreamed of those gold braids, unwound and showering about those -strange, lean, maddening shoulders and arms of hers. - -In that mood, experience, insight into the ways and motives of women -went for no more than in any other mood of any other mode of love. He -knew that he was in a delirium, incapable of reason or judgment. But he -had no desire to abate, perhaps destroy, his pleasure by sobering and -steadying himself. - -He convinced himself that Kilboggan was an unsatisfied admirer of -Victoria. When Kilboggan left her to marry the rich wife his mother -had at last found for him, he believed that the “nobleman” had been -driven away by Victoria because she feared her beloved Marlowe -disapproved of him. And when he found that Victoria would never be -his until they should marry, he began to cast about to free himself. -After drafting and discarding many letters, and just when he was in -despair--“It’s impossible even to begin right”--he had what seemed -to him an inspiration. “The telegraph! One does not have to begin or -end a telegram; and it can be abrupt without jar, and terse without -baldness.” He sent away his very first effort: - - EMILY BROMFIELD, - --Boulevard Haussmann, Paris. - - Will you consent to quiet Dakota divorce on ground of - incompatibility. No danger publicity. You will not need leave Paris - or take any trouble whatever. Please telegraph answer to--Dover - Street, Piccadilly. - - MARLOWE. - -He was so bent upon his plan that not until he had handed in the -telegram did the other side of what he was doing come forcibly to him. -With a sudden explosion there were flung to the surface of his mind -from deep down where Emily was uneasily buried, a mass of memories, -longings, hopes, remnants of tenderness and love, regrets, remorse. -He had no definite impulse to recall the telegram but, as he went out -into the thronged and choked Strand, he forgot where he was and let the -crowd bump and thump and drift him into a doorway; and he stood there, -not thinking, but feeling--forlorn, acutely sensitive of the loneliness -and futility of life. - -“I was just going to ask you to join me at luncheon,” said a man at his -side--Blackwell, an old acquaintance. “But if you feel as you look, I -prefer my own thoughts.” - -“I was thinking of a paragraph I read in _Figaro_ this morning,” said -Marlowe. “It went on to say that the real tragedy of life is not the -fall of splendid fortunes, nor the death of those who are beloved, nor -any other of the obvious calamities, but the petty, inglorious endings -of friendships and loves that have seemed eternal.” - -When Marlowe went to his lodgings after luncheon, he found Emily’s -answer: “Certainly, and I know I can trust you completely.” - -He expected a note from her, but none came. He cabled for leave of -absence and in the following week sailed for New York. He “established -a residence” one morning at Petersville, an obscure county seat in -a remote corner of South Dakota, engaged a lawyer for himself and -another for Emily in the afternoon, and in the evening set out for -New York. At the end of three months, spent in New York, he returned -to his “residence”--a bedroom in Petersville. The case was called -the afternoon of his arrival. Emily “put in an appearance” through -her lawyer, and he submitted to the court a letter from her in which -she authorised him to act for her, and declared that she would never -return to her husband. After a trial which lasted a minute and -three-quarters--consumed in reading Emily’s letter and in Marlowe’s -testimony--the divorce was granted. The only publicity was the -never-read record of the Petersville court. - -Marlowe reappeared in London after an absence of three months and three -weeks. When Victoria completed her tour of the provinces, they were -married and went down to the South Coast for the honeymoon. - -The climax of a series of thunderclaps in revelation of Victoria as -an intimate personality came at breakfast the next morning. She was -more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and her voice had its same -searching vibrations. But he could think of neither as he watched her -“tackle”--the only word which seemed to him descriptive--three enormous -mutton chops in rapid succession. He noted each time her long white -teeth closed upon a mouthful of chop and potato; and as she chewed with -now one cheek and now the other distended and with her glorious eyes -bright like a feeding beast’s, he repeated to himself again and again: -“My God, what have I done?”--not tragically, but with a keen sense of -his own absurdity. He turned away from her and stood looking out across -the channel toward France--toward Emily. - -“What shall I do?” he said to himself. “What shall I do?” - -He was compelled to admit that she was not in the least to blame. -She had made no pretences to him. She had simply accepted what he -cast at her feet, what he fell on his knees to beg her to take. She -had not deceived him. Her hair, her teeth--what greedy, gluttonous -teeth!--her long, slender form, her voice, all were precisely as they -had promised. He went over their conversations. He remembered much -that she had said--brief commonplaces, phrases which revealed her, but -which he thought wonderful as they came to his entranced ears upon that -shimmering stream of sound. Not an idea! Not an intelligent thought -except those repeated--with full credit--from the conversation of -others. - -“Fool! Fool!” he said to himself. “I am the most ridiculous of men. If -I tried to speak, I should certainly bray.” - -He turned and looked at her as she sat with her back toward him. Her -hair was caught up loosely, coil on coil of dull gold. It just revealed -the nape of her neck above the lace of her dressing-gown. “Yes, it -is a beautiful neck! She is a beautiful woman.” Yet the thought that -that beauty was his, thrust at him like the red-hot fork of a teasing -devil. “It is what I deserve,” he said. “But that makes it the more -exasperating. What _shall_ I do?” - -“Why are you so quiet, sweetheart?” she said, throwing her napkin on -the table. “Come here and kiss me and say some of those pretty things. -You Americans do have a queer accent. But you know how to make love -cleverly. No wonder you caught poor, foolish me.” - -“My _wife_,” he thought. “Good God, what have I done? It must be a -ghastly dream.” But he crossed the room and sat opposite her without -looking at her. “I’m not very fit this morning,” he said. - -“I thought you weren’t.” Her spell-casting voice was in the proper -stage-tone for sympathy. “I saw that you didn’t eat.” - -“Eat!” He shuddered and closed his eyes to prevent her seeing the -sullen fury which blazed there. He was instantly ashamed of himself. -Only--if she _would_ avoid reminding him of the chops and potato -disappearing behind that gleaming screen of ivory. He was sitting on -a little sofa. She sat beside him and drew his head down upon her -shoulder. She let her long, cool fingers slide slowly back and forth -across his forehead. - -“I _do_ love you.” There was a ring of reality in her tone beneath the -staginess. “We are going to be very, very happy. You are so different -from Englishmen. And I’m afraid you’ll weary of your stupid English -wife. I’m not a bit clever, you know, like the American women.” - -He was unequal to a hypocritical protest in words, so he patted her -reassuringly on the arm. He was less depressed now that she had stopped -eating and was at her best. He rose and with ashamed self-reproach -kissed her hair. “I shall try to make you not repent your bargain,” he -said, with intent to conceal the deeper meaning of his remark. “But I -must send off some telegrams. Then we’ll go for a drive. I need the -air.” - -He liked her still better as she came down in a becoming costume; he -particularly liked the agitation her appearance created in the lounging -rooms. They got through the day well, and after a dinner with two -interesting men--a dinner at which he drank far more than usual--he -felt temporarily reconciled to his fate. - -But at the end of a week, in which he had so managed it that they -were alone as little as possible he had not one illusion left. He did -not love her. She did not attract him. She was tiresome through and -through. Instead of giving life a new meaning and him a new impetus, -she was an added burden, another source of irritation. He admitted to -himself that he had been tricked by his senses, as a boy of twenty -might have been. He felt like a professional detective who has yielded -to a familiar swindling game. - -She had grown swiftly fonder of him, won by his mental superiority, by -his gentleness exaggerated in his anxiety not basely to make her suffer -for his folly. “He’s a real gentleman,” she thought. “His manners are -not pretence. I’ve done much better than I fancied.” And she began -further to try his nerves by a dog-like obedience. She would not put on -a dress without first consulting him. She had no will but his in any -way--except one. She insisted upon ordering her own meals. There she -did not care what he thought. - -Once they were back in London, his chain became invisible and galled -him only in imagination. She had an exacting profession, and so had -he. When they were together, they would talk about her work, and, as -he was interested in it and intelligent about it and she docile and -receptive, he was content. While she was of no direct use to him, he -found that she was of great indirect use. He worked more steadily, more -ambitiously. The ideal woman, which had always been distracting and -time-wasting, ceased to have any part in his life. - -He turned his attention to play-writing and play-carpentry. He -became a connoisseur of food and drink, a dabbler in old furniture -and tapestries. He did not regret the event of his first venture in -marriage and only venture in love. “As it is, it’s a perfect gem,” he -finally came to sum the matter up, “a completed work of art. If I’d had -my way, still it must have ended some time, and not so artistically -or so comfortably.” When he reflected thus, his waist-line was slowly -going. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -EMILY REFUSES CONSOLATION. - - -THE Waylands took a small house at Neuilly for the summer, and Emily -spent a great deal of time there. She found Theresa less lively but -also less jarring than in their boarding-house days. Neither ever spoke -of those days, or of Demorest and Marlowe--Theresa, because she had -no wish to recall that she had been other than the fashionable and -preeminently respectable personage she had rapidly developed into; -Emily, because her heart was still sore, and the place where Marlowe -had been was still an uncomfortable and at times an aching void. - -In midsummer came the third member of the Wayland family--Edgar. -Like his father, he had changed, had developed into a type of the -respectable radically different from anything of which she had thought -him capable. A cleaner mind now looked from his commonplace face, -and he watched with approving interest the pleasing, if monotonous, -spectacle of his father’s domestic solidity. On the very day on which -Emily received her copy of the decree of the Petersville court, he took -her out to dinner. - -She had sat in her little salon with the three documents in the case -before her--the two tangible documents, the marriage certificate and -the decree of divorce; and the intangible but most powerful document, -her memory of Marlowe from first scene to last. When it was time for -her to dress, she went to her bedroom window, tore the two papers into -bits and sent them fluttering away over the housetops on the breeze. -“The incident is closed,” she said, with a queer short laugh that was -also a sob. She had Wayland take her to a little restaurant in the -Rue Marivaux, her and Marlowe’s favourite dining place--a small room, -with tasteful dark furnishings and rose-coloured lights that made it -somewhat brighter than clear twilight. - -As they sat there, with the orchestra sending down from a -plant-screened alcove high in the wall the softest and gentlest -intimations of melody, Emily deliberately gave herself up to the mood -that had been growing all the afternoon. - -Edgar knew her well enough to leave her to her thoughts through the -long wait and into the second course. Then he remonstrated. “You’re not -drinking. You’re not eating. You’re not listening--I’ve asked you a -question twice.” - -“Yes, I was listening,” replied Emily--“listening to a voice I don’t -like to hear, yet wouldn’t silence if I could--the voice of experience.” - -“Well--you look as if you’d had a lot of experience--I was going to -say, you look sadder, but it isn’t that. And--you’re more beautiful -than ever, Emily. You always did have remarkable eyes, and now -they’re--simply wonderful and mysterious.” - -Emily laughed. “Oh, they’re hiding such secrets--such secrets!” - -“Yes, I suppose you have been through a lot. You talk more like a -married woman than a young girl. But of course you don’t know life as a -man knows it. No nice woman can.” - -“Can a nice man?” - -“Oh, there aren’t any nice men. At least you’d hate a nice man. I think -a fellow ought to be experienced, ought to go around and learn what’s -what, and then he ought to settle down. Don’t you?” - -“I’m not sure. I’m afraid a good many of that kind of fellows are no -more attractive than the ‘nice’ men. Still, it’s surprising how little -of you men’s badness gets beyond the surface. You come in and hold up -your dirty hands and faces for us women to wash. And we wash them, and -you are shiny and clean and all ready to be husbands and fathers. I -think I’ve seen signs of late that little Edgar Wayland wishes to have -_his_ hands and face washed.” - -The red wine at this restaurant in the Rue Marivaux is mild and smooth, -but full of sentiment and courage. Edgar had made up for Emily’s -neglect of it, and it enabled him to advance boldly to the settlement -of a matter which he had long had in mind, as Emily would have seen, -had she not been so intent upon her own affairs. - -“Yes--I do want my hands and face washed,” he said nervously, turning -his glass by its stem round and round upon the table. “And I want you -to do it, Emmy.” - -Emily was grateful to him for proposing to her just then. And her -courage was so impaired by her depression that she could not summarily -reject a chance to settle herself for life in the way that is usually -called “well.” “Haven’t I been making a mistake?” she had been saying -to herself all that day--and in vaguer form on many preceding days. “Is -the game worth the struggle? Freedom and independence haven’t brought -me happiness. Wasn’t George right, after all? Why should I expect so -much in a man, expect so much from life?” It seemed to her at the -moment that she had better have stopped thinking, had better have cast -aside her ideals of self-respect and pride, and have sunk with Marlowe. -“And Edgar would let me alone. Why not marry him?” - -She evaded his proposal by teasing him about his flight from her two -years before--“Only two years,” she thought. “How full and swift life -is, if one keeps in midstream.” - -“Don’t talk about that, Emmy, please,” begged Edgar humbly. “I don’t -need any reminder that I once had a chance and threw it away.” - -“But you didn’t have a chance,” replied Emily. - -“No, I suppose not. I suppose you wouldn’t have had me, if it had come -to the point.” - -“I don’t mean that. I’d have had _you_, but you wouldn’t, couldn’t, -have had _me_. The I of those days and the I of to-day aren’t at all -the same person. If I’d married you then, there would have been one -kind of a me. As it is, there is a different kind of a me, as different -as--as the limits of life permit.” - -“What has done it--love?” he asked. - -“Chiefly freedom. Freedom!” Her sensitive face was suddenly all in a -glow. - -“I know I’m not up to you, Emily,” he said. “But----” - -“Let’s not talk about it, Edgar. Why spoil our evening?” - -Theresa came the next afternoon and took her for a drive. “Has Edgar -been proposing to you?” she asked. - -“I think he’s feeling more or less sentimental,” Emily replied, not -liking the intimate question. - -“Now, don’t think I’m meddling. Edgar told me, and has been talking -about you all morning. He wished me to help him.” - -“Well, what do you think?” - -“Marry him, Emily. He’d make a model husband. He’s not very mean about -money, and he’s fond of home and children. I’d like it on my own -account, of course. It would be just the thing in every way.” - -“But then there’s my work, my independence, my freedom.” - -“Do be sensible. You can work as hard as ever you like, even if you are -married. And you’d be freer than now and would have a lots better time, -no matter what your idea of a good time is.” - -“But I don’t love him. I’m not sure that I even like him.” - -“So much the better. Then you’ll be agreeably disappointed. If you -expect nothing or worse, you get the right kind of a surprise; whereas, -when a woman loves a man, she idealises him and is sure to get the -wrong kind of a surprise.” - -“You can’t possibly know how wise what you’ve just said is, Theresa -Dunham,” said Emily. “But there is one thing wiser--and that is, not to -marry, not to risk. I’m able to make my living. My extravagant tastes -are under control. And I’m content--except in ways in which nothing he -can give me could help.” - -Theresa was irritated that Emily’s “queer ideas” were a force in her -life, not a mere mask for disappointment at not having been able to -marry well. And Emily could not discuss the situation with her. Theresa -might admit that it was barely possible for a woman to refuse to marry -except for love. But a woman disputing the necessity of marriage for -any and all women, if they were not to make a disgraceful failure -of life--Emily could see Theresa pooh-poohing the idea that such a -creature really existed among the sane. Further, if Emily explained her -point of view, she would be by implication assailing Theresa for her -marriage. - -“I’m sure,” Theresa went on, “that Edgar’s father would be satisfied. -If he didn’t know you he wouldn’t like it. He has such strict ideas on -the subject of women. He thinks a woman’s mission is to be a wife and -mother. He says nature plainly intended woman to have motherhood as her -mission.” - -“Not any more, I should say, than she intended man to have fatherhood -as his mission.” - -“Well, at any rate, he thinks so, and it gives him something to talk -about. He thinks a woman who is not at least a wife ought to be ashamed -of herself.” - -“But if no man will have her?” - -“Then she ought to sit out of sight, where she will offend as little as -possible.” - -“But if she has to make a living?” - -“Oh, she can do something quiet and respectable, like sewing or -housework.” - -“But why shouldn’t she work at whatever will produce the best living?” - -“She ought to be careful not to be unwomanly.” - -“Womanliness, as you call it, won’t bring in bread or clothes or pay -rent,” said Emily. “And I can’t quite see why it should be womanly to -make a poor living at drudgery and unwomanly to make a good living at -agreeable work.” - -“Oh, well, you know, Emmy, that nature never intended women to work.” - -“I’m sure I don’t know what nature intended. Sometimes I’ve an idea -she’s like a painter who, when they asked him what his canvas was going -to be, said, ‘Oh, as it may happen.’ But whatever nature’s intentions, -women do work. I’m not thinking about an unimportant little class of -women who spend their time in dressing and simpering at one another. -I’m thinking of women--the race of women. They work as the men work. -They bear more than half the burden. They work side by side with the -men--in the shops and offices and schoolrooms, on the farms and in the -homes. They toil as hard and as intelligently and as usefully as the -men; and, if they’re married, they usually make a bare living. The -average husband thinks he’s doing his wife a favour by letting her live -with him. And he is furious if she asks what he’s doing with their -joint earnings.” - -“You put it well,” said Theresa. “You ought to say that to Percival. I -suppose he could answer you.” - -“No doubt I’m boring you,” said Emily. “But it makes me indignant for -women to accept men’s absurd ideas on the subject of themselves--to -think that they’ve got to submit and play the hypocrite in order to fit -men’s silly so-called ideals of them. And the worst of it is----” - -Emily stopped and when she began again, talked of the faces and clothes -in the passing carriages. She had intended to go on to denounce herself -for weakness in being unable to follow reason and altogether shake off -ideas which she regarded as false and foolish and discreditable. “As -if,” she thought “any toil in making my own living could possibly equal -the misery of being tied to a commonplace fellow like Edgar, with my -life one long denial of all that I believe honest and true. I his wife, -the mother of his children, and listening to his narrow prosings day -in and day out--it’s impossible!” - -She straightened herself and drew in a long breath of the bright air of -the Bois. - -“Listen to me, Theresa,” she said. “Suppose you were walking along a -road alone--not an especially pleasant road--a little dusty and, at -times rough--but still on the whole not a bad road. And suppose you -saw a clumsy, heavy manikin, dropped by some showman and lying by the -wayside. Would you say, ‘I am tired. The road is rough. I’ll pick up -this manikin and strap it on my back to make the journey lighter?’” - -“Whatever do you mean?” asked Theresa. - -“Why, I mean that I’m not going to marry--not just yet--I think.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -BACHELOR GIRLS. - - -IN September Emily, convinced that she could not afford to stay away -from her own country longer, got herself transferred to the New York -staff and crossed with the Waylands. In the crowd on the White Star -pier she saw Joan, now a successful playright or “plagiarist” as she -called herself, because the most of her work was translating and -adapting. And presently Joan and she were journeying in a four-wheeler -piled high with trunks, toward the San Remo where Joan was living. - -“Made in Paris,” said Joan, her arm about Emily and her eyes delighting -in Emily’s stylish French travelling costume. “You even speak with a -Paris accent. How you have changed!” - -“But not so much as you. You are not so thin. And you’ve lost that -stern, anxious expression. And you have the air--what is it?--the air -that comes to people when their merits have been publicly admitted.” - -Joan did indeed look a person who is in the habit of being taken into -account. She had always been good-looking, if somewhat severe and -business-like. Now she was handsome. She was not of the type of woman -with whom a man falls ardently in love--she showed too plainly that she -dealt with all the facts of life on a purely intellectual basis. - -“I’ve been expecting news that you were marrying,” said Emily. - -“I?” Joan smiled cynically. “I feel as you do about -marriage--except----” - -She paused and reddened as Emily began to laugh. “No--not that,” she -went on. “I’m not the least in love. But I’ve made up my mind to marry -the first intelligent, endurable, self-supporting man that asks me. I’m -thirty-two years old and--I want children.” - -“Children! You--children?” - -“Yes--I. I’ve changed my mind now that I can afford to think of such -things. I like them for themselves and--they’re the only hope one has -of getting a real object in life. Working for oneself is hollow. I once -thought I’d be happy if I got where I am now--mistress of my time and -sure of an income. But I find that I can’t hope to be contented going -on alone. And that means children.” - -“You don’t know how you surprise me.” Emily looked thoughtful rather -than surprised. “You set me to thinking along a new line. I wonder if I -shall ever feel that way?” - -“Why, of course. Old age without ties in the new generation is a dismal -farce for woman or man. We human beings live looking to the future if -we live at all. And unless we have children, we are certain to be -alone and facing the past in old age. You’ll change your mind, as I -have. Some day you’ll begin to feel the longing for children. It may be -irrational, but it’ll be irresistible.” - -“Well, I think I’ll wait on your experiment. How I love the trolley -cars and the tall buildings--they make one feel what a strong, bold -race we are, don’t they? And I’m simply wild to get to the office.” - -Emily was assigned to the staff of the Sunday supplements--to -read papers and magazines, foreign and domestic, and suggest and -occasionally execute features. She liked the work and it left her -evenings free; but it was sedentary. This she corrected by walking the -three miles from the office to her flat and by swimming at a school in -Forty-fourth street three times a week. - -She gave much time and thought to her appearance because she was proud -of her looks, because they were part of her capital, and because she -knew that only by the greatest care could she keep her youth. Joan’s -interest in personal appearance, so far as she herself was concerned, -ended with seeing to cleanliness and to clothing near enough to the -fashion to make her a well-dressed woman. It did not disturb her that -her hair was slightly thinner than it used to be, or that there were -a few small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. But she was not -contemptuous of Emily’s far-sighted precautions. On the contrary, -she looked upon them as sensible and would have been worried by any -sign of relaxing vigilance. She delighted in Emily’s gowns and in the -multitude of trifles--collarettes, pins of different styles, stockings -of striking and even startling patterns, shoes and boots of many kinds, -ribbons, gloves, etc. etc.--wherewith she made her studied simplicity -of dress perfect. - -“It’s wonderful,” she said, as she watched Emily unpack. “I don’t see -how you ever accumulated so much.” - -“Instinct probably,” replied Emily. “I make it a rule never to buy -anything I don’t need, and never to need anything I don’t have money to -buy.” - -They took a flat in Central Park West, near Sixty-sixth street, and -Joan insisted upon paying two-thirds of the expenses. Emily yielded, -because Joan’s arguments were unanswerable--she did use the flat more, -as she not only worked there and received business callers, but also -did much entertaining; and she could well afford to bear the larger -part of the expense, as her income was about eight thousand a year, -and Emily had only three thousand. Joan wished to draw Emily into -play-writing, but soon gave it up. She had to admit to herself that -Emily was right in thinking she had not the necessary imagination--that -her mind was appreciative rather than constructive. - -“Don’t think I’m so dreadfully depressed over it,” Emily went on. “It -is painful to have limitations as narrow as mine, when one appreciates -as keenly as I do. But we can’t all have genius or great talent. -Besides, the highest pleasures don’t come through great achievement or -great ability.” - -“Indeed, they do not.” - -Emily’s eyes danced, and Joan grew red and smiled foolishly. The -meaning back of it was Professor Reed of Columbia. He had been -calling on Joan of late frequently, and with significant regularity. -He was short and sallow, with a narrow, student’s face, and brown -eyes, that seemed large and dreamy through his glasses, as eyes -behind glasses usually do. He was stiff in manner, because he had had -little acquaintance with women. He was in love with Joan in a solemn, -old-fashioned way. He was so shy and respectful that if Emily had not -been most considerate of other people’s privacy, she would have teased -Joan by asking her when she was going to propose to him that he propose -to her. - -He was rigid in his ideas of what constituted propriety for himself, -but not in the least disposed to insist upon his standards in others. -He felt that in wandering so near to Bohemia as Joan and Emily he -was trenching upon the extreme of permissible self-indulgence. If he -had been able to suspect Joan of “a past,” he would probably have -been secretly delighted. He did not believe that she had, when he got -beyond the surface of her life--the atmosphere of the playhouse and the -newspaper office--and saw how matter-of-fact everything was. But he -still clung to vague imaginings of unconventionality, so alluring to -those who are conventional in thought and action. - -Emily’s one objection to him was that he sometimes tried to be witty or -humorous. Then he became hysterical and not far from silly. But as she -knew him better she forgave this. Had she disliked him she would have -been able to see nothing else. - -“Do you admire strength in a man?” she once asked Joan. - -“Yes--I suppose so. I like him to be--well, a man.” - -“I like a man to be distinctly masculine--strong, mentally and -physically. I don’t like him to domineer, but I like to feel that he -would domineer me if he dared--and could domineer every one except me.” - -“No, I don’t like that. I have my own ideas of what I wish to do. And I -wish the man who is anything to me to be willing to help me to do them.” - -“You want a man-servant, then?” - -“No, indeed. But I don’t want a master.” Joan shut her lips together, -and a stern, pained expression came into her face. Emily saw that -her book of memory had flung open at an unpleasant page. “No,” she -continued in a resolute tone, “I want no master. My centre of gravity -must remain within myself.” - -After that conversation Emily understood why Joan liked her -intelligent, adoring, timid professor. “Joan will make him make her -happy,” she said to herself, amused at, yet admiring, Joan’s practical, -sensible planning. - - * * * * * - -Soon after her return, the Sunday editor called her into his -office--her desk was across the room, immediately opposite his door. - -“We want a series of articles on what is doing in New York for the -poor--especially the foreign poor of the slums. Now, here’s the address -of a man who can tell you about his own work and also what others are -doing--where to send in order to see how it’s done, whom it’s done for, -and so on.” - -Emily took the slip. It read “Dr. Stanhope,--Grand Street.” She set out -at once, left the Bowery car at Grand street and walked east through -its crowded dinginess. She passed the great towering Church of the -Redeemer at the corner of ---- street. The next house was the one she -was seeking. A maid answered the door. A sickly looking curate, his -shovel-hat standing out ludicrously over a pair of thin, projecting -ears, passed her with a “professional” smile that made his tiny, -dimpled chin look its weakest. The maid took her card and presently -returned to conduct her through several handsome rooms, up heavily -carpeted stairs, under an arch, into a connecting house that was -furnished with cold and cheap simplicity. The maid pushed open a door -and Emily entered a large, high-ceilinged library, that looked as if -were the workshop of a toiler of ascetic tastes. At the farther end at -a table-desk sat a man, writing. His back was toward her--a big back, -a long, broad, powerful back. He was seated upon a strong, revolving -office-chair, yet it seemed too small and too feeble for him. - -“Well, my good girl, what can I do for you?” he called over his -shoulder, without ceasing to write. - -Emily started. She recognised the voice, then the head, neck, -shoulders, back. It was the man she had “confessed” in Paris. She -was so astonished that she could make no reply, and hardly noted the -abstracted patronising tone, the supercilious words and the uncourteous -manner. He dropped his pen, laid his great hands on the arms of his -chair and swung himself round. His expression changed so swiftly and -so tragically that Emily forgot her own surprise and with difficulty -restrained her amusement. - -He leaped from his chair and strode toward her--bore down upon her. His -brilliant, dark eyes expressed amazement, doubt of his sanity. There -was a deep flush in his pallid skin just beneath the surface. - -“I have come to ask”--began Emily. - -“Is it you?” he said, eagerly. “Is it _you_?” - -“I beg your pardon.” Emily’s face showed no recognition and she stood -before him, formal and business-like. - -“Don’t you remember me?” He made an impatient gesture, as if to sweep -aside a barrier some one had thrust in front of him. “Did I not meet -you in Paris?” - -“I don’t think--I’m sure--that I have not had the pleasure of meeting -you. The _Democrat_ sent me here to see Doctor Stanhope--” - -Again he made the sweeping gesture with his powerful arm. “I am Doctor -Stanhope,” he said impatiently. Then with earnest directness: “Your -manner is an evasion. It is useless, unlike--unexpected in the sort of -woman you--you look.” - -“You cannot ask me to be bound by your conclusions or wishes when they -do not agree with my own,” said Emily, her tone and look taking the -edge from her words, as she did not wish to offend him. - -“As you will.” He made a gesture of resignation and bowed toward a -chair at the corner of his desk. When they were seated, he said, “I am -at your service, Miss Bromfield.” - -He gave her the information she was seeking, suggested the phases -of poverty and relief of poverty that would be best for description -and illustration. He called in his secretary and dictated notes of -instruction to several men who could help her. He requested them to -“give Miss Bromfield all possible facilities, as an especial favour to -me. I am deeply interested in the articles she is preparing for the -_Democrat_.” - -When the secretary withdrew to write out the letters, he leaned back -in his chair and looked at her appealingly. “Shall we be friends?” he -asked. - -While Emily had been sitting there, so near him, hearing his clear, -resolute voice, noting his fascinating mannerisms of strength, -gentleness and simplicity, she felt again the charm of power and -persuasion that had conquered her when first she saw him. “He makes me -feel that he is important, and at the same time that I am important in -his eyes,” she thought, analysing her vanity as she yielded to it. - -“Friends?” she said aloud with a smile. “That means better -opportunities for petty treachery, and the chance to assassinate in a -crisis. It’s a serious matter--friendship, don’t you think?” - -“Yes,” he replied, humour in his eyes. “And again it may mean an -offensive and defensive alliance against the world.” - -“In dreams,” she answered, “but not in women’s dreams of men or in -men’s dreams of women.” - -Just then a voice called from the hall, “Arthur!”--a shrill, shrewish -voice with a note of habitual ill-temper in it, yet a ladylike voice. - -There was a rustling of skirts and into the room hurried a small, fair -woman, thin, and nervous in face, thin and nervous in body, with a -sudden bulge of breadth and stoutness at the hips. She was in a tailor -gown, expensive and unbecoming. Her hair was light brown, tightly drawn -up, with a small knot at the crown of her head. There was a wide, bald -expanse behind each ear. She had cold-blue, sensual eyes, the iris -looking as if it were a thin button pasted to the ball. Yet she was not -unattractive, making up in fire what she lacked in beauty. - -“As you see, I am engaged,” Stanhope said, tranquilly. - -“Pardon me for interrupting.” There was a covert sting of sarcasm in -her voice. “But I must see you.” - -He rose. “You’ll excuse me a moment?” he said to Emily. - -He followed his wife into the hall and soon returned to his desk. -“Everything begins badly with me,” he resumed abruptly. “Since -I was a boy at school, the butt of the other boys because I was -clumsy and supersensitive, it has been one long fight.” His tone was -matter-of-fact, but something it suggested rather than uttered made -Emily feel as if tears were welling up toward her eyes. “But,” he -continued, “I go straight on. I sometimes stumble, sometimes crawl, but -always straight on.” - -“What a simple, direct man he is,” she thought, “and how strong! In -another that would have seemed a boast. From him it seems the literal -truth.” - -“What are you thinking?” he interrupted. - -“Just then? I was beginning to think how peculiar you are, and -how--how--” her eyes danced--“indiscreet.” - -“Because of what I did and said in Paris? Because of what I am saying -to you now?” He looked at her friendlily. “Oh, no--there you mistake -me. I cannot tell why I feel as I do toward you. But I know that I -must be truthful and honest with you, that you have a right to demand -it of me, as had no one else I ever knew. I must let you know me as I -am.” - -“You seem delightfully sure that I wish to know.” - -“I do not think of that at all. Much as I have thought of you, I have -never thought ‘what does she think of me?’ Probably you dismissed me -from your mind when you turned away from me in Paris. Probably you will -again forget me when you have written your article and passed to other -work. But I cannot resist the instinct that impels me on to look upon -you as the most important human being in the world for me.” - -“I believe that you are honest. I don’t wish to misunderstand your -frankness. I’m too impatient of conventions myself to insist upon them -in others--that is, in those who respect the real barriers that hedge -every human being until he or she chooses to let them down. But”--Emily -hesitated and looked apologetically at this “giant with the heart of a -boy,” as he seemed to her--“you ought not to forget that everything in -your circumstances makes it wrong for you to talk to me thus.” - -“It seems so, doesn’t it?” He looked at her gravely. “It looks as if I -were a scoundrel. Yet I don’t feel in the least as if I were trying to -wrong you in any way. You seem to me far stronger than I. I feel that I -am appealing to you for strength.” - -The secretary entered, laid the letters before him and went away. He -signed them mechanically, folded them and put them in the addressed -envelopes. As she rose he rose also and handed them to her. - -“After I saw you in Paris,” he said, looking down at her as she stood -before him, “I thought it all over. I asked myself whether I had been -deceived by your beauty, or whether it was the peculiar circumstances -of our meeting, of each of us yielding to an impulse; or whether it -was my weariness of all that I am familiar with, my desire for the -unfamiliar, the new, the adventurous. And it may be all of these, but -there is more beyond them all.” - -He paused, then went on in a voice which so thrilled her that she -hardly heard his words: “Yes, a great deal more. I wish something, some -one, some _person_ to believe in. It is vital to me. I doubt everything -and everybody--God, His creatures, myself most of all. And when my -eyes fell upon you in Paris, there was that in your face which made me -believe in you. I said, ‘She is brave, she is honest, she is strong. -She could not be petty or false, or cruel.’ And--I do believe in you. -That is all.” - -“If you knew,” she said, trying to shake off the spell of his voice and -his personality, “you would find me a very ordinary kind of sinner. And -then, you would of course proceed to denounce me as if I were a fraud, -instead of the innocent cause of your deliberate self-deception.” - -“I don’t know what you have done--what particular courses you have -taken at life’s university. But I am not so--so deceived in you that -I do not note and understand the signs of experience, of--yes, of -suffering. I know there must be a cause when at your age a woman can -look a man through and through, when she can talk to him sexlessly, -when she laughs rarely and smiles reluctantly.” - -“I am hardly a tragedy,” interrupted Emily. “Please don’t make me out -one of those comical creatures who go through life fancying themselves -heroines of melodrama.” - -“I don’t. You are supremely natural and sensible. But--I neither know -nor try to guess nor care how you came to be the woman you are. But -I do know that you are one of those to whom all experience is a help -toward becoming wiser and stronger and better.” - -It seemed to her as if, in spite of her struggles, she was being drawn -toward him irresistibly, toward a fate which at once fascinated and -frightened her. “You are dangerously interesting,” she said. “But I am -staying too long.” And with a few words of thanks for his assistance to -her work, she went away. - -In the street she rapidly recovered herself and her point of view. -“A minister!” she thought. “And a married man! And sentimental and -mystical!” But in defiance of self-mockery and self-warnings her mind -persisted in coming back to him, persisted in revolving ideas about him -which her judgment condemned. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -A “MARRIED MAN.” - - -EMILY spent a week in studying “the work” of the Redeemer parish--the -activities of its large staff of “workers” of different grades, -from ministers down through deacons, deaconesses, teachers, nurses, -to unskilled helpers. She attended its schools--day and night; its -lectures; its kindergartens and day nurseries; its clubs for grown -people, for youths and for children. She examined its pawn-shops, its -employment-bureaus, its bath-houses. She was surprised by the many ways -in which it touched intimately the lives of that quarter of a million -people of various races, languages and religions, having nothing in -common except human nature, poverty, and ignorance. She was astonished -at the amount of good accomplished--at the actual, visible results. - -She had no particular interest in religion or belief in the value -of speculations about the matters on which religion dogmatises. Her -father’s casual but effective teachings, the books she had read, the -talk of the men and of many of the women she had associated with, -the results of her own observations and reflections, had strongly -entrenched this disposition in prejudice. Her adventure into the -parish was therefore the more a revelation. And she found also that -while everything was done there in the name of religion, little, almost -nothing, was said about religion. “The work,” except in the church and -the chapels at distinctly religious meetings, was wholly secular. Here -was simply a great plant for enlightening and cheering on those who -grope or sit dumb and blind. - -At first she was rather contemptuous of “the workers” and was repelled -by certain cheap affectations of speech, thought and manner, common -to them all. They were, the most of them, it seemed to her, poorly -equipped in brains and narrow in their views of life. But when she -got beneath the surface, she disregarded externals in her admiration -for their unconscious self-sacrifice, their keen pleasure in helping -others--and such “others!”--their limitless patience with dirt, -stupidity, shiftlessness, and mendacity. She was profoundly moved by -the spectacle of these homely labourers, sowing and reaping unweariedly -the arid sands of the slums for no other reward than an occasional -blade of sickly grass. - -She was standing at the window of one of the women’s clubs--the one in -Allen street near Grand. It was late in the afternoon and the crowd -was homeward-bound from labour. To her it was a forbidding-looking -crowd. The blight of ignorance--centuries, innumerable centuries of -ignorance--was upon it. Grossness, dulness, craft, mental and physical -deformity, streamed monotonously by. - -“Depressing, isn’t it?” - -She started and glanced around. Beside her, reading her thoughts in her -face, was Dr. Stanhope. Instead of his baggy, unclerical tweed suit, -he was wearing the uniform of his order. It sat strangely upon him, -like a livery; and, she thought, he hasn’t in the least the look of the -liveried, of one who is part of any sort of organisation. “He looks as -lone, as ‘unorganised,’ as self-sufficient, as a mountain.” - -“Depressing?” she said, shaking her head with an expression of -distaste. “It’s worse--it’s hopeless.” - -“No,--not hopeless. And you ought not to look at it with disgust. It’s -the soil--the rotten loam from which the grain and the fruit and the -flowers spring.” - -“I don’t think so. To me it’s simply a part of the great stagnant, -disease-breeding marsh which receives the sewage of society.” - -“I sha’n’t go on with the analogy. But your theory and mine are in the -end the same. We all sprang from this; and the top is always flowering -and dropping back into it to spring up again.” - -“I see nothing but ignorance that cannot learn. It seems to me nearly -all the effort spent upon it is wasted. If nature were left alone, she -would drain, drain, drain, until at last she might drain it away.” - -“Yours is an unjust view, I think. I won’t say anything,” this with -a faint smile, “about the souls that are worth saving. But if we by -working here open the way for a few, maybe a very few, to rise who -would otherwise not have risen, we have not worked in vain. My chief -interest is the children.” - -“Yes,” she admitted, her face lighting up, “there _is_ hope for the -children. You don’t know how it has affected me to see what you and -your people are doing for them. It’s bound to tell. It _is_ telling.” - -He looked at her as if she were his queen and had bestowed some honour -upon him which he had toiled long to win. “Thank you,” he said. “It -means a great deal to me to have you say that.” - -She gave him a careless glance of derisive incredulity. - -“What do you mean?” he asked. - -“You are amusing,” she replied. “Your expression of gratitude was -overacted. It was--was--grotesque.” - -He drew back as if he had received a blow. “You are cruel,” he said. - -“Because I warn you that you are overestimating my vanity? It seems to -me, that is friendly kindness. I’m helping you on.” - -“I do not know anything about your vanity. But I do know how I feel -toward you--what every word from you means to me.” - -There was wonder and some haughtiness in her steady gaze, as she -said: “I do not understand you at all. Your words are the words of -an extravagant but not very adroit flatterer. Your looks are the -looks of a man without knowledge of the world and without a sense of -proportion.” - -“Why?” - -She thought a moment, then turned toward him with her frank, direct -expression. “I have been going about in your parish for several days -now. And everywhere I have heard of you. Your helpers and those -that are helped all talk of you as if you were a sort of god. You -_are_ their god. They draw their inspiration, their courage, their -motive-power from you. They work, they strive, because they wish to win -your praise.” - -“I have been here fifteen years,” he explained with unaffected modesty, -“and as I am at the head, naturally everything seems to come from me. -In reality I do little.” - -“That is not to my point. I wasn’t trying to compliment you. What -I mean is that I find you are a man of influence and power in this -community. And you must be conscious of this power. And since you -evidently wield it well, you have it by right of merit. Yet you wish me -to believe that you bow down in this humble fashion before a woman of -whom you know nothing.” She laughed. - -“Well?” he said, looking impassively out of the window. - -“It is ridiculous, impossible. And if it were true, it would be -disgraceful--something for you to be ashamed of.” - -He turned his head slowly until his eyes met hers. She felt as if she -were being caught up by some mighty force, perilous but intoxicating. -She tried to look away but could not. - -“What a voice you have!” he said. “It makes me think of an evening long -ago in England. I was walking alone in the moonlight through one of -those beautiful hedged roads when suddenly I heard a nightingale. It -foretold your voice--you.” - -She turned her eyes away and looked upon the darkening street. The -sense of his nearness thrilled through her in waves that made her giddy. - -“Now, do you understand?” he asked. - -“Yes,” she answered in a low voice, “I understand--and, for the first -time in my life, I’m afraid.” - -“Then you know why I, too, am afraid?” - -“You must not speak of it again.” - -They stood there silently for a moment or two, then she said: “I must -be going.” And she was saying to herself in a panic, “I am mad. Where -is my honour--my self-respect? Where is my common sense?” - -“I will go with you to the car,” he said. “I feel that I ought to be -ashamed. And it frightens me that I am not. Perhaps I am ashamed, but -proud of it.” - -“Good-night.” She held out her hand. “Good-bye. I am used to going -about alone. I prefer it. Good-bye.” - - * * * * * - -Those were days of restless waiting, of advance and retreat, of strong -resolves suddenly and weakly crumbling into shifting mists. She said to -herself many times each day, “I shall not, I cannot see him again.” She -assured herself that she had herself under proper control. But there -was a voice that called mockingly from a subcellar of her mind: “I am a -prisoner, but I am _here_.” - -One morning at breakfast, after what she thought a very adroit “leading -up,” she ventured to say to Joan: “What do you think of a woman who -falls in love with a married man?” - -Joan kept her expression steady. To herself she said: “I thought so. It -isn’t in a woman’s nature to be thoroughly interested in life unless -there is some one man.” Aloud she said: “Why, I think she ought to -bestir herself to fall out again.” - -“But suppose that she didn’t wish to.” - -“Then I think she is--imbecile.” - -“You are so uncompromising, Joan,” protested Emily. - -“Well, I don’t think much of women who intrigue, or of men either. It’s -a sneaky, lying, muddy business.” - -“But suppose you accidentally fell in love with a married man?” - -“I can’t suppose it. I don’t believe people fall in love accidentally. -They’re simply in love with love, and they have morbid, unhealthy -tastes. Besides, married men are drearily unromantic. They always look -so--so married.” - -“Well, then, what do you think of a married man who falls in love with -a girl?” - -“Very poorly, indeed. And if he tells her of it, he ought to be -pilloried.” - -“You are becoming--conventional.” - -“Not at all. But to fall in love honestly a man and a woman must both -be free. If either has ties, each is bound from the other by them. And -if it’s the man that is tied, there’s simply no excuse for him if he -doesn’t heed the first sign of danger.” - -“But it might be a terrible temptation to both of them. Love is -very--very compelling, isn’t it?” - -“There’s a great deal of nonsense talked about love, as you must know -by this time. Of course, love is alluring, and when indulged in by -sensible people, not to excess, it’s stimulating, like alcohol in -moderation. But because cocaine could make me temporarily happier than -anything else in the world, does that make it sensible for me to form -the cocaine habit?” - -Joan paused, then added with emphasis: “And there is a great deal -that is called love that is no more love than the wolf was Little Red -Ridinghood’s grandmother.” - -Emily felt that Joan was talking obvious common sense and that she -herself agreed with her entirely--so far as her reason was concerned. -“But,” she thought, “the trouble is that reason doesn’t rule.” A -few days later she went to dinner at Theresa’s. As she entered the -dining-room the first person upon whom her eyes fell was a tall, -slender girl, fair, handsome through health and high color, and with -Stanhope’s peculiarly courageous yet gentle dark eyes-- “It must be his -sister.” She asked Theresa. - -“It’s Evelyn Stanhope,” she replied, “the daughter of our clergyman. -He’s a tremendously handsome man. All the woman are crazy about him.” -Theresa looked at her peculiarly. - -“What is it?” asked Emily, instantly taking fright, though she did not -show it. - -“I thought perhaps you’d heard.” - -“Heard what?” - -“All about Miss Stanhope and--and Edgar.” - -“You don’t mean that Edgar has recovered from _me_? How unflattering!” -Emily’s smile was delightfully natural--and relieved. - -“He’s got love and marriage on the brain, and he’s broken-hearted, you -know. And in those cases if it can’t be _the_ woman it’s bound to be -_a_ woman.” - -Emily was in the mood to be completely resigned to giving up to another -that which she did not want herself. She studied Miss Stanhope without -prejudice against her and found her sweet but as yet colourless, a -proper young person for Edgar to marry, one toward whom she could -not possibly have felt the usual dog-in-the-manger jealousy. After -dinner she sat near her and encouraged her in the bird-like chatter -of the school girl. She was listened to with patience and tolerance; -because she was young and fresh and delighted with everything including -herself, amusingly, not offensively. She fell in love with Emily and -timidly asked if she might come to see her. - -“That would be delightful,” said Emily with enthusiasm, falling through -infection into a mode of speech and thought long outgrown. “I’m -sure we shall be great friends. Theresa will bring you on Saturday -afternoon. That is my free day. You see, I’m a working-woman. I work -every day except Saturday.” - -“Sundays too?” asked Evelyn. - -“Oh, yes, I prefer”--she stopped short. “Sunday is a busy day with us,” -she said instead. - -“Isn’t that dreadful?” - -“Yes--it is distressing.” Without intention Emily put enough irony into -her voice to make Evelyn look at her sharply. “It keeps me from church.” - -“Well, sometimes I think I’d like to be kept from church.” Evelyn said -this in a consolatory tone. “I’m a clergyman’s daughter and I have to -go often--to set a good example.” She laughed. “Mamma is so nervous -that she can only go occasionally and my brother Sam is a perfect -heathen. But I often copy papa’s sermons. He says he likes my large -round hand as a change from the typewriting. Then I like to listen and -see how many changes he makes. You’d be surprised how much better it -all sounds when it’s spoken--really quite new.” - -Papa! Papa’s Sermons! And a Sam, probably as big as this great girl! - -“Is your brother younger or older than you?” - -“A year older. He’s at college now--or at least, he’s supposed to be. -It’s surprising how little he has to stay there. He’s very gay--a -little too wild, perhaps.” - -She was proud of Sam’s wildness, full as proud as she was of her -father’s sermons. She rattled cheerfully on until it was time for her -to go and, as Emily and she were putting on their wraps at the same -time, she kissed her impulsively, blushing a little, saying “You’re so -beautiful. You don’t mind, do you?” - -“Mind?” Emily laughed and kissed her. Evelyn wondered why there were -tears in the eyes of this fascinating woman with the musical voice and -the expression like a goddess of liberty’s. - - * * * * * - -The next morning Dr. Stanhope, at breakfast and gloomy, brightened as -his daughter came in and sat opposite him. - -“I had such a glorious time at the Waylands’!” she said. “The dinner -was lovely.” - -“Did Edgar take you in?” - -“Oh, no.” She blushed. “He wasn’t there. He’s in Stoughton, you know. -But I met the most beautiful woman. She seemed so young, and yet she -had such a wise, experienced look. And she was so unconscious how -beautiful she was. You never saw such a sweet, pretty mouth! And her -teeth were like--like----” - -“Pearls,” suggested her father. “They’re always spoken of as -pearls--when they’re spoken of at all.” - -“No--because pearls are blue-white, whereas hers were _white_-white.” - -“But who was this lady with the teeth?” - -“I didn’t have a chance to ask--only her name. She said she was a -working-woman. She’s a Miss Bromfield.” - -Stanhope dropped his knife and fork and looked at his daughter with an -expression of horror. - -“Why, what is it, father? Is there something wrong about her? It can’t -be. And I--I arranged to call on her!” - -“No--no,” he said hastily. “I was startled by a coincidence. She’s a -nice woman, nice in every way. But--did she ask you to call?” - -“No--I asked her. But she was very friendly, and when I kissed her -in the dressing-room she kissed me, and--she had such a queer, sad -expression. I thought perhaps she had a sister like me who had died.” - -“Perhaps she had.” Stanhope looked pensively at his daughter. To -himself he said: “Yes, probably a twin sister--the herself of a few -years ago.” - -“And I’m going to see her next Saturday,” continued his daughter. “I’m -sure Mrs. Wayland will take me.” - -“To see whom?” said Mrs. Stanhope, coming into the room. - -Stanhope rose and drew out a chair for her. “We were talking of a -Miss Bromfield whom Evelyn met at the Waylands’ last night. You may -remember--she came here one afternoon for the _Democrat_--about the -church’s work.” - -“I remember; she looked at me quite insolently, exactly as if I were an -intruding servant. What was she doing at Wayland’s? I’m surprised at -them. But why is Evelyn talking of going to see her? I’m astonished at -you, Evelyn.” - -Evelyn and her father looked steadily at the table. Finally Evelyn -spoke: “Oh, but you are quite mistaken, mother dear. She was a lady, -really she was.” - -“Impossible,” said Mrs. Stanhope. “She is a working-girl. No doubt -she’s a poor relation of the Waylands.” - -Stanhope rose, walked to the window, and stood staring into the -gardens. The veins in his forehead were swollen. And he seemed less the -minister than ever, and more the incarnation of some vast, inchoate -force, just now a force of dark fury. Gradually he whipped his temper -down until he was standing over it, pale but in control. - -“I wish to speak to your mother, Evelyn,” he said in an even voice. - -Evelyn left the room, closing the door behind her. Stanhope resumed his -seat at the table. His wife looked at him, then into her plate, her -lips nervous. - -“Only this,” he said. “You will let Evelyn go to see Miss Bromfield.” -His voice was polite, gentle. “And I must again beg of you not to -express before our children those--those ideas of disrespect for labour -and respect for idleness which, as you know, are more offensive to me -than any others of the falsehoods which it is my life work to fight.” - -She was trembling with anger and fear. Yet in her sullen eyes there -was cringing adoration. One sees the same look in the eyes of a dog -that is being beaten by its master, as it shows its teeth yet dares not -utter a whine of its rage and pain lest it offend further. - -“You know we never do agree about social distinctions, Arthur,” she -said, in a soothing tone. - -“I know we agreed long ago not to discuss the matter,” he replied, -kindly but wearily. “And I know that we agreed that our children were -not to hear a suggestion that their father was teaching false views.” - -“We can’t all be as broad as you are, Arthur.” - -“If I were to speak what is on the tip of my tongue,” he said -good-humouredly, “we should re-open the sealed subject. I must go. They -are waiting for me.” - -That afternoon Mrs. Stanhope wrote asking Theresa to go with Evelyn -to Miss Bromfield’s. And on Saturday Evelyn went, taking her mother’s -card. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -A PRECIPICE. - - -A WEEK after Evelyn’s call, the hall boy brought Edgar Wayland’s card -to Emily. She was alone in the apartment, Joan having gone to the -theatre with “her professor.” She hesitated, looked an apology to her -writing spread upon the table, then told the boy to show him up. He -was dressed with unusual care even for him, and his face expressed the -intensity of tragic determination of which the human countenance is -capable only at or before twenty-eight. - -“I’ve never seen your apartment.” His glance was inspecting the room -and the partly visible two rooms opening out of it. “It is so like you. -How few people have any taste in getting together furniture and--and -stuff.” - -“When one has little to spend, one is more careful and thoughtful -perhaps.” - -“That’s the reason tenement flats are so tasteful.” Edgar’s face -relaxed at his own humour, then with a self-rebuking frown resumed its -former mournful inflexibility. “But I did not come here to talk about -furniture. I came to talk about you and me. Emmy, was it final? Are you -sure you won’t--won’t have me?” - -Emily looked at him with indignant contempt, forgetting that Theresa -had not said he was actually engaged to Evelyn. “I had begun to think -you incapable of such--such baseness--now.” - -“Baseness? Don’t, please. It isn’t as bad as all that--only -persistence. I simply can’t give you up, it seems to me. And--I had to -try one last time--because--the fact is, I’m about to ask another girl -to marry me.” - -Emily showed her surprise, then remembered and looked relieved. “Why--I -thought you had asked her. I must warn you that I know her, and far too -good she is for you.” - -“You know her?” - -“Yes--so let’s talk no more about it. I’ll forget what you said.” - -“Well, what of it?” Edgar rose and faced her. “You are thinking it -dishonourable of me to come to you this way. But you wrong me. If she -never saw me again, she’d forget me in a year--or less. So I tell -you straight out that I’m marrying her because I can’t get you. I’m -desperate and lonesome and I want to have a home to go to.” - -“You couldn’t possibly do better than marry Evelyn. I know her, Edgar. -And I know, as only a woman can know another woman, how genuine she is.” - -“But”--Edgar’s eyes had a look of pain that touched her. “I want you, -Emmy. I always shall. A man wants the best. And you’re the best--in -looks, in brains, in every way. You’d have everything and I’d never -bother you. And you can stop this grind and be like other women--that -is--I mean--you know--I don’t mean anything against your work--only it -is unnatural for a woman like you to have to work for a living.” - -Emily felt that she need not and must not take him seriously. She -laughed at his embarrassment. - -“You don’t understand--and I can’t make you understand. It isn’t that I -love work. I like to sit in the sunshine and be waited upon as well as -any one. But----” - -“And you _could_ sit in the sunshine--or in the shade, Emmy.” - -“But--let me finish please. Whatever one gets that’s worth while in -this life one has to pay for. The price of freedom--to a woman just -the same as a man--is work, hard work. And if it’s natural for a woman -to be a helpless for-sale, then it’s the naturalness of so much else -that’s nature. And what are we here for except to improve upon nature?” - -“Well, I don’t know much about these theories. I hate them--they stand -between you and me. And I want you so, Emmy! You’ll be free. You know -father and I both will do everything--anything for you and----” - -Emily’s cheeks flushed and there was impatience and scorn in her eyes -and in the curve of her lips. - -“You mean well, Edgar, but you must not talk to me in that way. It -makes me feel as if you thought I could be bought--as if you were -bidding for me.” - -“I don’t care what you call it,” he said sullenly. “I’d rather have you -as just a friend, but always near me than--there isn’t any comparison.” - -“And I shall always be your friend, Edgar. You will get over this. -Honestly now, isn’t it more than half, nearly all, your hatred of being -baffled? If I were throwing myself at you, as I once was, you’d fly -from me. Six months after you’ve married Evelyn, you’ll be thankful you -did it. You’d not like a woman so full of caprices and surprises as I -am. But I will not argue it.” - -“I wonder if you’ll ever fall in love?” he said wistfully. - -“I don’t know, I’m sure. Probably I expect too much in a man. Again, I -might care only for a man who was out of reach.” - -“You’re too romantic, Emily, for this life. You forget that you’re more -or less human after all, and have to deal with human beings.” - -“I wish I could forget that I’m human.” Emily sighed. Edgar looked at -her suspiciously. “No,” she went on. “I’m not happy either, Edgar. Oh, -it takes so much courage to stand up for one’s principles, one’s ideas.” - -“But why do it? Why not accept what everybody says is so, and go along -comfortably?” - -“Why not? I often ask myself. But--well, I can’t.” - -“Emmy, do you think it’s right for me to marry Evelyn, feeling as I do?” - -“Do _you_?” She answered this difficult question in morals by turning -it on him, because she wished to escape the dilemma. How could she -decide for another? Why should she judge what was right for Edgar, what -best for Evelyn? - -“Well--not unless I told her. Not too much, you know. But enough to----” - -“You mustn’t talk to me about Evelyn,” Emily interrupted. “It’s not -fair to her. You compel me to seem to play the traitor to her. I must -not know anything about your and her affairs.” - -There was a moment’s silence, then she went on: “She is my friend, -and, I hope, always shall be. It would pain me terribly if she should -suspect; and it would be an unnecessary pain to her. A man ought never -to tell a woman, or a woman a man, anything, no matter how true it is, -if it’s going to rankle on and on, long after it’s ceased to be true. -And your feeling for me isn’t important even now. If you marry her, -resolve to make her happy. And if you never create any clouds, there’ll -never be any for her--and soon won’t be any for you.” - -He left her after a few minutes, and his last look--all around the -room, then at her--was so genuinely unhappy that it saddened her -for the evening. “Fate is preparing a revenge upon me,” she thought -dejectedly. “I can feel it coming. Why can’t I, why won’t I, put Arthur -out of my mind?” And then she scoffed at herself unconvincingly for -calling Stanhope, Arthur, for permitting herself to be swept off her -feet by the middle-aged husband of a middle-aged wife, the father of -grown children. “How Evelyn would shrink from me if she knew--and -yet----” - -What kind of honour, justice, is it, she thought, that binds him -to his wife, that holds us apart? With one brief life--with only a -little part of that for intense enjoyment--and to sacrifice happiness, -heaven, for a mere notion. “What does God care about us wretched little -worms?” she said to herself. “Everywhere the law of the survival of the -fittest--the best law after all, in spite of its cruelty. And _I_ am -the fittest for him. He belongs to me. He is mine. Why not?--Why can’t -I convince myself?” - - * * * * * - -Evelyn asked Emily to go with her to the opera the following Saturday -afternoon. They met in the Broadway lobby of the Metropolitan, and -Emily at once saw that Evelyn was “engaged.” She was radiant with -triumph and modest importance. “You’re the first one I’ve told outside -the family. I haven’t even written to Catherine Folsom--she’s to be my -maid of honour, you know. We promised each other at school.” - -“He will make you happy, I’m sure.” Emily was amused at Evelyn’s -child-like excitement, yet there were tears near her eyes too. “What an -infant she is,” she was thinking, “and how unjust it is, how dangerous -that she should have to get her experience of man after she has -pledged herself not to profit by it.” - -“Oh, I’m sure I shall be,” said Evelyn. “We’ll have everything to make -us happy. And I shall be free. I do _hate_ being watched all the time -and having to do just what mamma says.” - -“Yes, you will be very free,” agreed Emily, commenting to herself: -“What do these birds bred in captivity ever know about freedom? She has -no idea that she’s only being transferred to a larger cage where she’ll -find a companion whom she may or may not like. But--they’re often -happy, these caged birds. And I wonder if we wild birds ever are?” - -Evelyn was prattling on. “He asked me in such a nice way and didn’t -frighten me. I’d been afraid he’d seize me--or--or something, when the -time came. And he had such a sad, solemn look. He’s so experienced! He -hinted something about the past, but I hurried him away from that. Sam -says men all have knowledge of the world, if they’re any good. But I’m -sure Edgar has always been a nice man.” - -“Don’t bother about the past,” said Emily. “The future will be quite -enough to occupy you if you look after it properly.” - -The opera was La Bohème and Evelyn, busy with her great event, gave -that lady and her sorrows little attention. “It’s dreadfully unreal, -isn’t it?” she chattered. “Of course a man never could really care for -a woman who had so little self-respect as that, could he? I’m sure -a real man, like Edgar, would never act in that way with a woman who -wasn’t married to him, could he?” - -“I’m sure he’d despise all such women from the bottom of his heart,” -said Emily, looking amusedly at the “canary, discoursing from its -cage-world of the great world outside which it probably will never see.” - -“I’ve had a lot of experience with that side of life,” continued the -“canary.” - -“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Emily in mock horror. “Do they lead -double lives in the nursery nowadays?” - -“Mamma kept us close, you know. We live in such a dreadful -neighbourhood--down in Grand Street. I was usually at grandfather’s up -at Tarrytown when I wasn’t in school. But I had to come home sometimes. -And I used to peep into the streets from the windows, and then I’d see -the most _awful_ women going by. It made me really sick. It must be -dreadful for a woman ever to forget herself.” - -“Dreadful,” assented Emily, resisting with no difficulty the feeble -temptation to try to broaden this narrow young mind. “It would take -years,” she thought, “to educate her. And then she probably wouldn’t -really understand, would only be tempted to lower herself.” - -The distinction between license and broad-mindedness was abysmal, Emily -felt; but she also admitted--with reluctance--that the abyss was so -narrow that one might inadvertently step across it, if she were not an -Emily Bromfield, and, even then, very, very watchful. - -She was turning into the Park at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth -Street a few evenings later, on her way home from the office, when -Stanhope, driving rapidly downtown, saw her, stopped his cab, got -out and dismissed it. She had been revolving a plan for resuming her -self-respect and her peace of mind, how she would talk with him when -she saw him, would compel him to aid her in--then she saw him coming; -and her face, coloured high by the sharp wind, flushed a hotter -crimson; and her resolve fled. - -“May I walk through the Park with you?” he said abruptly; and without -waiting for her to assent, he set out with her in the direction in -which she had been going. In a huge, dark overcoat, that came to within -a few inches of the ground, he looked more tremendous than ever. And -as Emily walked beside him, the blood surged deliriously through her -veins. “This is the man of all men,” she thought. “And he loves me, -loves _me_. And I was thinking that I must give him up. As if I could -or would!” - -“A man might have all the wealth in the world, and all the power, and -all the adulation,” his voice acted upon her nerves like the low notes -of a violin, “and if he were a man--if he were a real human being--and -did not have love----” He paused and looked at her. “Without it life is -lonelier than the grave.” - -Emily was silent. She could see the grave, could hear the earth -rattling down upon the coffin. Was he not stating the truth--a truth to -shrink from? - -He said: “I was born on a farm out West--the son of a man who was -ruined in the East and went West to hide himself and to fancy he was -trying to rebuild. He was sad and silent. And in that sad silence I -grew up with books and nature for my companions. I longed to be a -leader of men. I admired the great moral teachers of the past. I _felt_ -rather than understood religion--God, a world of woe, man working -for his salvation through helping others to work out theirs. I cared -nothing for theology--only for religion. I could feel--I never could -reason; I cannot learn to reason. It isn’t important how I worked my -way upward. It isn’t important how long the way or how painful. I went -straight on, caring for nothing except the widest chances to help the -march upward. You know what the parish downtown is--what the work is, -how it has been built. But----” He paused, and when he spoke it was -with an effort. “One by one I have lost my inspirations. And when I saw -you there in Paris I saw as in a flash--it was like a miracle--what was -the cause, why I was beaten in the very hour of victory.” - -Emily had ceased to fight against the emotions which surged higher and -higher under the invocation of his presence and his voice. - -“A man of my temperament may not work alone,” he went on. “He must -have some one--a woman--beside him. And they together must keep the -faith--the faith in the here and the now, the faith in mankind and in -the journey upward through the darkness, the fog, the cold, up the -precipices, with many a fall and many a fright, but always upward and -onward.” - -He drew a long breath, and, looking down at her, saw her looking up at -him, her eyes reflecting the glow of his enthusiasm. - -“Yes,” she said, “by myself I am nothing. But with another I could do -much, for I, too, love the journey upward.” - -He stopped and caught both her hands in his. “I need you--need you,” he -said. They were standing at the turn of the path near the Mall, facing -the broad, snow-draped lawns. “And I feel that you need me. I am no -longer alone. Life has a meaning, a purpose.” - -“A purpose?” She drew her hands away and suddenly felt the cold and the -sharp wind, and saw the tangled lines of the bare boughs, black and -forbidding against the sunset sky. “What purpose? You forget.” - -“No, I remember!” He spoke defiantly. “I have been permitting that -which is dead to cling to me and shut out sunlight and air and growth. -But I shall permit it no longer. I _dare_ not.” - -“No, _we_ dare not,” she said, dreamily. “You are right. The ghosts -that wave us back are waving us not from, but to destruction. But--even -if it were not so, I’m afraid I’d say, ‘Evil, be thou my good’.” - -“It is true--true of me also.” - -At the entrance to her house they parted, their eyes bright with -visions of the future. As she went up in the elevator, her head began -to ache as if she were coming from the delirium of an opium dream. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -A “BETTER SELF.” - - -EMILY went directly to her room. “Tell Miss Gresham not to wait,” she -said to the maid, “and please save only a very little for me.” She -slept two hours and awoke free from the headache, but low-spirited. -Joan came into the dining-room to keep her company while she tried to -eat, then they sat in the library-drawing-room before the fire. For the -first time in years Emily felt that she needed advice, or, at least, -needed to state her case aloud in hope of seeing it more clearly. - -“You are not well this evening,” Joan said presently. “Shall I read to -you?” - -“No, let us talk. Or, rather, please encourage me to talk about myself. -I want to tell you something, and I don’t know how to begin.” - -“Don’t begin. I’m sure you’ll regret it. Whenever I feel the -confidential mood coming, I always put it off till to-morrow.” - -“Yes--but--there are times----” - -“Do you wish me to approve something you’ve decided to do, or to -dissuade you from doing something you would not do anyhow? It’s always -one or the other.” - -“I’m not sure which it is.” - -Joan lit a cigarette and stretched herself among the cushions of the -divan. “Well, what is it? Money?” - -“No.” - -“Then it’s not serious. Money troubles and poor health are about the -only serious calamities.” - -“No--it’s--Joan, I’ve been making an idiot of myself. I’ve lost my head -over a married man.” The words came with a rush. - -“But you practically confessed all that the other day. And I told you -then what I thought. Either get rid of him straight off, or steady your -head and let him hang about until you are sick of him.” - -“But--you don’t understand. Of course you couldn’t. No one ever did -understand another’s case.” - -“I don’t think it’s that, my dear. When one is in love, he or she -thinks it’s a peculiar case. And the stronger his or her imagination, -the more peculiar seems the case. But when it’s submitted to an -outsider, then it is looked at in the clear air, not in the fog of -self-delusion. And how it does shrink!” - -“I want him and he wants me,” said Emily doggedly. “It may be -commonplace and ridiculous, but it’s the fact.” - -“Do you think it would last long enough to enable him to get a divorce? -If so, he can do that. There’s nothing easier nowadays than divorce. -And what a dreadful blow to intrigue that has been! It doesn’t leave -either party a leg to stand on. Just say to him: ‘Yes, I love you. -You say you love me. Go and get a divorce and then perhaps I’ll marry -you. But if not, you’ll at least be free from daily contact with the -wife you say or intimate that you loathe.’ It’s perfectly simple. The -chances are you’ll never see him again, and you can have a laugh at -yourself, and can congratulate yourself on a narrow escape.” - -“Good advice, but it doesn’t fit the case.” - -“Oh, you don’t wish to marry him?” - -“I never thought of it. But I’d rather not discuss the sentiment-side, -please. Just the practical side.” - -“But there isn’t any practical side. Why doesn’t he get a divorce?” - -“Because he’s too conspicuous. There’d be an outcry against him. I -don’t believe he could get the divorce.” - -Emily was gazing miserably into the fire. Joan looked at her pityingly. -“Oh,” she said gently, dropping the tone of banter. “Yes--that might -be.” - -“And it seems to me that I can’t give him up.” - -“But why do you debate it? Why not follow where your instinct leads?” - -“That’s just it--where _does_ my instinct lead? If--the--the -circumstances--I can’t explain them to you--were different with him -about--about his family, I’d probably reason that I was not robbing any -one and would try to--to be happy. But----” - -She halted altogether and, when she continued, her voice was low and -she was looking at her friend, pleadingly yet proudly: “You may be -right. We may be deceiving ourselves. But I do not think so, Joan. I -believe--and you do too, don’t you?--that there can be high thoughts in -common between a man and a woman. I’m sure they can care in such a way -that passion becomes like the fire, fusing two metals into one stronger -and better than either by itself. And I think--I feel--yes, it seems to -me I _know_, that it is so with us. Oh, Joan, he and I need each the -other.” - -Joan threw away her cigarette and rested her head upon her arms, so -that her face was concealed from Emily. She murmured something. - -“What do you say, Joan?” - -“Nothing--only--I see the same old, the eternal illusion. And what a -fascinating tenacious illusion it is, Emmy dear. We no sooner banish it -in one form than it reappears in another.” - -“But--tell me, Joan--what shall I do?” - -“I, advise you? No, my dear. I cannot. I’d have to know you better than -you know yourself to give you advice. You have grown into a certain -sort of woman, with certain ideas of what you may and what you may not -do. In this crisis you’ll follow the path into which your whole past -compels you. And while I don’t know you well enough to give you advice, -I do know you well enough to feel sure that you’ll do what is just and -honourable. If that means renunciation, you will renounce him. If it -means defiance, you will defy. If it means a compromise, why--I don’t -think you’ll make it, Emily, unless you can carry your secret and -still feel that the look of no human being could make you flinch.” - -“Will I?” Emily’s voice was dreary and doubtful. “But, when one is -starving, he doesn’t look at the Ten Commandments before seizing the -bread that offers.” - -“Not at the Ten Commandments--no. But at the one--‘Thou shalt not kill -thy self-respect.’ And don’t forget, dear, that if you aren’t valuable -to the world _without_ love, you’ll be worth very little to it _with_ -love.” - -“Joan’s Professor” came, and Emily went away to bed. - - * * * * * - -On her “lazy day” she went into the Park and seated herself under an -elm high among the rocks. Several squirrels were playing about her and -a fat robin was hopping round and round in a wide circle, pretending -to be interested only in the food supply but really watching her. The -path leading to her retreat turned abruptly just before reaching it, -then turned again for the descent. She did not hear a footstep but, -looking up as she was shifting her glance from one page of her novel -to the next, she saw a child before her--a tall child with slim legs -and arms, and a body that looked thin but strong under a white dress. -She had a pink ribbon at her throat. Her hair was almost golden and -waved defiantly around and away from a large pink bow. Her eyes were -large and gray and solemn. But at each corner of her small mouth there -was a fun-loving line which betrayed possibilities of mischief and -appreciation of mischief. This suggestion was confirmed by her tilted -nose. - -Emily smiled at this vision criss-crossed with patches of sun and -shadow. But the vision did not smile in return. - -“Good morning, Princess Pink-and-white,” said Emily. “Did you come down -out of the sky?” - -“No,” answered the child, drawing a little nearer. “And my name is -not--not that, but Mary. Do you live here?” - -“Yes--this is my home,” answered Emily. “I’m the big sister of the -squirrels and a cousin to the robins.” - -The child looked at her carefully, then at the squirrels and then at -the robin. “You are not truthful,” she said, her large eyes gazing -straight into Emily’s. “My uncle says that it is dishon’able not to -tell the truth.” - -“Even in fun, while you are trying to make friends with Mary, Princess -Pink-and-white?” Emily said this with the appearance of anxiety. - -“It’s bad not to always tell the truth to young people.” She came still -nearer and stood straight and serious, her hands behind her. “My uncle -says they ought to hear and say only what is true.” - -“Well then--what does he tell you about fairies?” - -“He doesn’t tell me about them. Mamma says there are fairies, but he -says he has never seen any. He says when I am older I can find out for -myself.” - -“And what do the other children say?” - -“I don’t know. There aren’t any other children. There’s just uncle and -mamma and nurse. And when mamma is ill, I go to stay with nurse. And I -only go out with uncle or mamma.” - -“That is very nice,” said Emily, taking one of the small, slender hands -and kissing it. But in reality she thought it was the reverse of nice, -and very lonely and sad. - -“I was going away across the ocean where there are lots of children -waiting to play with me. But mamma--she hadn’t been sick for a long, -long time--most two years, I think--and then she was sick again and I’m -not to go. But I’m not sorry.” - -“Why?” - -“I’m a great comfort to uncle, and he wasn’t going along. And I’m glad -to stay with him. He says I’m a great comfort to him. I sing to him -when he is feeling bad. Would you like for me to sing to you? You look -as if you felt bad.” - -Emily did feel like tears. It was not what the child said, but her -air of aloneness, of ignorance of the pleasures of childhood and its -companionships. She seemed never to have been a child and at the same -time to be far too much a child for her years--apparently the result of -an attempt by grown persons to bring her up in a dignified way without -destroying the innocence of infancy. - -“Yes, I should like to hear you sing,” said Emily. - -The child sat, folded her hands in her lap and began to sing in -French--a slow, religious chant, low and with an intonation of -ironic humour. As Emily heard the words, she looked at “Princess -Pink-and-White” in amazement. It was a concert-hall song, such as is -rarely heard outside the cafés chantants of the boulevards--a piece of -subtle mockery with a double meaning. The child sang it through, then -looked at her for approval. - -“It’s in French,” was all Emily could say, and the child with quick -intuition saw that something was wrong. - -“You don’t like it,” she said, offended. - -“You sing beautifully,” replied Emily. She wished to ask her where she -had got the song, but felt that it would be prying. - -“Mamma taught it me the last time she was being taken ill. It was hard -to learn because I do not speak French. I had to go over it three -times. She said I wasn’t to sing it to uncle. But I thought _you_ might -like it.” - -“No, I shouldn’t sing it to uncle, if I were you,” said Emily. - -Just then the child rose and her face lighted up. Emily followed her -glance and saw Stilson at the turn of the path, standing like a statue. -He was looking not at the child, but at her. The child ran toward him -and he put his hand at her neck and drew her close to him. - -“Why, how d’ye do, Mr. Stilson,” said Emily, cordially. “This is the -first time I’ve seen you since I was leaving for Paris. As soon as I -came back I asked for you, but you were on vacation. And I thought you -were still away.” - -Stilson advanced reluctantly, a queer light in his keen, dark-gray -eyes. He shook hands and seated himself. Mary occupied the vacant space -on the bench between him and Emily, spreading out her skirts carefully -so that they should not be mussed. “I am still idling,” said Stilson. -“I hate hotels and I loathe mosquitoes. Besides, I think if I ever got -beyond the walls of this prison I’d run away and never return.” - -“So you too grow tired of your work?” said Emily. “Yet you are -editor-in-chief now, and-- Oh, I should think it would be fascinating.” - -“It would have been a few years ago. But everything comes late. One -has worked so hard for it that one is too exhausted to enjoy it. And -it means work and care--always more and more work and care. But, -pardon me. I’m in one of my depressed moods. And I didn’t expect any -one--you--to surprise me in it.” - -Emily looked at him, her eyes giving, and demanding, sympathy. “I -often wish that life would offer something worth having, not as a free -gift--I shouldn’t ask that, and not at a bargain even, but just at a -fair price.” - -“I’m surprised to find such parsimony in one so young--it’s unnatural.” -Stilson’s expression and tone were good-humoured cynicism. “Why, at -your age, with your wealth--youth is always rich--you ought never to -look at or think of price marks.” - -“But I can’t help it. I come from New England.” - -“Ah! Then it’s stranger still. With the aid of a New England conscience -you ought to cheat life out of the price.” - -“I do try, but--” Emily sighed--“I’m always caught and made pay the -more heavily.” - -Stilson studied her curiously. He was smiling with some mockery as he -said. “You must be cursed with a sense of duty. That sticks to one -closer than his shadow. The shadow leaves with the sunshine. But duty -is there, daylight or dark.” - -“Especially dark,” said Emily. “What a slavery it is! To tramp the -dusty, stony highway close beside gardens that are open and inviting; -and not to be able to enter.” - -His strong, handsome face became almost stern. “I don’t agree with -you. Suppose that you entered the gardens, would they seem good if you -looked back and saw your better self lying dead in the dust?” He seemed -to be talking to himself not to her. - -“But don’t you ever wish to be free?” she asked. - -“I _am_ free--absolutely free,” he said proudly. “One does not become -free by license, by cringing before the stupidest, the most foolish -impulses there are in him. I think he becomes free by refusing to -degrade himself and violate the law of his own nature.” - -“But--What is stupid and what isn’t?” - -“No one could answer that in a general way. All I can say is--” Stilson -seemed to her to be looking her through and through. “Did you ever have -any doubt in any particular case?” - -Emily hesitated, her eyes shifting, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. -“Yes,” she said. - -“Then that very doubt told you what was foolish and what intelligent. -Didn’t it?” - -Stilson was not looking at her now and she studied his face--mature yet -young, haughty yet kind. Strong passions, good and bad, had evidently -contended, were still contending, behind that interesting mask. - -“No,” he went on, “if ever you make up your mind to do wrong,”--His -voice was very gentle and seemed to her to have an undercurrent of -personal appeal in it--“don’t lie to yourself. Just look at the -temptation frankly, and at the price. And, if you will or must, why, -pay and make off with your paste diamonds or gold brick or whatever -little luxury of that kind you’ve gone into Mr. License’s shop to buy. -What is the use of lying to one’s self? We are poor creatures indeed, -it seems to me, if there isn’t at least one person whom we dare face -with the honest truth.” - -Emily had always had a profound respect for Stilson. She knew his -abilities; and, while Marlowe had usually praised his friend with -discreet reservations, she had come to know that Marlowe regarded him -as little, if at all, short of a genius in his power of leading and -directing men. As he talked to her, restating the familiar fundamentals -of practical morals, she felt a strong force at work upon her. Like -Stanhope he impressed her with his great personal power; but wholly -unlike him, Stilson seemed to be using that power to an end which -attracted her without setting the alarm bells of reason and prudence to -ringing. - -“I’m rather surprised to find you so conventional,” said Emily, by way -of resenting the effect he and his “sermon” were having upon her. - -“Conventional?” Stilson lifted his eyebrows and gave her an amused, -satirical look. “Am I? Then the world must have changed suddenly. No, I -wasn’t pleading for any particular code of conduct. Make up your code -to suit yourself. All I venture to insist is that you must live up to -your own code, whatever it is. Be a law unto yourself; but, when you -have been, don’t become a law breaker.” - -“Do you think mamma will be well enough for me to go home to-morrow?” -It was the little girl, weary of being unnoticed and bursting into the -conversation. - -Stilson started as if he had forgotten that she was there. -“Perhaps--yes--dear,” he said and rose at once. “We must be going.” - -“Good-bye,” said Mary. Emily took her hand and kissed it. But the -child, with a quaint mingling of shyness and determination, put up her -face to be kissed, and adjusted her lips to show where she wished the -kiss to be placed. “Good-bye,” she repeated. “I know who you are now. -You are the Violet Lady Uncle Robert puts in the stories he tells me.” - -“Come, Mary,” said Stilson severely. And he lifted his hat, but not his -eyes, and bowed very formally. - -Emily sat staring absently at the point at which they had disappeared. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -TO THE TEST. - - -STANHOPE plodded dully through his routine--listening to reports, -directing his assistants, arranging services in the church and chapels, -dictating letters. A score of annoying details were thrust at him for -discussion and settlement--details with which helpers with a spark of -initiative would never have bothered him. His wife, out of temper, -came to nag him about expenditures. His son wrote from college for an -extra allowance, alleging a necessity which his father at once knew -was mythical. Another letter was from a rich parishioner, taking him -to task for last Sunday’s sermon as “socialistic, anarchistic in its -tendency, and of the sort which makes it increasingly difficult for -conservative men of property to support your church.” At luncheon there -were two women friends of his wife and they sickened him with silly -compliments, shot poisoned arrows at the reputations of their friends, -and talked patronisingly of their “worthy poor.” After luncheon--more -of the morning’s routine, made detestable by the self-complacent vanity -of one of his stupidest curates and by the attempts of the homeliest -deaconess to flirt with him under the mask of seeking “spiritual -counsel.” And finally, when his nerves were unstrung, a demand from a -tedious old woman that he come to her bedside immediately as she was -dying--demands of that kind his sense of duty forbade him to deny. - -“This is the third time within the month,” he said peevishly. “Before, -she was simply hysterical.” And he scowled at Schaffer, the helper to -the delicatessen merchant in the basement of the tenement where the old -woman lived. - -“I think maybe there’s a little something in it this time,” ventured -Schaffer, his tone expressing far less doubt than his words. - -“I’ll follow you in a few minutes,” said Stanhope, adding to himself, -“and I’ll soon be out of all this.” - -He did not know how or when--“after Evelyn is married,” he thought -vaguely--but he felt that he was practically gone. He would leave his -wife all the property; and he and Emily would go away somehow and -somewhere and begin life--not anew, but actually begin. “I shall be -myself at last,” he thought, “speaking the truth, earning my living in -the sweat of my face, instead of in the sweat of my soul.” As he came -out of the house he looked up at the church--the enormous steepled mass -of masonry, tapering heavenward. “Pointing to empty space,” he thought, -“tricking the thoughts of men away from the street and the soil where -their brothers are. Yes, I shall no longer court the rich to get money -for the poor. I shall no longer fling the dust of dead beliefs into the -eyes of the poor to blind them to injustice.” He strode along, chin -up, eyes only for his dreams. He did not note the eager and respectful -bows of the people in the doorways, block after block. He did not note -that between the curtains of the dives, where painted women lay in wait -for a chance to leer and lure, forms shrank back and faces softened as -he passed. - -Into the miserable Orchard street tenement; through the darkness of -the passageway; into a mouldy court, damp and foul even in that winter -weather; up four ill-smelling stairways with wall paper and plastering -impatient for summer that they might begin to sweat and rot and fall -again; in at a low door--the entrance to a filthy, unaired den where -only the human animal of all the animal kingdom could long exist. - -The stove was red-hot and two women in tattered, grease-bedaubed calico -were sitting at it. They were young in years, but their abused and -neglected bodies were already worn out. One held a child with mattered -eyes and sores hideously revealed through its thin hair. The other was -about to bring into the world a being to fight its way up with the rats -and the swarming roaches. - -In the corner was a bed which had begun its career well up in the -social scale and had slowly descended until it was now more than -ready for the kindling-box. Upon it lay a heap of rags swathing the -skeleton of what had once been a woman. Her head was almost bald. Its -few silver-white hairs were tied tightly into a nut-like knot by a -rusty black string. Her skin, pale yellow and speckled with dull red -blotches, was drawn directly over the bones and cartilages of her skull -and face, and was cracked into a network of seams and wrinkles. The -shapeless infoldings of her mouth were sunk deep in the hollow between -nose and chin. Her hands, laid upon the covers at which her fingers -picked feebly, had withered to bones and bunches of cords thrust into -two ill-fitting gloves of worn-out parchment. - -As Stanhope entered, the women at the stove rose, showed their worse -than toothless gums in a momentary smile, then resumed the doleful look -which is humanity’s universal counterfeit for use at death-beds. They -awkwardly withdrew and the old woman opened her eyes--large eyes, faded -and dim but, with the well-shaped ears close against her head, the sole -reminders of the comeliness that had been. - -She turned her eyes toward the broken-backed chair at the head of -her bed. He sat and leaning over put his hand--big and strong and -vital--upon one of her hands. - -“What can I do, Aunt Albertina?” he said. - -“I’m leaving, Doctor Stanhope.” There was a trace of a German accent in -that hardly human croak. - -“Well, Aunt Albertina, you are ready to go or ready to stay. There is -nothing to fear either way.” - -“Look in that box behind you--there. The letters. Yes.” He sat again, -holding in his hand a package of letters, yellow where they were not -black. “Destroy them.” The old woman was looking at them longingly. -Then she closed her eyes and tried to lift her head. “Under the -pillow,” she muttered. “Take it out.” He reached under the slimy pillow -and drew forth a battered embossed-leather case. “Look,” she said. - -He opened it. On the one side was the picture of a man in an -officer’s uniform with decorations across his breast--a handsome man, -haughty-looking, cruel-looking. On the other side was the picture -of a woman--a round, weak, pretty face, a mouth longing for kisses, -sentimental eyes, a great deal of fair hair, graceful, rounded -shoulders. - -“That was I,” croaked the old woman. He looked at that head in the bed, -that face, that neck with the tendons and bones outstanding and making -darker-brown gullies between. - -“Yes--I,” she said, “and not thirty years ago.” - -She closed her eyes and her fingers picked at the covers. “Do you -remember,” she began again--“the day you first saw me?” - -He recalled it. She was wandering along the gutter of Essex Street, -mumbling to herself, stooping now and then to pick up a cigar butt, a -bit of paper, a rag, and slip it into a sack. - -“Yes, Aunt Albertina--I remember.” - -“You stopped and shook hands with me and asked me to come to a meeting, -and gave me a card. I never came. I was too busy--too busy drinking -myself to death.” She paused and muttered, in German, “Ach, Gott, I -thought I would never accomplish it. But at last--” Then she went on in -English, “But I remembered you. I asked about you. They all knew you. -‘The giant’ they call you. You are so strong. They lean on you--all -these people. You do not know them or see them or feel them, but they -lean on you.” - -“But I am weak, Aunt Albertina. I am a giant with a pigmy soul--a -little soul.” - -“Yes, I know what pigmy means.” The wrinkles swirled and crackled in -what was meant to be a smile. “I had a ‘von’ in my name in Germany, and -perhaps something before it--but no matter. Yes, you are weak. So was -he--the man in the picture--and I also. We tempted each other. He left -his post, his wife, all. We came to America. He died. I was outcast. I -danced in a music-hall--what did I care what became of me when he was -gone? Then I sat at the little tables with the men, and learned what a -good friend drink is. And so--down, down, down----” she paused to shut -her eyes and pick at the covers. - -“But,” she went on, “drink always with me as my friend to make -me forget, to make me content wherever I was--the gutter, the -station-house, the dance-hall. If _he_ could have seen me among the -sailors, tossing me round, tearing at my clothes, putting quarters in -my stockings--for drinks afterwards--drinks!” - -There was a squirming among the rags where her old bones were hidden. -Stanhope shuddered and the sweat stood in beads on his white face. -“But that is over, and you’ve repented long ago,” he said hurriedly, -eager to get away. - -“Repent?” The old woman looked at him with jeering smile. “Not I! -Why? With drink one thing’s as good as another, one bed as another, -one man as another. The idealissmus soon passes. Ach, how we used to -talk of our souls--Gunther and I. Souls! Yes, we were made for each -other. But--he died, and life must be lived. Yes, I know what pigmy -means. I had a von in my name over there and something in front. But no -soul--just a body.” - -“What else can I do for you, Aunt Albertina?” He spoke loudly as her -mind was evidently wandering. - -“Be strong. They lean on you. No, I mean I lean on you. The letters -and the pictures--destroy them. Yes, Gunther and I had von in our -names--but no soul--just youth and love----” - -He went to the stove, lifted the lid, and tossed in the letters and -the old case. As he was putting the lid on again he could see the case -shrivelling, and the flame with its black base crawling over sheets -closely written in a clear, beautiful foreign handwriting. - -“They are destroyed, Aunt Albertina. Is that all?” - -“All. No religion--not to-day, I thank you. Yes, you are strong--but no -soul, only a body.” - -He went out and sent the two women. He expanded his lungs to the -tainted air of Orchard Street. It seemed fresh and pure to him. -“Horrible!” he thought, “I shall soon be out of all this----” - -Out of it? He stopped short in the street and looked wildly around. -Out of _it_? Out of what?--out of life? If not, how could he escape -responsibility, and consequences? Consequences! He strode along, the -children toddling or crawling swiftly aside to escape his tread. And as -he strode the word “Consequences!” clanged and banged against the walls -of his brain like the clapper of a mighty bell. - -At the steps of his house a woman and a man tried to halt him. He -brushed them aside, went up the steps two at a time, let himself in, -and shut himself in his study. - -Why had he not seen it before? To shiver with the lightning of lust -the great tree of the church, the shelter and hope of these people; -to tempt fate to vengeance not upon himself, but upon Emily; to cover -his children with shame; to come to her, a wreck, a ruin; to hang a -millstone about her neck and bid her swim!--“And I called this--love!” - - * * * * * - -At eight o’clock that evening Emily sat waiting for him. “Shall I hate -him as soon as I see him? Or shall I love him so that I’ll not care for -shame or sin?” The bell rang and she started up, trembling. The maid -was already at the front door. - -“Nancy!” she called; then stood rigid and cold, holding the portière -with one hand and averting her face. - -“Yes, mum.” - -“If it is any one for me----” - -She hesitated again. She could see herself in the long mirror between -the windows. She drew herself up and sent a smile, half-triumphant, -half-derisive, at her image, “Say I’m not at home,” she ended. - -The door opened, there was a pause, then it closed. Nancy entered, -“Only a note, mum.” She held it out and Emily took it--Stanhope’s -writing. She tore it open and read: - - “I have a presentiment that you, too, have seen the truth. We may - not go the journey together, I have come to my senses. If it was - love that we offered each the other, then we do well to strangle the - monster before it strangles us, and tramples into the mire all that - each of us has done for good thus far. - - I--and you, too--feel like one who dreams that he is about to seize - delight and awakens to find that he was leaping from a window to - destruction. - - This is not renunciation. It is salvation. - - Evelyn tells me she is to see you to-morrow. I am glad that you and - my daughter are friends.” - -She read the note again, and, after a long interval, a third time. Then -she bent slowly and laid it upon the coals. She sat in a low chair, -watched the paper curl into a tremulous ash, which presently drifted up -the chimney. She was not conscious that there was any thought in her -mind. She was conscious only of an enormous physical and mental relief. - -“I must go to bed,” she said aloud. She hardly touched the pillow -before she was sound asleep--the sleep of exhaustion, of content, of -the battle won. After several hours she awakened. “I’m so glad my -‘better self’ told Nancy to say I wasn’t at home,” she thought. “That -makes me know that I was--what was I?” But before she could answer she -was again asleep. - -The next morning Joan at breakfast suddenly lifted her eyes from her -newspaper and her coffee, listened and smiled. Emily was singing at her -bath. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -MR. GAMMELL PRESUMES. - - -MR. WAKEMAN, under whom she had been working comfortably, was now -displaced by a Mr. Gammell, whom she had barely seen and of whom she -had heard alarming tales. He had been made City Editor when Stilson was -promoted. Tireless and far-sighted and insatiable as a news-gatherer, -he drove those under him “as if eating and sleeping had been -abolished,” one of them complained. But he made the _Democrat’s_ local -news the best in New York, and this gradually impressed the public and -raised the circulation. Gammell was a sensationalist--“the yellowest -yet,” the reporters called him--and Stilson despised him. But Stilson -was too capable a journalist not to appreciate his value. He encouraged -him and watched him closely, taking care to keep from print the daily -examples of his reckless “overzeal.” - -As the Sunday edition ought to be the most profitable issue of a big -newspaper, the proprietors decided to transfer Gammell to it, after -cautioning him to remember Stilson’s training and do nothing to destroy -the “character” of the paper. Gammell began with a “shake-up” of his -assistants. Emily, just returned from a midsummer vacation, was -opening her desk, when another woman of the Sunday staff, Miss Venable, -whom she had never seen at the office this early before, began to tell -her the dire news. “He’s good-looking and polite,” she said, “but he -has no respect for feelings and no consideration about the quantity of -work. He treats us as if we were so many machines.” - -“That isn’t strange or startling, is it?” said Emily indifferently. -“He’s like most successful men. I always feared Mr. Wakeman was too -easy-going, too good to last. I’m surprised that there hasn’t been a -change before.” - -“Just wait till you’ve had an experience with him. He told me--he -called me in this morning and said with a polite grin--what a horrid -grin he has!--that he was pained that I did not like my position on the -Sunday staff. And when I protested that I did, he said, ‘It’s good of -you to say so, Miss Venable, but your work tells a truth which you are -too considerate of me to speak.’ And then he went on to show that he -has been sneaking and spying on me about reading novels in office hours -and staying out too long at lunch time. Think of that!” - -“He may be watching you now,” suggested Emily. - -“No--he’s--good gracious, there he is!” and she fled to her desk. - -Emily looked round and saw a notably slender, pale man of middle height -with the stoop of a student and restless, light-brown eyes. He was -walking rapidly, glancing from side to side and nervously swinging his -keys by their chain. He stopped at her desk and smiled--agreeably Emily -thought. - -“Miss Bromfield?” he said. - -“Yes. And you are Mr. Gammell?” - -“I am that brute--that ogre--that Simon Legree,” he replied, with a -satirical smile which barely altered the line of his thin, pale lips -under his small moustache. “Will you come into my office, please--at -your leisure?” Emily thought she had never heard a polite phrase sound -so cynically hollow. - -She rose and followed him. He began at once and talked swiftly, now -cutting up sheets of blank paper with a huge pair of shears, now -snapping the fingers of one hand against the knuckles of the other, now -twitching his eyes, now ruffling and smoothing his hair. He showed that -he had gone through her work for several months past and that he knew -both her strong points and her defects. He gave her a clear conception -first of what he did not want, then of what he did want. - -As they talked she became uncomfortable. She admired his ability, but -she began to dislike his personality. And she soon understood why. He -was showing more and more interest in her personal appearance and less -and less interest in her work. Like all good-looking women, Emily was -too used to the sort of glances he was giving her to feel or pretend -to feel deep resentment. But it made her uneasy to reflect on what -those glances from a man in his position and of his audacity portended. -“I shall have trouble with him,” she was thinking, before they had -been together half an hour. And she became formal and studied in her -courtesy. But this seemed to have not this slightest effect upon him. - -“However,” he said in conclusion, “don’t take what I’ve been saying too -seriously. You may do as you please. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you -do. And if you feel that you have too much work, just tell me and I’ll -turn it over to some one who was made to drudge.” - -He was at her desk several times during the day. The last time he -brought a bundle of German and French illustrated papers and pointed -out to her in one of them a doubtful picture and the still more -doubtful jest printed underneath. He watched her closely. She looked -and read without a change of colour or expression. “I don’t think we -would reprint it,” she said indifferently, turning the page. - -As he walked away she had an internal shudder of repulsion. “How crude -he is!” she thought. “He has evidently been well educated and well -bred. Yet he can’t distinguish among people. He thinks they’re all cut -from the same pattern, each for some special use of his. Yes, I shall -have trouble with him--and that soon.” - -He hung about her desk, passing and repassing, often pausing and -getting as near as possible to her, compelling her pointedly to move. -She soon had his character from his own lips. She was discussing with -him a “human interest” story from a Colorado paper--about love and -self-sacrifice in a lone miner’s hut faraway among the mountains. “That -will catch the crowd,” he said. “We’ll spread it for a page with a big, -strong picture.” - -“Yes, it’s a beautiful story,” said she. “No one could fail to be -touched by it.” - -“It’s easy to make the mob weep,” he answered with a sneer. “What fools -they are! As if there was anything in that sort of slush.” - -Emily was simply listening, was not even looking comment. - -“I don’t suppose that anybody ever unselfishly cared for anybody -else since the world began,” he went on. “It’s always vanity and -self-interest. The difference between the mob and the intelligent few -is that the mob is hypocritical and timid, while intelligent people -frankly reach out for what they want.” - -“Your scheme of life has at least the merit of directness,” said Emily, -turning away to go to her desk. - -On the plea that he wished to discuss work with her he practically -compelled her to dine with him two or three times a week. While his -lips were busy with adroit praises of her ability his eyes were -appealing to her vanity as a woman--and he was not so unskilful at that -mode of attack as he had seemed at first. He exploited her articles in -the Sunday magazine, touching them up himself and--as she could not -but see--greatly improving them. He asked Stilson to raise her salary, -and it was done. - -She did not discourage him. She was passive, maintaining her -business-like manner. But after leaving him she always had a feeling -of depression and self-disapproval. She liked the display of her work, -she liked the sense of professional importance which he gave her, she -did not dislike his flatteries. She tried to force herself to look at -the truth, to see that all he said and did arose from the basest of -motives, unredeemed by a single trace of an adornment of sentiment. -But, though she pretended to herself that she understood him perfectly, -her vanity was insidiously aiding her strong sense of the politic to -draw her on. “What can I do?” she pleaded to herself. “I must earn my -living. I must assume, as long as I possibly can, that everything is -all right.” - -While she was thus drifting, helpless to act and desperately trying -to hope that a crisis was not coming, she met Stilson one morning in -the entrance-hall of the _Democrat_ Building. As always, his sombre -expression lighted and he stopped her. - -“How are you getting on with Gammell?” he asked, in his voice that -exactly suited the resolute set of his jaw and the aggressive forward -thrust of his well-shaped head. - -At Gammell’s name she became embarrassed, almost ashamed. No one knew -better than she what a powerful effect Stilson had upon sensitive -people in making them guiltily self-conscious if there was reason -for it. She could not help dropping her eyes, and her confusion was -not decreased by the fear that he would misconstrue her manner into a -confession worse than the truth. But she was showing less of her mind -than she thought. - -“Oh--splendidly,” she replied. “I like him much better than at first. -He makes us work and that has been well for me.” - -“Um--yes.” He looked relieved. “And I think it excellent work. Good -morning.” - -Emily gazed after his tall strong figure with the expression that -is particularly good to see in eyes that are looking unobserved at -another’s back. “He knows Gammell,” she thought, “and had an idea he -might be annoying me. He wished to give me a chance to show that I -needed aid, if I did. What a strange man--and how much of a man!” - -When she saw Gammell half an hour later, she unconsciously brought -herself up sharply. She was as distant as the circumstances of their -business relations permitted. But Gammell, deceived by her former -tolerance and by his vanity and his hopes, thought she was practising -another form of coquetry upon him. As she retreated, he pursued. The -first time they were alone, he put his arm about her and kissed her. - -Emily had heard that women working in offices with men invariably have -some such experience as this sooner or later. And now, here she was, -face to face with the choice between self-respect and the enmity of -the man who could do her the most harm in the most serious way--her -living. And in fairness she admitted, perhaps more generously than -Gammell deserved, that she was herself in part responsible for his -conduct. - -She straightened up--they were bending over several drawings spread -upon a table--and stiffened herself. She looked at him with a cold and -calm dignity that made him feel as futile and foolish as if he had -found himself embracing a marble statue. Anger he could have combated. -Appeal he would have disregarded. But this frozen tranquillity made -him drop his arm from her waist and begin confusedly to handle the -drawings. Emily’s heart beat wildly, and she strove in vain to control -herself so that she could begin to talk of the work in hand as if his -attempt had not been. His nervousness changed to anger. Instead of -letting the matter drop, he said sneeringly: “Oh, you needn’t pretend. -You understood perfectly all along. You were willing to use me. And -now----” - -“Please don’t!” Emily’s voice was choked. She had an overpowering sense -of degradation. “It is my fault, I admit. I did understand in a way. -But I tried to make myself believe that we were just friends, like two -men.” - -“What trash!” said Gammell contemptuously. “You never believed it -for an instant. You knew that there never was, and never will be, -a friendship between a young man and a young woman unless each is -thoroughly unattractive to the other.” - -He was plucking up courage and Emily saw that he was mentally arranging -a future renewal of his attempt. “I must settle it now, once for all, -at any cost,” she said to herself, with the resoluteness that had never -failed her in crises. Then aloud, to him: “At any rate, we understand -each the other now. You know that I have not the faintest interest in -your plan for mixing sentiment and business.” Her look and tone were -convincing as they cut deep into his vanity. She turned to the drawings -and resumed the discussion of them. In a very few minutes he left her. -“He hates me,” she thought, “and I can’t blame him. I wonder what he’ll -do to revenge himself?” - -But he gave no sign. When they met again and thereafter he treated -her with exaggerated courtesy and no longer annoyed her. “He’s -self-absorbed,” she concluded, “and too cool-headed to waste time and -energy in revenges.” - -But when her articles were no longer displayed, were on the contrary -“cut” or altogether “side-tracked,” she began to think that probably -the pinched-in look of his mouth and nose and at the back of his neck -did not belie him. She felt an ominous, elusive insecurity. She debated -asking Stilson to transfer her to some other department. - -But she hesitated to go to Stilson. For she now knew the whole secret -of his looks and actions, of which she had been thinking curiously ever -since the morning of their chance meeting in the Park. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -THE TRUTH ABOUT A ROMANCE. - - -ONE half of that mystery had been betrayed by little Mary. The other -half she might have known long before had she not held aloof from her -fellow workers, except the few who did not gossip. - - * * * * * - -He was a Virginian. He had been brought up on a farm--an only son, -carefully sheltered, tutored by his father and mother. He had gone -up to Princeton, religious and reverential of the most rigid code -of personal morals. His studies in science and philosophy had taken -away his creed. But he the more firmly anchored himself to his moral -code--not because he was prim or feeble or timid, but because to him -his morality was his self-respect. - -He graduated from Princeton at twenty and became a reporter on _The -World_. He was released to New York--young, hot-blooded, romantic, -daring. He rose rapidly and was not laughed at for his idealism and -his Puritanism, partly because he was able, chiefly because he had -that arrogant temperament which enforces respect from the irresolute, -submissive majority. - -One night, a few weeks before he was twenty-one, he went with Harry -Penrose of the _Herald_ to the opening of the season at the Gold and -Glory. It was then in the beginning of its fame as the best music-hall -in the country if not in the world. As they entered, the orchestra -was playing one of those dashing melodies that seem to make the blood -flow in their rhythm. The stage was thronged with a typical Gold and -Glory chorus--tall, handsome young women with long, slender arms and -legs. They were dancing madly, their eyes sparkling, their hair waving, -the straps slipping from their young shoulders, their slim legs in -heliotrope silk marking the time of the music with sinuous strokes -from the stage to high above their heads and down again. Against this -background of youth and joy and colour two girls were leading the -dance. One of them was round and sensuous; the other thin with the -pleasing angularity of a girl not yet a woman grown. - -Instantly Stilson’s eyes were for her. He felt that he had never even -imagined such grace. The others were smiling gaily, boldly, into the -audience in teasing mock-invitation. Her lips were closed. Her smile -was dreamy, her soul apparently wrapped in the delirium of the dance. -Her whole body was in constant motion. It seemed to Stilson that at -every movement of shoulders or hips, of small round arms or tapering -legs, at every swing of that little head crowned with glittering waves -of golden light, a mysterious, thrilling energy was flung out from -her like an electric current. He who had not cared for women of the -stage watched this girl as a child at its first circus watches the lady -in tights and tarlatan. When the curtain went down, he felt that the -lights were being turned off instead of on. - -“Who is she?” he asked Penrose. - -“Who?” said Penrose, looking at the women near by in the orchestra -chairs. “Which one?” - -“The girl at the end--the right end--on the stage, I mean.” - -“Oh--Marguerite Feronia. Isn’t she a wonder? I don’t see how any one -can compare her with Jennie Jessop, who danced opposite her.” - -“Do you know--Miss Feronia?” asked Stilson. - -“Marguerite? Yes. I’ve seen her a few times in the cork-room. Ever been -there?” - -“No.” Stilson had neither time nor inclination for dissipation. - -“Would you like to go? It’s an odd sort of place.” - -They went downstairs, through the public bar and lounge and into a long -passage. At the end Penrose knocked on a door with a small shutter in -it. Up went the shutter and in its stead there was a fierce face--low -forehead, stubby, close cropped hair, huge, sweeping moustache shading -a bull-dog jaw. The eyes were wicked yet not unkindly. - -“Hello, John. This is a friend of mine from the _World_--Mr. Stilson.” - -“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Penrose.” The shutter replaced the face and the door -opened. They were under the stage, in a room walled and ceilinged -with champagne corks, and broken into many alcoves and compartments. -They sat at a table in one of the alcoves and Penrose ordered a bottle -of champagne. When the waiter brought it he invited “John” to have a -glass. “John” took it standing--“Your health, gents--best regards”--a -gulp, the glass was empty and the moustache had a deep, damp fringe. - -“I have orders not to let nobody in till the end of the performance,” -said “John.” “But you gents of the press is different.” He winked as if -his remark were a witticism. - -“May I see Marguerite for a minute?” - -“She’s got to change,” said “John” doubtfully, “and she comes on about -five minutes after the curtain goes up. But I’ll see.” - -He went through a door at the far end of the “cork-room” and soon -reappeared with Marguerite close behind him. She was in a yellow and -red costume--the skirt not to her knees, the waist barely to the top of -her low corset. She put out a small hand white of itself, and smeared -with rice-powder. Her hair was natural golden and Stilson thought her -as beautiful and as spiritual as she had seemed beyond the footlights. -“Perhaps not quite so young,” he said to himself, “possibly twenty.” -In fact she was almost thirty. Her voice was sweet and childish, her -manner confiding, as became so young-looking a person. - -Stilson was unable to speak. He could only look and long. And he -felt guilty for looking--she was very slightly clad. She and Penrose -talked commonplaces about the opening, Penrose flattering her -effectively--Stilson thought his compliments crude and insulting, felt -that she would resent them if she really understood them. She soon -rose, touched the champagne glass to her lips, nodded and was gone. The -curtain was up--they could hear the music and the scuffling of many -feet on the stage overhead. - -“You don’t want to miss this, Mr. Penrose,” said “John.” “It’s out -o’sight.” - -They took a second glass of the champagne and left the rest for “John.” -When they were a few feet down the passage, Stilson went back to the -door of the “cork-room.” The shutter lifted at his knock and he cast -his friendliest look into the wicked, good-humoured, bull-dog face. “My -name is Stilson,” he said. “You won’t forget me if I should come again -alone?” - -“I never forget a face,” said “John.” “That’s why I keep my job.” - -Stilson’s infatuation increased with each of Marguerite’s appearances. -The longer he looked, the stronger was the spell woven over his senses -by that innocent face, by those magnetic arms and legs. But he would -have knocked down any one who had suggested that it was a sensuous -spell. - -He devoted his account of the performance for the _World_ to -Marguerite, the marvellous young interpreter of the innermost meaning -of music. - -The copy-reader “toned down” some of the superlatives, but left his -picture in the main untouched. And the next day every one in the office -was talking about “Stilson’s story of that girl up at the Gold and -Glory.” It was the best possible advertisement for the hall and for -the girl. Penrose called him on the telephone and laughed at him. “You -_are_ a fox,” he said. “Old Barclay--he’s the manager down there, you -know--called me up a while ago and asked if I knew who wrote the puff -of Feronia in the _World_. I told him it was you. Follow it up, old -man.” - -And Stilson did “follow it up.” That very night, toward the end of the -performance he reappeared at the door of the “cork-room,” nervous but -determined, and with all he had left of last week’s earnings in his -pocket. “John” was most gracious as he admitted him and escorted him -to a seat. The room was hazy with the smoke of cigars and cigarettes. -Many men and several young women sat at the tables. A silver bucket -containing ice and a bottle was a part of each group. There was a great -pounding of feet on the floor overhead, the shriek and crash of the -orchestra, the muffled roar of applause. All the young men were in -evening clothes except Stilson who had come direct from the office. The -young women were dressed for the street. Stilson guessed that they were -“extras” as at that time the full force of the company must be on the -stage. - -The music ceased, the pounding of feet above became irregular instead -of regular, and into the room streamed a dozen of the chorus girls in -tights, with bare necks and arms and painted lips and cheeks. Their -eyes, surrounded by pigment, looked strangely large and lustrous. -“Just one glass, then we must go up and change.” And there was much -“opening of wine” and laughter and holding of hands and one covert -kiss in the shadow of an alcove where “John” could pretend not to see. -Then the chorus girls rushed away to remove part of the powder, paint, -and pigment and to put on street clothing. After a few minutes, during -which Stilson watched the scene with a deepening sense of how out of -place he was in it, the stage-door opened and Marguerite came in, -dressed for the street in a pretty gray summer-silk with a gray hat -to match. As she advanced through the smoke, several men stood, eager -to be recognised. She smiled sweetly at each and hesitated. Stilson, -his courage roused, sprang up and advanced boldly. “Good evening, Miss -Feronia,” he said, his eyes imploring yet commanding. She looked at him -vaguely, then remembered him. - -“You are Mr. Penrose’s friend?” she said, polite but not at all cordial. - -“Yes--my name’s Stilson,” he answered. “I was here last night.” - -“Oh--Mr. Stilson of the _World_?” - -Stilson bowed. She was radiant now. “I wrote you a note to-day,” she -said. “It was _so_ good of you.” - -“Would you sit and let me order something for you?” - -“Certainly. I want to thank you----” - -“Please don’t,” he said, earnestly and with a hot blush. “I’d--I’d -rather you didn’t remember me for that.” - -“Something” in the cork-room meant champagne or a wine equally -expensive--the management forbade frugality under pain of exclusion. -Miss Feronia was thirsty and Stilson thought he had never before seen -any one who knew how to raise a glass and drink. - -“You were good to me in the paper this morning,” she said. “Why?” - -“Because I love you.” - -The smoke, the room, the flaunting reminders of coarseness and -sensuality and merchandising in smiles and sentiment--all faded away -for him. He was worshipping at the shrine of his lady-love. And he -thought her as pure and poetical as the temple of her soul seemed to -his enchanted eyes. She looked at him over the top of her glass, with -cynical, tolerant amusement. The rioting bubbles were rushing upward -through the pale gold liquid to where her lips touched it. As she -studied him, the cynicism slowly gave place to that dreamy expression -which means much or little or nothing at all, according to what lies -behind. To him it was entrancing; it meant mind, and heart, and soul. - -“What a nice, handsome boy you are,” she said, in a voice so gentle -that he was not offended by its hint that her experience was pitying -his child-like inexperience. - -And thus it began. At the end of the week they were married--he would -have it so, and she, purified for the time by the fire of this boy’s -romantic love, thought it natural that the priest should be called in. - -To him it was a dream of romance come true. His strength, direct, -insistent, inescapable, compelled her. It pleased her thus to be -whirled away by an impassioned boy, enveloping her in this tempestuous -yet respectful love wholly new to her. She found it toilsome to live up -to his ideal of her; but, with the aid of his blindness, she achieved -it for two months and deserved the title her former associates gave -her--“Sainte Marguerite.” Then---- - -He came home one morning about two. As he opened the door of their -flat, he heard heavy snoring from their little parlour. He struck a -match and held it high. As the light penetrated and his eyes grew -accustomed, he saw Marguerite--his wife--upon the lounge. Her only -covering was a nightgown and she was half out of it. Her hair was -tumbled and tangled. There were deep lines in her swollen, red face. -Her mouth had fallen open and her expression was gross, animal, -repulsive. She was sleeping a drunken sleep, in a room stuffy with the -fumes of whiskey and of the stale smoke and stale stumps of cigarettes. - -The match burned his fingers before he dropped it. He stumbled through -the darkness to their bedroom, and, falling upon the bed, buried -his face in the pillow and sobbed like a child that has received a -blow struck in brutal injustice. Out of the corners came a hundred -suspicious little circumstances which no longer feared him or hid from -him. They leered and jeered and mocked, shooting poisoned darts into -that crushed and broken-hearted boy. - -He rose and lit the gas. He went to a closet in a back room and took -down a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler. In pyjamas and slippers he -seated himself at the dining-room table. He poured out a brimming glass -of the whiskey and drank it down. A moment later he drank another, -then a third. His head reeled, his blood ran thick and hot through his -veins. He staggered into the parlour and stood over his snoring wife. -He shook her. “Come, wake up!” he shouted. - -She groaned, murmured, tossed, suddenly sat up, catching her hair -together with one hand, her night-dress with the other. “My God!” she -exclaimed, in terror at his wild face, “Don’t kill me! I can’t help -it--my father was that way!” - -“Yes--come on!” he shouted. “You don’t need to sneak away to drink. -We’ll drink together. We’ll go to hell together.” - -And he kept his word. At the end of the year he was dismissed from the -_World_ for drunkenness. She went back to the stage and supported them -both--she was a periodic drunkard, while he kept steadily at it. She -left him, returned to him, loved him, fled from him, divorced him, -after an absence of nearly a year returned to make another effort to -undo the crime she felt she had committed. As she came into the squalid -room in a wretched furnished-room house in East Fifth Street where he -had found a momentary refuge, he glared at her with bleared, bloodshot -eyes and uttered a curse. She had a bundle in her arms. - -“Look,” she said, in a low tone, stooping beside the bed on which he -lay in his rags. - -He was staring stupidly into the face of a baby, copper-coloured, -homely, with puffy cheeks and watery, empty eyes. He fell back upon the -bed and covered his head. - -Soon he started up in a fury. “It ought to have been strangled,” he -said. - -“No! No!” she exclaimed, pressing the bundle tightly against her bosom. - -He rose and went toward her. His expression was reassuring. He looked -long into the child’s face. - -“Where are you living?” he asked at last. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. -I’ll not come until”--He paused, then went on: “The road ought to lead -upward from here.” His glance went round the squalid room with roaches -scuttling along its baseboard. He looked down at his grimed tatters, -his gaping shoes, his dirty hands and black and broken nails. - -“It certainly can’t lead downward,” he muttered. For the first time in -months he felt ashamed. “Leave me alone,” he said. - -That night he wrote his mother for the loan of a hundred dollars--the -first money from home since, at the end of his last long vacation, -he left for New York and a career. In a week he was a civilised man -again. Marlowe got him a place as reporter on the _Democrat_. It was -immediately apparent that the road did indeed lead upward. - -In a month he was restored to his former appearance--except that his -hair was sprinkled with gray at the temples and he had several deep -lines in his young yet sombre face. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -“IN MANY MOODS.” - - -EMILY was lunching alone at the Astor House in the innermost of -the upstairs dining-rooms. She had just ordered when a woman -entered--obviously a woman of the stage, although she was quietly -dressed. She had a striking figure, small but lithe, and her gown was -fitted to its every curve. As she passed Emily’s table, to the left of -the door, the air became odorous of one of those heavy, sweet perfumes -whose basis is musk. Her face was round, almost fat, babyish at first -glance. Her eyes were unnaturally sleepy and had many fine wrinkles at -the corners. She seated herself at the far end of the room, so that she -was facing the door and Emily. - -She called the waiter in a would-be imperious way, but before she had -finished ordering she was laughing and talking with him as if he were -a friend. Emily noted that she spoke between her shut teeth, like a -morphine-eater. As the waiter left, her face lighted with pleasure and -greeting. Emily was amazed as she saw the man toward whom this look -was directed--Stilson. He did not see Emily when he came in, and, as -he seated himself opposite the woman who was awaiting him, could not -see her. Nor could Emily see his face, only his back and now and then -one of his hands. As she eagerly noted every detail of him and of his -companion, she suddenly discovered that there was a pain at her heart -and that she was criticising the woman as if they were bitter enemies. -“I am jealous of her,” she thought, startled as she grasped all that -was implied in jealousy such as she was now feeling. - -When had she come to care especially for Stilson? And why? Above all, -how had she fallen in love without knowing what she was doing? By -what subtle chemistry had sympathy, admiration, trust, been combined -into this new element undoubtedly love, yet wholly unlike any emotion -she had felt before? “Mary must have set me to thinking,” she said to -herself. - -The woman talked volubly, always with her teeth together and her eyes -half-closed. But Emily could see that she was watching Stilson’s face -closely, lovingly. Stilson seemed to be saying nothing and looking -absently out of the window. As Emily studied the woman, she was forced -to confess that she was fascinating and that she had the attractive -remnants of beauty. Her manner toward Stilson made her manner toward -the waiter a few minutes before seem like a real self carefully and -habitually hidden from some one whom she knew would disapprove it. “She -tries to live up to him,” thought Emily. “And how interesting she is -to look at--what a beautiful figure, what graceful gestures--and--I -wonder if I shall look as well at--at her age?” - -She could not eat. “How I wish I hadn’t seen her with him. Now I shall -imagine--everything, while before this I thought of that side of his -life as if it didn’t exist.” She went as quickly as she could, for she -felt like a spy and feared he would turn his head. In the next room, -which was filled, she met Miss Furnival, the “fashion editor” of the -_Democrat’s_ Sunday magazine. Miss Furnival asked if there were any -tables vacant in the next room and hastened on to get the one which -Emily had left. - -An hour later Miss Furnival stopped at her desk. “Didn’t you see -Stilson in that room over at the Astor House?” she said, and Emily knew -that gossip was coming. - -“Was he there?” she asked. - -“Yes--up at the far end of the room--with Marguerite Feronia. She used -to be his wife, you know--and she divorced him when he went to pieces. -And now they live together--at least, in the same house. Some say that -he refused to re-marry her. But Mr. Gammell told me it was the other -way, that she told a friend of his she wasn’t fit to be Stilson’s wife. -She said she’d ruined him once and would never be a drag on him again.” - -“I suppose he’s--tremendously in love with her?” Emily tried in vain to -prevent herself from stooping to this question. - -“I don’t know,” replied Miss Furnival. “Mr. Gammell told me he wasn’t. -He says Stilson is a sentimentalist. It seems there is a child--some -say a boy, some say a girl. She first told Stilson it was his, and then -that it wasn’t. Mr. Gammell says Stilson stays on to protect the child -from her. She’s a terror when she goes on one of her sprees--and she -goes oftener and oftener as she grows older. You can always tell when -she’s on the rampage by the way Stilson acts. He goes about, looking as -if somebody had insulted him and he’d been too big a coward to resent -it.” - -Instead of being saddened by this recital, Emily was in sudden high -spirits and her eyes were dancing. “I ought to be ashamed of myself,” -she thought, “but I can’t help it. I wish to feel that he loathes her.” -Then she said aloud in a satirical tone, to carry off her cheerful -expression: “I had no idea we had such a hero among us. And Mr. -Stilson, of all men! I’m afraid it’s a piece of Park Row imagination. -Probably the truth is--let us say, less romantic.” - -“You don’t know Mr. Gammell,” Miss Furnival sighed. “He’s the last man -on earth to indulge in romance. He thinks Stilson ridiculous. But _I_ -think he’s fine. He’s the best of a few good men I’ve known in New -York who weren’t good only because of not having sense enough to be -otherwise.” - -“Good,” repeated Emily in a tone that expressed strong aversion to the -word. - -“Oh, mercy no! I don’t mean that kind of good,” said Miss Furnival. -“He’s not the kind of good that makes everybody else love and long for -wickedness.” - -After this Emily found herself making trips to the news-department on -extremely thin pretexts, and returning cheerful or depressed according -as she had succeeded or failed in her real object. And she began to -think--to hope--that Stilson came to the Sunday department oftener -than formerly. When he did come--and it certainly was oftener--he -merely bowed to her as he passed her desk. But whenever she looked up -suddenly, she found his gaze upon her and she felt that her vanity was -not dictating her interpretation of it. She had an instinct that if he -knew or suspected her secret or suspected that she was guessing his -secret, she would see him no more. - -As the months passed, there grew up between them a mutual understanding -about which she saw that he was deceiving himself. She came to know -him so well that she read him at sight. Being large and broad, he was -simple, tricking himself when it would have been impossible for him to -have tricked another. And it made her love him the more to see how he -thought he was hiding himself from her and how unconscious he was of -her love for him. - -She had no difficulty in gratifying her longing to hear of him. He -was naturally the most conspicuous figure in the office and often a -subject of conversation. She was delighted by daily evidences of the -power of his personality and by tributes to it. For Park Row liked to -gossip about his eccentricities,--he was called eccentric because -he had the courage of his individuality; or about his sagacity as an -editor, his sardonic wit, his cynicism concealing but never hindering -thoughtfulness for others. Shrinking from prying eyes, he was always -unintentionally provoking curiosity. Hating flattery, he was the idol -and the pattern of a score of the younger men of the profession. His -epigrams were quoted and his walk was copied, his dress, his way -of wearing his hair. Even his stenographer, a girl, unconsciously -and most amusingly imitated his mannerisms. All the indistinct and -inferior personalities about him, in the hope of making themselves -less indistinct and inferior, copied as closely as they could those -characteristics which, to them, seemed the cause of his standing up -and out so vividly. One day Emily was passing through an inside room -of the news-department on her way to the Day Telegraph Editor. Stilson -was at a desk which he sometimes used. He had his back toward her and -was talking into the portable telephone. She glanced at the surface of -his desk. With eyes trained to take in details swiftly, she saw before -she could look away an envelope addressed to Boughton and Wall, the -publishers, a galley proof projecting from it, and on the proof in -large type: “17 In Many Moods.” - -“He has written a book,” she thought, “and that is the title.” And she -was filled with loving curiosity. She speculated about it often in the -next six weeks; then she saw it on a table in Brentano’s. - -“Yes, it’s been selling fairly well--for poetry,” said the clerk. -“There’s really no demand for new poetry. Ninety-one cents. You’ll find -the verses very pretty.” - -Poetry--verses--Stilson a verse-maker! Emily was surprised and somewhat -amused. There was no author’s name on the title-page and it was a small -volume, about twenty poems, the most of them short, each with a mood as -a title--Anger, Parting, Doubt, Jealousy, Courage, Foreboding, Passion, -Hope, Renunciation--at Renunciation she paused and read. - -It was a crowded street-car and she bent low over the book to -hide her face. She had the clue to the book. Indeed she presently -discovered that it was to be found in every poem. Stilson had loved -her long--almost from her first appearance in the office. And in these -verses, breathing generosity and self-sacrifice, and well-aimed for -one heart at least, he had poured out his love for her. It was sad, -intense, sincere, a love that made her proud and happy, yet humble and -melancholy, too. - -As she read she seemed to see him looking at her, she felt his heart -aching. Now he was holding her tight in his arms, raining kisses -on her face and making her blood race like maddest joy through her -veins. Again, he was standing afar off, teaching her the lesson that -the love that can refrain and renounce is the truest love. It was a -revelation of this strange man even to her who had studied him long -and penetratingly. So absorbed was she in reading and re-reading -that when she glanced up the car was at One hundred and fourteenth -street--miles past her house. She walked down to and through the Park -in an abandon of happiness over these love letters so strangely sent, -thus accidentally received. “I must never let him see that I know,” she -thought--“yet how can I help showing it?” - -She met him the very next day--almost ran into him as she left the -elevator at the news-department floor where he was waiting to take it -on its descent. For the first time she betrayed herself, looking at him -with a burning blush and with eyes shining with the emotion she could -not instantly conceal. She passed on swiftly, conscious that he was -gazing after her startled. “I acted like a child,” she said to herself, -“and here I am, trembling all over as if I were seventeen.” And then -she wrought herself up with thinking what he might think of her. “Where -is my courage?” she reassured herself, “What a poor love his would be -if he misunderstood me.” Nevertheless she was afraid that she had shown -too much. “I suppose it’s impossible to be courageous and restrained -when one loves.” - -But when she saw him again--two days later, in the vestibule of the -_Democrat_ Building--it was her turn to be self-possessed and his to -betray himself. He was swinging along with his head down and gloom -in his face. He must have recognised her by her feet--distinctive in -their slenderness and in the sort of boots that covered them. For he -suddenly gave her a flash-like glance which said to her as plainly as -words: “I am in the depths. If I only dared to reach out my hand to -you, dear!” Then he recovered himself, reddened slightly, bowed almost -guiltily and passed on without speaking. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -A FORCED ADVANCE. - - -IT was the talk of the Sunday office that Emily was being “frozen -out.” The women said it was her own fault--her looks had at last -failed to give her a “pull.” The men said it was some underhand scheme -of Gammell’s--what was more likely in the case of an attractive -but thoroughly business-like woman such as Emily and such a man as -Gammell, oriental in his ideas on women and of infinite capacity for -meanness. Both the men and the women reached their conclusions by -ways of prejudice; the men came nearer to the truth, which was that -Gammell was bent upon punishing Emily, and that Emily, discouraged and -suffering under a sense of injustice, was aiding him to justify himself -to his superiors. The mere sight of her irritated him now. Success -had developed his natural instinct to tyranny, and she represented -rebellion intrenched and defiant within his very gates. One day he -found Stilson waiting in his office to look over and revise his Sunday -schedule. He hated Stilson because Stilson was his superior officer, -and each week--in the interest of the reputation of the paper--was -compelled to veto the too audacious, too “yellow” projects of the -sensational Gammell. - -That day at sight of Stilson he with difficulty concealed his hate. He -had just passed one of his enemies--Emily in a new dress and new hat, -in every way a painful reminder of his discomfiture. And now here was -his other enemy lying in wait, as he instinctively felt, to veto an -article in which he took especial pride. - -Stilson was not covert in his aversions. Diplomatic with no one, he -rasped upon Gammell’s highly-strung nerves like a screech in the ear of -a neurotic. The wrangle began quietly enough in an exchange of veiled -sarcasms and angry looks--contemptuous from Stilson, venomous from -Gammell. But the double strain of Emily and Stilson was too strong for -Gammell’s discretion. From stealthy sneers, he passed to open thrusts. -Stilson, as tyrannical as Gammell, if that side of his nature was -roused, grew calm with rage and presently in an arrogant tone ordered -Gammell to “throw away that vicious stuff, and let me hear no more -about it.” - -“It is a pity, my dear sir,” he went on, “that you should waste your -talents. Why roll in the muck? Why can’t you learn not to weary me with -this weekly inspection of insanity?” - -Gammell’s eyes became pale green, his cheeks an unhealthy bluish gray. -He cast about desperately for a weapon with which to strike and strike -home. Emily was in his mind and, while he had not the faintest notion -that Stilson cared for her or she for him, he remembered Stilson’s -emphatic compliments on her work. “Perhaps if I were supplied with -a more capable staff, we might get together articles that would be -intelligent as well as striking. But what can I do, handicapped by such -a staff, by such useless ornamentals as--well, as your Miss Bromfield.” - -“That reminds me.” Stilson recovered his outward self-control at -once. “I notice she has little in the magazine nowadays. Instead of -exhausting yourself on such character-destroying stuff as this,” with a -disdainful gesture toward the rejected article, “you might be arranging -for features such as she used to do and do very well.” - -“She’s not of the slightest use here any longer.” Gammell shrugged his -shoulders and lifted his eyebrows. “She’s of no use to the paper. And -as the present Sunday editor doesn’t happen to fancy her, why, she’s of -no use at all--now.” - -With a movement so swift that Gammell had no time to resist or even to -understand, Stilson whirled him from his chair, and flung him upon the -floor as if he were some insect that had shown sudden venom and must be -crushed under the heel without delay. - -“Don’t kill me!” screamed Gammell, in a frenzy of physical fear, as he -looked up at Stilson’s face ablaze with the homicidal mania. “For God’s -sake, Stilson, don’t murder me!” - -The door opened and several frightened faces appeared there. Stilson, -distracted from his purpose, turned on the intruders. “Close that -door!” he commanded. “Back to your work!” and he thrust the door into -its frame. “Now, get up!” he said to Gammell. “You are one of those -vile creatures that are brought into the world--I don’t know how, -but I’m sure without the interposition of a mother. Get up and brush -yourself. And hereafter see that you keep your foul mind from your lips -and eyes.” - -He stalked away, his footsteps ringing through the silent Sunday room -where all were bending over their work in the effort to obliterate -themselves. Within an hour the story of “the fight” was racing up and -down Park Row and in and out of every newspaper office. But no one -could explain it. And to this day Emily does not know why Gammell gave -her late that afternoon the best assignment she had had in three months. - -In the following week she received a letter from Burnham, general -manager of Trescott, Anderson and Company, the publishers in -Twenty-third Street. It was an invitation to call “at your earliest -convenience in reference to a matter which we hope will interest -you.” She went in the morning on her way downtown. Mr. Burnham was -most polite--a twitching little man, inclined to be silly in his -embarrassment, talking rapidly and catching his breath between -sentences. - -“We are making several changes in the conduct of our magazines,” said -he. “We wish to get some young blood--newspaper blood, in fact, into -them. We wish to make them less--less prosy, more--more up-to-date. -No--not ‘yellow’--by no means--nothing like that. Still, we feel that -we ought to be a little--yes--livelier.” - -“Closer to the news--to current events and subjects?” suggested Emily. - -“Yes,--precisely--you catch my meaning at once.” Mr. Burnham was -looking at her as if she were a genius. He was of those men who are -dazzled when they discover a gleam of intelligence in a beautiful -woman. “Now, we wish to get you to help us with our _World of Women_. -Mrs. Parrott is the editor, as you perhaps know. She’s been with -us--yes--twenty-three years, eighteen years in her present position. -And after making some inquiries, we decided to invite you to join the -staff as assistant to Mrs. Parrott.” - -“I know the magazine,” said Emily, “and I think I see the directions -in which the improvements you suggest could be made. But I’m not -dissatisfied with my present position. Of course--if--well--” She -looked at Mr. Burnham with an ingenuous expression that hid the -business guile beneath--“Of course, I couldn’t refuse an opportunity to -better myself.” - -“We--that is--” Mr. Burnham looked miserable and plucked wildly at his -closely-trimmed gray and black beard. “May I ask what--what financial -arrangement would be agreeable to you?” - -“The offer must come from you, mustn’t it?” said Emily, who had not -been earning her own living without learning first principles. - -“Yes--of course--naturally.” Mr. Burnham held himself rigid in his -chair, as if it required sheer force to restrain him from leaping forth -and away. “Might I ask--what you are--what--what--return for your -services the _Democrat_ makes?” - -“Sixty-five dollars a week,” said Emily. “But my position there is -less exacting than it would be here. I have practically no editorial -responsibility. And editorial responsibility means gray hair.” - -“Yes--certainly--you would expect compensation for gray hair--dear me, -no--I beg your pardon. What _were_ we saying? Yes--we could hardly -afford to pay so much as that--at the start, you know. I should -say sixty would be quite the very best. But your hours would be -shorter--and you would have the utmost freedom about writing articles, -stories, and so forth. And of course you’d be paid extra for what you -wrote which proved acceptable to us. Then too, it’s a higher class of -work--the magazines, you know--gives one character and standing.” - -“Oh--work is work,” said Emily. “And I doubt if a magazine could give -me character. I fear I’d have to continue to rely on myself for that.” - -“Oh--I beg your pardon. I’m very stupid to-day--I didn’t mean----” - -As he hesitated and looked imploringly at her, she said -good-humouredly, “To suggest that my standing and not the standing of -your magazine, was what you were trying to help?” - -They laughed, they became friendly and he had difficulty in keeping -his mind upon business. He presently insisted upon sending for Mrs. -Parrott--a stout, motherly person with several chins that descended -through a white neck-cloth into a vast bosom quivering behind the dam -of a high, old-fashioned corset. Emily noted that she was evidently -of those women who exaggerate their natural sweetness into a pose of -“womanly” sentiment and benevolence. She spoke the precise English of -those who have heard a great deal of the other kind and dread a lapse -into it. She was amusingly a “literary person,” full of the nasty-nice -phrases current among those literary folk who take themselves seriously -as custodians of An Art and A Language. Emily’s manner and dress -impressed her deeply, and she soon brought in--not without labour--the -names of several fashionable New Yorkers with whom she asserted -acquaintance and insinuated intimacy. Emily’s eyes twinkled at this -exhibition of insecurity in one who but the moment before was preening -herself as a high priestess at the highest altar. - -In the hour she spent in the editorial offices of Trescott, Anderson -and Company, Emily was depressed by what seemed to her an atmosphere -of dulness, of staleness, of conventionality, of remoteness from the -life of the day. “They live in a sort of cellar,” she thought. “I don’t -believe I could endure being cut off from fresh air.” After pretending -to herself elaborately to argue the matter, she decided that she would -not make the change. - -But her real reason, as she was finally compelled to admit to herself, -was Stilson. Not to see him, not to feel that he was near, not to be -in daily contact with his life--it was unthinkable. She knew that she -was so unbusiness-like in this respect that, if the _Democrat_ cut her -salary in half, she would still stay on. “I’m only a woman after all,” -she said to herself. “A man wouldn’t do as I’m doing--perhaps.” She did -not in the least care. She was not ashamed of her weakness. She was -even admitting nowadays a liking for the idea that Stilson could and -would rule her. And she was not at all sure that the reason for this -revolutionary liking was the reason she gave herself--that he would not -ask her to do anything until he was sure she was willing to do it. - -Two days after she wrote her refusal, Stilson sent for her. At first -glance she saw that he was a bearer of evil tidings. And in the next -she saw what the evil tidings were--that he had penetrated her secret -and his own self-deception, and was remorseful, aroused, determined to -put himself out of her life. - -“You have refused your offer from Burnham?” He drew down his brows and -set his jaw, as if he expected a struggle. - -“Yes--I prefer to stay here. I have reasons.” She felt reckless. She -was eager for an opportunity to discuss these “reasons.” - -“You must accept.” - -“_I?--Must?_” She flushed and put her face up haughtily. - -“Yes--I ask it. The position will soon be an advancement. And you -cannot stay here.” - -“How do you know about this offer--so much about it?” - -“I got it for you when--when I found that you must go.” - -She looked defiance. She saw an answering look of suffering and appeal. - -“Why?” she said, in a low voice. “Why?” - -“For two reasons,” he replied. “I may tell you only one--Gammell. He -will find a way to injure you. I know it. It would be folly for you to -stay.” - -“And the other reason?” - -He did not answer, but continued to look steadily at her. - -“I--I--understand,” she murmured at last, her look falling before his, -and the colour coming into her face, “I will go.” - -“Thank you.” He bowed with a courtesy that suggested the South in -the days before the war. He walked beside her to the elevator. His -shoulders were drooped as if under a heavy burden. His face was white -and old, and its deep lines were like scars. - -“Down, ten!” he called into the elevator-shaft as the car shot past on -the up-trip. Soon the descending car stopped and the iron door swung -back with a bang. - -The door closed, she saw him gazing at her; and that look through -the bars of the elevator door, haunted her. She had seen it in his -face once before, though not so strongly,--when she said good-bye to -him as she was going away to Paris. But where else had she seen it? -Weeks afterward, when she was talking to Mrs. Parrott of something -very different, there suddenly leaped to the surface of her mind a -memory--the public square in a mountain town, a man dead upon the -stones, another near him, dying and turning his face toward the shelter -whence he had come; and in his face the look of farewell to _the_ woman. - -“What is it, dear? Are you ill this morning?” asked Mrs. Parrott. - -“Not--not very,” answered Emily brokenly, and she vanished into her -office and closed its door. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -A MAN AND A “PAST.” - - -HAD Emily and Stilson been idlers or of those workers who look upon -work as a curse, they would have taken one of two courses. Either -Stilson would have repudiated his obligations and they would have -rushed together to hurry on to what would have been for them a moral -catastrophe, or they would have remained apart to sink separately into -mental and physical ruin. As it was, they worked--steadily, earnestly, -using their daily routine of labour to give them strength for the fight -against depression and despair. - -Stilson, with the tenacity of purpose that made life for him one long -battle, fought hopelessly. To him hope seemed always only the delusive -foreshadow of oncoming disappointment, a lying messenger sent ahead by -fate in cynical mockery of its human prey. And whenever his routine -relaxed its compulsion, he laid himself on the rack and tortured -himself with memories and with dreams. - -Emily was aided by her temperament. She loved life and passionately -believed in it. She was mentally incapable of long accepting an adverse -decree of destiny as final. But at best it was a wintry light that -hope shed--between storms--upon her heart. Her chief source of courage -was her ideal of him--the strong, the brave, the inflexible. “Forgive -me!” she would say, humbling herself before his image in her mind after -her outbursts of protest or her attacks of despondency. “I am not -worthy of you. But oh,--I want you--need you--_so_!” - -Within a short time it was apparent that from the professional -standpoint she had done well in going to the _World of Women_. After -the newspaper, the magazine seemed play. In the _Democrat_ office she -had not been looked upon as extraordinary. Here they regarded her as a -person of amazing talent--for a woman. They marvelled at her energy, -at her quickness, at her flow of plans for articles and illustrations. -And without a hint from her they raised her salary to what she had been -getting, besides accepting proposals she made for several articles to -be written by herself. - -They were especially delighted with her management of “the old -lady”--the only name ever given Mrs. Parrott when she was out of -hearing. She patronised Emily in a motherly way, and Emily submitted -like a dutiful daughter. She accepted Emily’s suggestions as her own. -“My dear,” she said one day, “I’m so glad I’ve got you here to help me -put my ideas through. I’ve been suggesting and suggesting in vain for -years.” And Emily looked grateful and refused to respond to the sly -smile from Mr. Burnham who had overheard. - -Emily did not under-estimate Mrs. Parrott’s usefulness to her. In -thirty years of experience as a writer and an editor, “the old lady” -had accumulated much that was of permanent value, as well as a mass of -antiquated or antiquating trash. Emily belonged to the advance guard -of a generation that had small reverence for the “prim ideals of the -past.” Mrs. Parrott knew the “provincial mind,” the magazine-reading -mind, better than did Emily--or at least was more respectful of its -ideas, more cautious of offending its notions of what it believed or -thought it ought to believe. And often when Emily through ignorance -or intolerance would have “gone too far” for any but a New York -constituency, Mrs. Parrott interposed with a remonstrance or a -suggestion which Emily was acute enough to appreciate. She laughed at -these “hypocrisies” but--she always had circulation in mind. She liked -to startle, but she knew that she must startle in ways that would -attract, not frighten away. - -But conscientious though she was in her work, and careful to have her -evenings occupied, she was still forlorn. Life was purposeless to her. -She was working for self alone, and she who had never cared to excess -for self, now cared nothing at all. In her own eyes her one value was -her value to Stilson. She reproached herself for what seemed to her -a low, a degrading view, traversing all she had theretofore preached -and tried to practice. But she had only to pause to have her heart -aching for him and her thoughts wandering in speculations about him or -memories of him. - -Her friends--Joan, Evelyn, Theresa--wondered at the radical changes in -her, at her abstraction, her nervousness, her outbursts of bitterness. -She shocked Joan and Evelyn, both now married, with mockeries at -marriage, at love, at every sentiment of which they took a serious -view. One day--at Joan’s, after a tirade against the cruelty, -selfishness, and folly of bringing children into the world--she -startled her by snatching up the baby and burying her face in its -voluminous skirts and bursting into a storm of sobs and tears. - -“What is it, Emmy?” asked Joan, taking away the baby as he, recovering -from his amazement, set up a lusty-lunged protest against such conduct -and his enforced participation therein. - -Emily dried her eyes and fell to laughing as hysterically as she had -wept. “Poor baby,” she said. “Let me take him again, Joan.” And she -soon had him quiet, and staring at a large heart-shaped locket which -she slowly swung to and fro just beyond the point, or rather, the cap, -of his little lump of a nose. “I’m in a bad way, Joan,” she went on. “I -can’t tell you. Telling would do no good. But my life is in a wretched -tangle, and I don’t see anything ahead but--but--tangles. And as I -can’t get what I want, I won’t take anything at all.” - -“You are old enough to know better. Your good sense teaches you that if -you did get what you want, you’d probably wish you hadn’t.” - -“That’s the trouble,” said Emily, shaking her head sadly at the baby. -“My good sense in this case teaches me just the reverse. I’ve seen a -man--a real man this time--_my_ man morally, mentally, physically. He’s -a man with a mind, and a heart, and what I call a conscience. He’s been -through--oh, everything. And error and suffering have made him what he -is--a man. He’s a man to look up to, a man to lean upon, a man to--to -care for.” Her expression impressed Joan’s skepticism. “Do you wonder?” -she said. - -“No.” Joan looked away. “But--forget--put him out of your life. You are -trying to--aren’t you?” - -“To forget? No--I can’t even try. It would be useless. Besides, who -wants to forget? And there’s always a _chance_.” - -“At least”--Joan spoke with conviction--“you’re not likely to _do_ -anything--absurd.” - -“That’s true--unfortunately. _I_ couldn’t be trusted. I’m afraid. -But--” Emily’s laugh was short and cynical--“my man can.” - -“He must be a--a sort of prig.” Joan felt suspicious of a masculine -that could stand out against the temptation of such a feminine as her -adored Emily. - -“See! Even you couldn’t be trusted. But no, he’s not a prig--just plain -honourable and decent, in an old-fashioned way that exasperates me--and -thrills me. That’s why I say he’s a man to lean upon and believe in.” - -Emily felt better for having talked with some one about him and went -away almost cheerful. But she was soon down again, and time seemed -only to aggravate her unhappiness. “I must be brave,” she said. “But -why? Why should I go on? He has Mary--I have nothing.” And the great -dread formed in her mind--the dread that he was forgetting her. If -not, why did he not seek her out, at least reassure himself with his -own eyes that she was still alive? And she had to look steadily at her -memory-pictures, at his eyes, and the set of his jaw, to feel at all -hopeful that he was remembering, was living his real life for her. - - * * * * * - -Three weeks after Emily’s departure, on a Thursday night, Stilson -left his assistant in charge and went home at eleven. As he entered -his house--in West Seventy-third street near the river--he saw -strange wraps on the table in the entrance-hall, heard voices in the -drawing-room. He went on upstairs. As he was hurrying into evening -dress he suddenly paused, put on a dressing-gown, and went along the -hall. He gently turned the knob of a door at the end and entered. There -was a dim light, as in the hall, and he could at once make out all the -objects in the room. - -He crossed to the little bed, and stood looking down at Mary--her -yellow hair in a coil on top of her head, one small hand clinched and -thrust between the pillow and her cheek, the other lying white and limp -upon the coverlid. He stood there several minutes without motion. When -he reappeared in the bright light of his dressing-room, his face was -calm, a complete change from its dark and drawn expression of a few -minutes before. - -He was soon dressed, and descended to the drawing-room. Like the hall, -like the whole house, like its mistress, this room was rather gaudy, -but not offensive or tasteless. The most conspicuous objects in its -decoration were two pictures. One was a big photograph of a slim, -ethereal-looking girl--the dancer he had loved and married. She was -dressed to reveal all those charms of youth apparently just emerging -from childhood--a bouquet of budding flowers fresh from the garden in -the early morning. The other was a portrait of her by a distinguished -artist--the face and form of the famous dancer of the day. The face -was older and bolder, with the sleepy sensuousness and sadness that -characterised her now. The neck and arms were bare; and the translucent -and clinging gown, aided by the pose, offered, yet refused, a view of -every line of her figure. - -Marguerite was sitting almost under the portrait; on the same sofa was -Victoria Fenton, looking much as when Stilson first met her--on her -trip to America in the autumn in which Emily returned from Paris. She -still had to the unobservant that charm of “the unawakened”--as if -there were behind her surface-beauty not good-natured animalism, but a -soul awaiting the right conjurer to rouse it to conscious life. - -Marlowe was seated on the arm of a chair, smoking a cigarette. He was -dressed carefully as always, and in the latest English fashion. He had -an air of prosperity and contented indifference. His once keen face -was somewhat fat and, taken with his eyes and mouth, suggested that -his wife’s cardinal weakness had infected him. Stilson was late and -they went at once to supper--Marlowe and Miss Fenton had been invited -for supper because that was the only time convenient for all these -night-workers. - -“You are having a great success?” said Stilson to Victoria. She was -exhibiting at the Lyceum in one of Joan’s plays which had been partly -rewritten by Marlowe. - -“Yes--the Americans are good to me--so generous and friendly,” replied -Victoria. “Of course the play is poor. I couldn’t have done anything -with it if George hadn’t made it over so cleverly.” - -Stilson smiled. Banning, the dramatic critic, had told him that her -part was beyond Miss Fenton, and that only her stage-presence and -magnetic voice saved her from failure. “You players must have a -mournful time of it with these stupid playwrights,” he said with safe -sarcasm. - -“You can’t imagine!” Victoria flung out her long, narrow white hand in -a stage-gesture of despair. “And they are so ungrateful after we have -created their characters for them and have given them reputation and -fortune.” - -Stilson noted that Marlowe was listening with a faint sneer. His -manner towards his wife was a surface-politeness that too carelessly -concealed his estimate of her mental limitations. Stilson’s manner -toward “Miss Feronia”--he called her that more often than he called -her Marguerite--was almost distant courtesy, the manner of one who -tenaciously maintains an impenetrable wall between himself and another -whose relations to him would naturally be of the closest intimacy. And -while Victoria was self-absorbed, obviously never questioning that her -husband was her admirer and devoted lover, Marguerite was nervously -attentive to Stilson’s words and looks, at once delighted and made -ill-at-ease by his presence. - -Her eyes were by turns brilliant and stupidly dull. Either a stream -of words was issuing from between her shut teeth or her lids were -drooped and she seemed to be falling asleep. Marlowe recognised the -morphine-eater and thought he understood why Stilson was gloomy and -white. Victoria ate, Marguerite talked, and the two men listlessly -smoked. At the first opportunity they moved together and Marlowe began -asking about the _Democrat_ and his acquaintances there. - -“And what has become of Miss Bromfield?” he asked, after many other -questions. - -“She’s gone to a magazine,” replied Stilson, his voice straining to be -colourless. But Marlowe did not note the tone and instantly his wife -interrupted: - -“Yes, what has become of Miss Bromfield--didn’t I hear George asking -after her? You know, Mr. Stilson, I took George away from her. Poor -thing, it must have broken her heart to lose him.” And she vented her -empty affected stage-laugh. - -Colour flared in the faces of both the men, and Stilson went to the -open fire and began stirring it savagely. - -“Pray don’t think I encouraged my wife to that idea,” Marlowe said, -apparently to Marguerite. “It’s one of her fixed delusions.” - -Victoria laughed again. “Oh, Kilboggan told me all about you two--in -Paris and down at Monte Carlo. He hears everything. I forgot it until -you spoke her name. ‘Pasts’ don’t interest me.” - -Marlowe flushed angrily and his voice was tense with convincing -indignation as he said, “I beg you, Victoria, not to put Miss Bromfield -in this false light. No one but a--a Kilboggan would have concocted and -spread such a story about such a woman.” - -His tone forbade further discussion, and there was a brief, embarrassed -silence. Then Marguerite went rattling on again. Stilson came back -to the table and lit a cigarette with elaborate and deliberate care. -Marlowe continued to stare to the front, his face expressionless, but -his eyes taking in Stilson’s expression without seeming to do so. -They were talking again presently, but each was constrained toward -the other. Marlowe knew that Stilson was suspecting him, but, beyond -being flattered by the tribute to his former “gallantry,” he did not -especially care--had he not said all that he honourably could say? -Emily, not he, had insisted upon secrecy. - -As for Stilson, his brain seemed to be submerged in a plunge of boiling -blood. Circumstances of Marlowe’s and Emily’s relations rose swiftly -one upon another, all linking into proof. “How can I have been so -blind?” he thought. - -The Marlowes did not linger after supper. Marguerite went to bed and -Stilson shut himself in his own suite. He unlocked and opened a drawer -in the table in his study. He drew from under several bundles of -papers the sketch of Emily which the _Democrat_ had reproduced with -her despatch from the Furnaceville strike. He looked contempt and hate -at the dreamy, strong yet sweet, young face. “So you are Marlowe’s -cast-off?” he said with a sneer. “And I was absurd enough--to believe -in you--in any one.” - -He flung the picture into the fire. Then he sat in the big chair, his -form gradually collapsing and his face taking on that expression of -misery which seemed natural to its deep lines and strong features. - -“And when Mary grows up,” he said aloud, “no doubt she too--” But he -did not clearly finish the thought. He shrank ashamed from the stain -with which he in his unreasoning anguish had smirched that white -innocence. - -After a while he reached into the fireplace and took from the dead -coals in the corner the cinder of the picture. Very carefully he drew -it out and dropped it into an envelope. That he sealed and put away in -the drawer. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -TWO AND A TRIUMPH. - - -BUT Stilson’s image of her was no longer clear and fine; and in certain -lights, or, rather, shadows, it seemed to have a sinister unloveliness. -He assured himself that he felt toward her as before. But--he respected -her with a reservation; he loved her with a doubt; he believed in -her--did he believe in her at all? He was continually regilding his -idol, which persistently refused to retain the gilt. - -After many days and many nights of storms he went to the Park one -morning, and for two hours,--or, until there was no chance of her -coming--he walked up and down near the Seventy-second street entrance. -He returned the second morning and the third. As he was pacing -mechanically, like a sentry, he saw her--her erect, graceful figure, -her red-brown hair that grew so beautifully about her brow and her -ears; then her face, small and delicate, the skin very smooth and -pale--circles under her violet eyes. At sight of him there came a -sudden gleam from those eyes, like, an electric spark, and then a look -of intense anxiety. - -“You are ill?” she said, “Or there is some trouble?” - -“I’ve been very restless of late--sleeping badly,” he replied, -evasively. “And you?” - -They had turned into a side path to a bench where they would not be -disturbed. They looked each at the other, only to look away instantly. -“Oh, I’ve worked too hard and--I fancy I’ve been too much alone.” Emily -spoke carelessly, as of something in the past that no longer matters. - -“Alone,” he repeated. “Alone.” When his eyes met hers, neither could -turn away. And on a sudden impulse he caught her in his arms. “My dear, -my dear love,” he exclaimed. And he held her close against him and -pressed her cheek against his. - -“I thought you would never come,” she murmured. “How I have reproached -you!” - -He only held her the closer for answer. And there was a long pause -before he said: “I can’t let you go. I can’t. Oh, Emily, my Emily--yes, -mine, mine--I’ve loved you so long--you know it, do you not? You’ve -been the light of the world to me--the first light I’ve seen since I -was old enough to know light from darkness. And when you go, the light -goes. And in the dark the doubts come.” - -“Doubts?” she said, drawing away far enough to look at him. “But how -can you doubt? You must _know_.” - -“And I _do_ know when I see you. But when I’m in the dark and breathing -the poison of my own mind--Forgive me. Don’t ask me to explain, but -forgive me. Even if I had the right to be here, the right to say what -I’ve been saying, still I’d be unfit. How you would condemn me, if you -knew.” - -“I don’t wish to know, dear, if you’d rather not tell me,” she said -gently. “And you have a right to be here. And no matter what you have -been or are, I’d not condemn you.” Her voice sank very low. “I’d still -love you.” - -“You’d have had to live my life to know what those last words mean to -me,” he said, “how happy they make me.” - -“But I know better than you think,” she answered. “For my life has not -been sheltered, as are the lives of most women. It has had temptations -and defeats.” - -He turned his eyes quickly away, but not so quickly that she failed -to catch the look of fear in them. “What are you thinking?” she asked -earnestly. “Dear, if there are doubts, may they not come again? I saw -in your eyes just then--what was it?” - -“Do not ask me. I must fight that alone and conquer it.” - -“No--you must tell me,” she said, resolutely. “I feel that I have a -right to know.” - -“It was nothing--a lie that I heard. I’d not shame myself and insult -you by repeating it.” - -He looked at her appealingly, saw that she was trembling. “You know -that I did not believe it?” he said, catching her hand. But she drew -away. - -“Was it about me and--Marlowe?” she asked. - -“But I knew that it was false,” he protested. - -She looked at him unflinchingly. “It was true,” she said. “We -were--everything--each to the other.” - -He sat in a stupor. At last he muttered: “Why didn’t you deceive me? -Doubt was better than--than this.” - -“But why should I? I don’t regret what I did. It has helped to make me -what I am.” - -“Don’t--don’t,” he implored. “I admit that that is true. But--you are -making me suffer--horribly. You forget that I love you.” - -“Love!” There was a strange sparkle in her eyes and she raised her head -haughtily. “Is _that_ what you call _love_?” And she decided that she -would wait before telling him that she had been Marlowe’s wife. - -“No,” he answered, “it is not what I call love. But it is a part of -love--the lesser part, no doubt, but still a part. I love you in all -the ways a man can love a woman. And I love you because you are a -complete woman, capable of inspiring love in every way in which a woman -appeals to a man. And it hurts me--this that you’ve told me.” - -“But you, your life, what you’ve been through--I honour you for it, -love you the more for it. It has made me know how strong you are. I -love you best for the battles you’ve lost.” - -“Yes,” he said. “I know that those who have lived and learned and -profited are higher and stronger than the innocent, the ignorant. But I -wish--” He hesitated, then went on doggedly, “I’d be lying to you if I -did not say that I wish I did not know this.” - -“Then you’d rather I had deceived you--evaded or told a falsehood.” - -“No,” he said with emphasis, and he looked at her steadily and proudly. -“I can’t imagine you telling me a falsehood or making any pretense -whatever. At least I can honestly say that after the first purely -physical impulse of anger, I didn’t for an instant suspect you of any -baseness. And whenever an ugly thought about you has shown itself in my -mind, it has been--choked to death before it had a chance to speak.” - -“I know that,” she said, “I know it, dear.” And she put her hand on his. - -“And--I wouldn’t have you different from what you are. You are a -certain kind of human being--_my_ kind--the kind I admire through and -through--yes, through and through. And--you are the only one of the -kind in all this world, so far as I have seen. I don’t care by what -processes you became what you are. You say you love me for the battles -I’ve lost. Honestly, would you like to hear, even like to have me tell -you, in detail, all that I’ve been through? Aren’t you better satisfied -just to know the results?” - -“Yes,” she admitted, and she remembered how she had hated Marguerite -Feronia that day at the Astor House, how she never saw a lithograph of -her staring from a dead wall or a bill board or a shop window that she -did not have a pang. - -“Then how can you blame me?” he urged. - -“I--I guess--I don’t,” she said with a little smile. - -“But I blame myself,” he went on. “I--yes, I, the immaculate, arraigned -you at the bar for trial and----” - -“Found me guilty and recommended me to the mercy of the court?” - -“No--not quite so bad as that,” he replied. “But don’t think I’m not -conscious of the colossal impudence of the performance--one human being -sitting in judgment on another!” - -“It’s done every minute,” she said cheerfully. “And we make good judges -of each other. All we have to do is to look inside ourselves, and we -don’t need to listen to the evidence before saying ‘Guilty.’ But what -was the verdict at my trial?” - -“It hadn’t gone very far before we changed places--you became the -accuser and I went into the prisoner’s pen. And I could only plead -guilty to the basest form of that base passion, jealousy. I couldn’t -deny that you were noble and good, that it was unthinkable that you -could be guilty of anything low. I was compelled to admit that if you -had been--married--” - -“Was any evidence admitted on that point?” she asked with a sly smile -at the corners of her mouth. - -“No,” he said, then gave her a quick, eager glance. At sight of the -quizzical expression in her eyes, he blushed furiously but did not -look away. - -“You know,” he said, and he put his arm about her shoulders, “that I -love you in the way you wish to be loved. I don’t deny that I’m not -very consistent. My theory is sound, but--I’m only a human man, and I’d -rather my theory were not put to the test in your case.” - -“But it has been put to the test,” she replied, “and it has stood the -test.” And then she told him the whole story. - -He called her brave. “No one but you, only you, would have had the -courage to end it when you did--away off there, alone.” - -“I thought it was brave myself at the time,” she said. “Then afterwards -I noticed that it would have taken more courage to keep on. Any woman -would have freed herself if she had been independent as I was, and with -no conventionalities to violate.” - -Stilson said thoughtfully after a pause: “It did not enter my head that -you had been married. And even now, the fact only makes the whole thing -more vague and unreal.” - -“It took two minutes to be married,” replied Emily, “and less to be -divorced--my lawyer wrote proudly that it was a record-breaking case -for that court, though I believe they’ve done better elsewhere in -Dakota.” - -“What a mockery!” - -“Oh, I don’t think so. The marriage isn’t made by the contract and the -divorce isn’t made by the court. The mere formalities that recognise -the facts may be necessary, but they can’t be too brief.” - -“But it sets a bad example, encourages people to take flippant views of -serious matters.” - -“I wonder,” said Emily doubtingly, “do the divorced people set so bad -an example as those who live together hating each the other, degrading -themselves, and teaching their children to quarrel. And haven’t -flippant people always been flippant, and won’t they always continue to -be?” - -“It may be so, but men and women ought to know what they are about -before they--” Stilson paused and suddenly remembered. “I shan’t finish -that sentence,” he said, with a short laugh. “I don’t know what you -know about me, and I don’t want to. I can’t talk of my affairs where -they concern other people. But I feel that I must----” - -“You need not, dear,” said Emily. “I think I understand how you are -situated. And--I--I--Well, if the time ever comes when things are -different, then--” She dropped her serious tone--“Meanwhile, I’m ‘by -the grace of God, free and independent’ and----” - -“I love you,” he said, the hot tears standing in his eyes as he kissed -her hand. “Ever since the day you came back from the mines, I’ve known -that I loved you. And ever since then, it’s been you, always you. The -first thought in the morning, the last thought at night, and all day -long whenever I looked up--you, shining up there where I never hope to -reach you. Not shining _for_ me, but, thank God, shining _on_ me, my -Emily.” - -“And now--I’ve come down.” She was laughing at him in a loving way. -“I’m no longer your star but--only a woman.” - -“_Only_ a woman!” He drew a long breath and his look made her blood -leap and filled her with a sudden longing both to laugh and to cry. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -WHERE PAIN IS PLEASURE. - - -THAT fall and winter Emily and Stilson met often in the walk winding -through the Park from Seventy-second street to the Plaza. Usually it -was on Wednesday morning--his “lazy day”; always it was “by accident.” -Each time they separated they knew they were soon to meet again. But -the chance character of their meetings--once in a while they did miss -each the other--maintained a moral fiction which seemed to them none -the less vital to real morals because it was absurd. - -What with their work and meetings to look forward to and meetings to -look back upon, time did not linger with them. Often they were happy. -Rarely were they miserable, and then, instead of yielding to despair -and luxuriating in grief and woe, they fought valiantly to recover the -tranquillity which would enable them to enjoy what they might have and -to be mutually helpful. They were not sentimental egotists. They would -have got little sympathy from those who weep in theatres and blister -the pages of tragic fiction. Neither tried to pose before the other or -felt called upon to tickle his own and the other’s vanity with mournful -looks and outbursts. They loved not themselves, but each the other. - -They suffered much in a simple, human way--not the worked-up anguish -of the “strong situation,” but just such lonely heartaches as visit -most lives and make faces sober and smiles infrequent and laughter -reluctant, as early youth is left behind. And they carefully hid their -suffering each from the other with the natural considerateness of -unselfish love. - -Once several weeks passed in which she did not “happen” to meet him. -She grew rapidly melancholy and resentful of the narrowness of the -sources and limits of her happiness. “He is probably ill--very ill,” -she thought, “And how outside of his life I am! I could not go to him, -no matter what was happening.” She called up the _Democrat_ office on -the telephone at an hour when he was never there. The boy who answered -said he was out. “When will he be in?” “I cannot tell you. He has been -away for several days.” “Is he ill?” she ventured. No, he was not -ill--just away on business. - -She read in the _Evening Post_ the next night that Marguerite Feronia -was still confined to the house, suffering with nervous prostration. -“She has been ill frequently during the past year,” said the _Post_ -“and it is reported that it will be long before she returns to the -stage, if ever.” Emily at once understood and reproached herself for -her selfishness. What must Stilson be enduring, shut in with the -cause and centre of his wretchedness--that unfortunate woman through -whom he was expiating, not his crimes but his follies. “How wicked -life is,” she thought bitterly. “How intelligent its malice seems. To -punish folly more severely than crime, and ignorance more savagely than -either--it is infamous!” And as she brooded over his wrecked life and -her aloneness, her courage failed her. “It isn’t worth while to go on,” -she said. “And I ask so little--such a very little!” - -When she met him in the Park again, his face was as despondent as hers. -They went to a bench in one of the by-paths. It was spring, and the -scene was full of the joyous beginnings of grass and leaves and flowers -and nests. - -“Once there was a coward,” he began at last. “A selfish coward he -was. He had tumbled down his life into ruins and was sitting among -them. And another human being came that way. She was brave and strong -and had a true woman’s true soul--generosity, sympathy, a beautiful -uncondescending compassion. And this coward seized her and tried to -chain her among his ruins. He gave nothing--he had nothing to give. -He took everything--youth, beauty, a splendid capacity for love and -happiness.” He paused. “Oh, it was base!” he burst out. “But in the end -he realised and--he has come to his senses.” - -“But she would not go,” said Emily softly. - -“He drove her away,” he persisted. “He saw to it that she went back to -life and hope. And when she saw that he would have her go, she did not -try to prevent him from being true to his better self. She went for his -sake.” - -“But listen to _me_,” she said. “Once there was a woman, young in -years, but compelled to learn a great deal very quickly. And fate gave -her four principal teachers. The first taught her to value freedom and -self-respect--taught it by almost costing her both. The second taught -her that love is more than being in love with love--and that lesson -almost cost her her happiness for life. The third teacher taught her -that love is more than a blind, reckless passion. And then, just when -she could understand it, perhaps just in time to prevent the third -lesson from costing her her all--then came,” she gave him a swift, -vivid glance “her fourth teacher. He taught her love, what it really -is--that it is the heart of a life. The heart of her life.” - -He was not looking at her, but his eyes were shining. - -“Then,” she went on, “one day this man--unselfishly but, oh, so -blindly--told the woman that because fate was niggard, he would no -longer accept what he might have, would no longer let her have what -meant life to her. He said: ‘Go--out into the dark. Be alone again.’” - -She paused and turned toward him. “He thought he was just and kind,” -she said. “And he _was_ brave; but not just or kind. He was blind -and--cruel; yes, very cruel.” - -“It can’t be true,” he said. “No--it is impulse--pity--a sacrifice.” - -She saw that his words were addressed to himself in reproach for -listening to her. “It was unworthy of him,” she went on, “unworthy of -his love for her. How could he imagine that only he knew what love -is--the happiness of its pain, almost happier than the happiness of its -joy? Why should I have sought freedom, independence, if not in order -that I may use my life as I please, use it to win--and keep--the best?” - -“I don’t know what to think,” he said uncertainly. “You’ve made it -impossible for me to do as I intended--at present.” - -Emily’s spirits rose--in those days the present was her whole horizon. -“Don’t be selfish,” she said in a tone of raillery. “Think of me, once -in a while. And _please_ try to think of me as capable of knowing my -own mind. I don’t need to be told what I want.” - -“I beg your pardon,” he said with mock humility. “I shall never be so -impertinent again.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -THE HIGHWAY OF HAPPINESS. - - -EMILY often rebelled. Her common sense was always catching her at -demanding, with the irrational arrogance of human vanity, that the -course of the universe be altered and adjusted to her personal desires. -But these moods came only after she and Stilson had not been together -for a longer time than usual. When she saw him again, saw the look in -his eyes--love great enough to deny itself the delight of expression -and enjoyment--she forgot her complaints in the happiness of loving -such a man, of being loved by him. “It might be so much worse, -unbearably worse,” she thought. “I might lose what I have. And then how -vast it would seem.” - -Stilson always felt the inrush of a dreary tide when they separated. -One day the tide seemed to be sweeping away his courage. Unhappiness -behind him in the home that was no longer made endurable by Mary’s -presence, now that her mother’s condition compelled him to keep her at -the convent; contention, the necessity of saying and doing disagreeable -things, ahead of him at the office--“I have always been a fool,” he -thought, “a sentimental fool. No wonder life lays on the lash.” But he -gathered a bundle of newspapers from the stand at Fifty-ninth Street -and Madison Avenue and, seating himself in the corner of the car, -strapped on his mental harness and began to tug and strain at his daily -task--“like a dumb ox,” he muttered. - -He was outwardly in his worst mood--the very errand boy knew that it -was not a good day to ask favours. A man to whom he had loaned money -came in to pay it and, leaving, said: “God will bless you.” Stilson sat -staring at a newspaper. “God will bless me,” he repeated bitterly. “I -shall have some new misfortune before the day is over.” - -And late that afternoon a boy brought him a note--he recognised the -handwriting of the address as Marguerite’s. “The misfortune,” he -thought, tearing it open. He read: - - This won’t be delivered to you until I’m out at sea. I’m going - abroad. You’ll not see me again. I’m only in the way--a burden to you - and a disgrace to Mary. You’ll find out soon enough how I’ve gone, - without my telling you. Perhaps I’m crazy--I never did have much - self-control. But I’m gone, and gone for good, and you’re left free - with your beloved Mary. - - I know you hate me and I can’t stand feeling it any longer. I - couldn’t be any more miserable, no, nor you either. And we may both - be happier. I never loved anybody but you--I suppose I still love - you, but I must get away where I won’t feel that I’m always being - condemned. - - Don’t think I’m blaming you--I’m not so crazy as that. - - Try to think of me as gently as--no, don’t think of me--forget - me--teach Mary to forget me. I’m crying, Robert, as I write this. But - then I’ve done a lot of that since I realised that not even for your - sake could I shake off the curse my father put on me before I was - born. - - Good-bye, Robert. Good-bye, Mary. I put the ring--the one you gave - me when we were married--in the little box in the top drawer of your - chiffonière where you keep your scarf-pins. I hope I shan’t live - long. If I had been brave, I’d have killed myself long ago. - - Good-bye, - - MARGUERITE. - -One sentence in her letter blazed before his mind--“You’ll find out -soon enough how I’ve gone, without my telling you.” What did she mean? -In her half-crazed condition had she done something that would be -notorious, would be remembered against Mary? He pressed the electric -button. “Ask Mr. Vandewater to come here at once, please,” he said to -the boy. Vandewater, the dramatic news reporter, hurried in. “I’m about -to ask a favour of you, Vandewater,” he said to him, “and I hope you’ll -not speak of it. Do you know any one at the Gold and Glory--well, I -mean?” - -“Mayer, the press agent, and I are pretty close.” - -“Will you call him up and ask him--tell him it’s personal and -private--what he knows about Miss Feronia’s movements lately. Use this -telephone here.” - -At “Miss Feronia,” Vandewater looked conscious and nervous. Like all -the newspaper men, he knew of the “romance” in Stilson’s life, and, -like many of the younger men, he admired and envied him because of the -fascinating mystery of his relations with the famous dancer. - -The Gold and Glory was soon connected with Stilson’s branch-telephone -and he was impatiently listening to Vandewater’s part of the -conversation. Mayer seemed to be saying a great deal, and Vandewater’s -questions indicated that it was an account of some unusual happening. -After ten long minutes, Vandewater hung up the receiver and turned to -Stilson. - -“I--I--it is hard to tell you, Mr. Stilson,” he began with mock -hesitation. - -“No nonsense, please.” Stilson shook his head with angry impatience. “I -must know every fact--_every_ fact--and quickly.” - -“Mayer says she sailed on the _Fürst Bismarck_ to-day--that -she’s--she’s taken a man named Courtleigh, an Englishman--a young -fellow in the chorus. Mayer says she sent a note to the manager, -explaining that she was going abroad for good, and that Courtleigh came -smirking in and told the other part. He says Courtleigh is a cheap -scoundrel, and that her note read as if she were not quite right in her -head.” - -“Yes--and what’s Mayer doing? Is he telling everybody? Is he going to -use it as an advertisement for the house?” - -Vandewater hesitated, then said: “He’s not giving it to the afternoon -papers. He’s writing it up to send out to-night to the morning papers.” - -“Um!” Stilson looked grim, savage. “Go up there, please, and do your -best to have it suppressed.” - -“Yes.” Vandewater was swelling with mystery and importance. “You may -rely on me, Mr. Stilson. And I shall respect your confidence.” - -“I assume that you are a gentleman,” Stilson said sarcastically. He had -taken Vandewater into his confidence because he had no choice, and he -had little hope of his being able to hold his tongue. “Thank you. Good -day.” - -As soon as he was alone he seated himself at the telephone and began -calling up his friends or acquaintances in places of authority on the -newspapers, morning and evening. Of each he made the same request--“If -a story comes in about Marguerite Feronia, will you see that it’s put -as mildly as possible, if you must print it?” And from each he got an -assurance that the story would be “taken care of.” When he rose wearily -after an hour of telephoning, he had done all that could be done to -close the “avenues of publicity.” He locked the door of his office and -flung himself down at his desk, and buried his face in his arms. - -In a series of mournful pictures the progress of Marguerite to -destruction flashed across his mind, one tragedy fading into the next. -Youth, beauty, joyousness, sweetness, sensibility, fading, fading, -fading until at last he saw the wretched, broken, half-insane woman -fling herself headlong from the precipice, with a last despairing -glance backward at all that her curse had stripped from her. - -And the tears tore themselves from his eyes. The evil in her was -blotted out. He could see only the Marguerite who had loved him, had -saved him, who was even now flying because to her diseased mind it -seemed best for her to go. “Poor girl!” he groaned. “Poor child that -you are!” - - * * * * * - -Emily, on her way downtown the next morning in an “L” train, happened -to glance at the newspaper which the man in the next seat was reading. -It was the _Herald_, and she saw a two-column picture of Marguerite. -She read the bold headlines: “Marguerite Feronia, ill. The Gold and -Glory’s great dancer goes abroad, never to return to the stage or the -country.” - -She left the train at the next station, bought a _Herald_ and read: - - Among the passengers on the Fürst Bismarck yesterday was Marguerite - Feronia, who for more years than it would be kind to enumerate has - fascinated the gilded youth that throng the Gold and Glory nightly. - Miss Feronia has been in failing health for more than a year. Again - and again she has been compelled to disappoint her audiences. At last - she realised that she was making a hopeless fight against illness and - suddenly made up her mind to give up. She told no one of her plans - until the last moment. In a letter from the steamship to the manager - of the Gold and Glory she declared that she would never return and - that she did not expect to live long. - -The account was brief out of all proportion to the headlines, and -to the local importance of the subject. Emily went at once to the -newspaper files when she reached her office. In no other paper was -there so much as in the _Herald_. She could find no clue to the mystery. - -“At least he is free,” she thought. “And that is the important point. -At least he is free--_we_ are free.” - -Although she repeated this again and again and tried to rouse herself -to a sense of the joy it should convey, she continued in a state of -groping depression. - -Toward three o’clock came a telegram from Stilson--“Shall you be at -home this evening? Most anxious to see you. Please answer, _Democrat_ -office.” She telegraphed for him to come, and her spirits began to -rise. At last the dawn! At last the day! And her eyes were sparkling -and she was so gay that her associates noted it, and “the old lady” -confided to Mr. Burnham that she “had been wondering how much longer -such a sweet, beautiful girl would have to wait before some man would -have the sense to propose to her.” Nor was she less gay at heart when -Stilson was shown into her little drawing-room, although she kept it -out of her face--Marguerite’s departure might have been sad. - -“I saw it in the _Herald_,” she began. - -“Then I needn’t tell you.” He seemed old and worn and gray--nearer -fifty than thirty-five. “I’ve come to say good-bye.” - -Emily looked at him, stupefied. They sat in silence a long time. At -last he spoke: “I may be gone--who can say how long? Perhaps it will -be best to keep her over there. I don’t know--I don’t know,” he ended -drearily. - -Again there was a long silence. She broke it: “You--are--going--to--to -join her?” She could hardly force the words from her lips. - -He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. What else can I do?” - -Emily sank back in her chair and covered her face. - -“What is it?” he asked. “What did you--why, you didn’t think I would -desert her?” - -“Oh--I--” She put her face down into the bend of her arm. “I -didn’t--think--you’d desert _me_,” she murmured. “I--I didn’t -understand.” She faced him with a swift movement. “How can you go?” -she exclaimed. “When fate clears the way for you--when this woman who -had been hanging like a great weight about your neck suddenly cuts -herself loose--then--Oh, how can you? Am I nothing in your life? Is my -happiness nothing to you? Have you been deceiving yourself about her -and--and me?” She turned away again. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” -she said brokenly. “I don’t mean to reproach you--only--I had--I had -hoped--That’s all.” - -The French clock on the mantel raised its swift little voice until the -room seemed to be resounding with a clamorous reminder of flying time -and flying youth and dying hope. When he spoke, his voice came as if -from a great distance and out of a great silence and calm. - -“It has been eleven years,” he said, “since in folly and ignorance I -threw myself into the depths--how deep you will never know, you can -never imagine. And as I lay there, a thing so vile that all who knew me -shrank from me with loathing--_she_ came. And she not only came, but -she staid. She did her best to lift me. She staid until I drove her -away with curses and--and blows. But she came again--and again. And at -last she brought the--the little girl----” - -He paused to steady his voice. “And I took the hand of the child and -she held its other hand, and together we found the way back--for me. -And now--she has gone out among strangers--enemies--gone with her mind -all awry. She will be robbed, abused, abandoned, she will suffer cold -and hunger, and she will die miserably--if I don’t go to her.” - -He went over and stood beside her. “Look at me!” he commanded, and she -obeyed. “Low as the depth was from which she brought me up, it would be -high as heaven in comparison with the depth I’d lie in, if I did not -go. And I say to you that if you gave me the choice, told me you would -cut me off from you forever if I went--I say to you that still I would -go!” - -As she faced him, her breath came fast and her eyes seemed to widen -until all of her except them was blotted out for him. “I understand,” -she said. “Yes--you would go--nothing could hold you. And--that’s why -I--love you.” - -He gave a long sigh of relief and joy. “I had thought you would say -that, when I knew what I must do. And then--when you protested--I was -afraid. Everything crumbles in my hands. Even my dreams die aborning.” - -“When do you sail?” she asked. “To-morrow?” - -“Yes. I’ve arranged my affairs. I--I look to you to take care of Mary. -There is no one else to do it.” - -“If there were, no one else should do it,” she said, with a gentle -smile. - -He gave her a slip of paper on which were the necessary memoranda. “And -now--I must be off.” He tried to make his tone calm and business-like. -He put out his hand and, when she gave him hers, he held it. For an -instant each saw into the depths of the other’s heart. - -“No matter how long you may be away,” she said in a low voice, -“remember, I shall be--” She did not finish in words. - -He tried to speak, but could not. He turned and was almost at the door -before he stopped and came back to her. He took her in his arms, and -she could feel his heart beating as if it were trying to burst through -his chest. “No matter how long,” she murmured. “And I shall not be -impatient, my love.” - - * * * * * - -She expected a reaction but none came. Instead, she continued to feel -a puzzling tranquillity. She had never loved him so intensely, yet she -was braving serenely this separation full of uncertainties. She tried -to explain it to herself, and finally there came to her a phrase which -she had often heard years ago at church--“the peace that passeth all -understanding.” - -“This must be what they meant by it,” she said to herself. “Our love is -my religion.” - -The next time she was at Joan’s they were not together long before Joan -saw that there had been a marvellous change in her. “What is it?” she -asked. “Has the tangle straightened?” - -“No,” replied Emily. “It is worse, if anything. But I have made a new -discovery, I have found the secret of happiness.” - -“Love?” - -Emily shook her head. “That’s only part of it.” - -“Self-sacrifice?” - -“I shouldn’t call it sacrifice.” Emily’s face was more beautiful than -Joan had ever before seen it. “I think the true name is--self forgotten -for love’s sake.” - -“Yes,” assented Joan, looking with expanding eyes at the baby-boy -playing on the floor at her feet. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -LIGHT. - - -AFTER a long and baffling search up and down through western Europe -he learned that Courtleigh had robbed her and deserted her, and that -she was alone, under the name of Mrs. Brandon, at a tiny house in -Craven street near the Strand. He lifted and dropped its knocker, -and a maid-of-all-work thrust through a crack in the door, her huge -be-frowzled head with its thin hair drawn out at the back over a big -wire-frame. - -“How is Mrs. Brandon?” he said. - -“Not so well, thank you, sir,” replied the maid, looking at him as -suspiciously as her respect for the upper classes permitted. - -“I wish to see the landlady.” - -She instantly appeared, thrusting the maid aside and releasing a rush -of musty air as she opened the door wide. She was fairly trembling with -curiosity. - -“I am Mrs. Brandon’s--next friend,” he said, remembering and using the -phrase which in his reporter days he had often seen on the hospital -entry-cards. “I am the guardian of her child. I’ve come to see what can -be done for her.” - -His determined, commanding tone and manner, and his appearance of -prosperity, convinced Mrs. Clocker. “We’ve done all we could, sir. But -the poor lady is in great straits, sir. She’s been most unfortunate.” - -“Is there a physician?” - -“Doctor Wackle, just up the way, sir.” - -“Send for him at once. May I see her?” - -The maid set off up the street and Stilson climbed a dingy first -flight, a dingier second flight, and came to a low door which sagged -far from its frame at the top. He entered softly--“She’s asleep, sir,” -whispered Mrs. Clocker. - -It was a miserable room where the last serious attempts to fight -decay had been made perhaps half a century before. It now presented -queer contrasts--ragged and tottering furniture strewn with handsome -garments; silk and lace and chiffon and embroidery, the latest Paris -devisings, crumpled and tossed about upon patch and stain and ruin; -several extravagant hats and many handsome toilet-articles of silver -and gold and cut glass spread in a fantastic jumble upon the dirty -coverings of a dressing-table and a stand. Against the pillow--its case -was neither new nor clean--lay the head of Marguerite. Her face was -ugly with wrinkles and hollows, that displayed in every light and shade -a skin shiny with sweat, and bluish yellow. Her hair was a matted mass -from which had rusted the chemicals put on to hide the streaks of gray. -She was in a stupor and was breathing quickly and heavily. - -He had come, filled with pity and even eager to see her. He was ashamed -of the repulsion which swept through him. Her face recalled all that -was horrible in the past, foreboded new and greater horrors. He turned -away and left the room. His millstone was once more suspended from his -neck. - -Dr. Wackle had come--a shabby, young-old man with thin black whiskers -and damp, weak lips. In a manner that was a cringing apology for his -own existence, he explained that Marguerite had pneumonia--that she -was dangerously ill. He had given her up, but the prospect of payment -galvanised hope. “There is a chance, sir,” he said. “And with----” - -“What is the name and address of the best specialist in lung diseases?” -he interrupted. - -“There’s Doctor Farquhar in Half Moon Street, sir. He ’as been called -by the royal family, sir.” - -“Take a cab and bring him at once.” - -While Wackle was away, Stilson arranged Marguerite’s account with the -landlady and had some of his belongings brought from the Carlton and -put into the vacant suite just under Marguerite’s. After two hours Dr. -Farquhar came; at his heels Wackle, humble but triumphant. Stilson -saw at one sharp glance that here was a man who knew his trade--and -regarded it as a trade. - -“What is your consultation fee?” - -Dr. Farquhar’s suspicious face relaxed. “Five guineas,” he said, -looking the picture of an English middle-class trader. - -Stilson gave him the money. He carefully placed the five-pound note -in his pocket-book and the five shillings in his change-purse. “Let -me see the patient,” he said, resuming the manner of the small soul -striving to play the part of “great man.” Stilson led the way to the -sagged, hand-grimed door. Farquhar opened it and entered. “This foul -air is enough to cause death by itself,” he said with a sneering glance -at Wackle. “No--let the window alone!”--this to Wackle in the tone a -brutal master would use to his dog. - -Wackle stood as if petrified and Farquhar went to the head of the bed. -Marguerite opened her eyes and closed them without seeing anything. -He laid his hand upon her forehead, then flung away the covers and -listened at her chest. “Umph!” he grunted and with powerful hands -lifted her by the shoulders. Grasping her still more firmly he shook -her roughly. Again he listened at her chest. “Umph!” he growled. He -looked into her face which was now livid, then shook her savagely and -listened again. He let her drop back against the pillows and tossed -the covers over her. He took up his hat which lay upon a silk-and-lace -dressing gown spread across the foot of the bed. He stalked from the -room. - -“Well?” said Stilson, when they were in the hall. - -The great specialist shrugged his shoulders. “She may last ten -hours--but I doubt it. I can do nothing. Good day, sir.” And he jerked -his head and went away. - -Stilson stood in the little hall--Wackle, the landlady and the -maid-of-all-work a respectful group a few feet away. His glance -wandered helplessly round, and there was something in his expression -that made Wackle feel for his handkerchief and Mrs. Clocker and the -maid burst into tears. Stilson went stolidly back to Marguerite’s room. -He paused at the door, turned and descended. “Can you stay?” he said to -Wackle. “I will pay you.” - -“Gladly, sir. I’ll wait here with Mrs. Clocker.” - -Stilson reascended, entered the room and again stood beside Marguerite. -With gentle hands he arranged her pillow and the covers. Then he seated -himself. An hour--two hours passed--he was not thinking or feeling; -he was simply waiting. A stir in the bed roused him. “Who is there?” -came in Marguerite’s voice, faintly. “Is it some one? or am I left all -alone?” - -“What can I do, Marguerite?” Stilson bent over her. - -She opened her eyes, without surprise, almost without interest. “You?” -she said. “Now they won’t dare neglect me.” - -Her eyelids fell wearily. Without lifting them she went on: “How did -you find me? Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m so tired--too tired to -listen.” - -“Are you in pain?” he asked. - -“No--the cough seems to be gone. I’m not going to get well--am I?” She -asked as if she did not care to hear the answer. - -He sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked her forehead. She -smiled and looked at him gratefully. “I feel so--so safe,” she said. -“It is good to have you here. But--oh, I’m so, so tired. I want to -rest--and rest--and rest.” - -“I’ll sit here.” He took her hand. “You may go to sleep. I’ll not leave -you.” - -“I know you won’t. You always do what you say you’ll do.” She ended -sleepily and her breath came in swift, heavy sighs with a rattling -in the throat. But she soon woke again. “I’m tired,” she said. -“Something--I guess it’s life--seems to be oozing out of my veins. I’m -so tired, but so comfortable. I feel as if I were going to sleep and -nobody, nothing would ever, ever wake me.” - -He thought she was once more asleep, until she said suddenly: “I was -going to write it, but my head whirled so--he stole everything but -some notes I had in my stocking. But I don’t care now. I don’t forgive -him--I just don’t care. What was I saying--yes--about--about Mary. -She’s yours as well as mine, Robert--really, truly, yours. I made you -doubt--because--I don’t know--partly because I thought you’d be better -off without us--then, afterward, I didn’t want you to care any more for -her than you did. You believe me, Robert?” - -He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you.” - -“And you forgive me?” - -“There’s nothing to forgive--nothing.” - -“It doesn’t matter. I only want to rest and stop -thinking--and--and--everything. Will it be long?” - -“Not long,” he said in a choked undertone. - -Presently she coughed and a black fluid oozed hideously from her lips -and seemed to be threatening to strangle her. He called the doctor who -gave her an opiate. - -“Come with me, sir,” said Wackle in a hoarse, sick-room whisper, “Mrs. -Clocker has spread a nice cold lunch for you.” - -Stilson waved him away. Alone again, he swept the finery from the -sofa and stretched himself there. Trivial thoughts raced through his -burning brain--the height and width of the candle flames, the pattern -of the wall paper, the tracery of cracks in the ceiling, the number of -yards of lace and of goods in the dresses heaped on the floor. As his -thoughts flew from trifle to trifle, his head ached fiercely and his -skin felt as if it were baking and cracking. - -Then came a long sigh and a rattling in the throat from the woman in -the bed. He started up. “Marguerite!” he called. He looked down at her. -She sighed again, stretched herself at full length, settled her head -into the pillow. “Marguerite,” he said. And he bent over her. “Are you -there?” he whispered. But he knew that she was not. - -He took the candle from the night stand and held it above his head. The -dim flame made his living face old and sorrow-seamed, while her dead -face looked smooth, almost young. Her expression of rest, of peaceful -dreams, of care forever fled, brought back to him a far scene. He could -hear the crash of the orchestra, the stirring rhythm of a Spanish -dance; he could see the stage of the Gold and Glory as he had first -seen it--the bright background of slender, girlish faces and forms; and -in the foreground, slenderest and most girlish of all, Marguerite--the -embodiment of the motion and music of the dance, the epitome of the -swift-pulsing life of the senses. - -He knelt down beside the bed and took her dead hand. “Good-bye, Rita,” -he sobbed. “Good-bye, good-bye!” - - * * * * * - -Suddenly the day broke and the birds in the eaves began to chirp, to -twitter, to sing. He rose, and with the sombre and clinging shadows of -the past and the present there was mingled a light--faint, evasive, as -yet itself a shadow. But it was light--the forerunner of the dawn of a -new day upon a new land where his heart should sing as in the days of -his youth. - - -THE END. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN VENTURES *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Woman Ventures</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: David Graham Phillips</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrator: William James Hurlbut</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 8, 2022 [eBook #67130]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN VENTURES ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_frontispiece.jpg" alt="" /></div> -<p class="caption">EMILY.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>A WOMAN<br /> -VENTURES</h1> - -<p><span class="xlarge"><i>A NOVEL</i></span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> -<span class="large">DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS</span></p> - -<p>AUTHOR OF<br /> -THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF<br /> -JOSHUA CRAIG, THE HUSBAND’S STORY, ETC.</p> - -<p>WITH FRONTISPIECE BY<br /> -<span class="large">WILLIAM JAMES HURLBUT</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p><span class="large">GROSSET & DUNLAP</span><br /> -PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1902,<br /> -By Frederick A. Stokes Company</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i></p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[v]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS.</h2> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - -<tr><td class="tdr"><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td> </td><td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">I.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Shipwreck</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Desert Island</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_8"> 8</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Sail—Ho!</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_16"> 16</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Black Flag</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_23"> 23</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Penitent Pirate</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_31"> 31</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Changed Crusoe</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_39"> 39</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Back to the Mainland</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_45"> 45</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Among a Strange People</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57"> 57</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">An Orchid Hunter</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67"> 67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">X.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Further Exploration</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_79"> 79</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Seen from a Barricaded Window</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_93"> 93</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Rise and a Fall</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_101"> 101</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Compromise with Conventionality</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_112"> 112</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td><td> “<span class="smcap">Everything Awaits Madame</span>”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_120"> 120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Flickering Fire</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_126"> 126</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Embers</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_138"> 138</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Ashes</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_152"> 152</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVIII.</td><td> “<span class="smcap">The Real Tragedy of Life</span>”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_167"> 167</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Emily Refuses Consolation</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_176"> 176</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Bachelor Girls</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_185"> 185</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A “Married Man”</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_199"> 199</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Precipice</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_213"> 213</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A “Better Self”</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_225"> 225</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIV.</td><td> <span class="smcap">To the Test</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_238"> 238</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXV.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Mr. Gammell Presumes</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_248"> 248</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Truth about a Romance</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_257"> 257</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">[vi]</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVII.</td><td> “<span class="smcap">In Many Moods</span>”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_269"> 269</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Forced Advance</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_278"> 278</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Man and a “Past”</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_288"> 288</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Two and a Triumph</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_299"> 299</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Where Pain is Pleasure</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_308"> 308</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Highway of Happiness</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_313"> 313</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Light</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_324"> 324</a></td></tr> -</table> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> - -<p class="ph2"><span class="u">A Woman Ventures.</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I.<br /> - - -<small>THE SHIPWRECK.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WENTWORTH Bromfield was mourned -by his widow and daughter with a -depth that would have amazed him.</p> - -<p>For twenty-one years he had been -an assistant secretary in the Department -of State at Washington—a rather conspicuous -position, with a salary of four thousand a year. Influential -relatives representing Massachusetts in the -House or in the Senate, and often in both, had enabled -him to persist through changes of administration -and of party control, and to prevail against the -“pull” of many an unplaced patriot. Perhaps he -might have been a person of consequence had he -exercised his talents in some less insidiously lazy -occupation. He had begun well at the law; but in -return for valuable local services to the party, he got -the offer of this political office, and, in what he came -to regard as a fatal moment, he accepted it. His -wife—he had just married—said that he was “going -in for a diplomatic career.” He faintly hoped so -himself, but the warnings of his common sense were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -soon verified. “Diplomatic career” proved to be -a sonorous name for a decent burial of energy and -prospects.</p> - -<p>He had drawn his salary year after year. He had -gone languidly through his brief daily routine at -the Department. He had been mildly fluttered at -each Presidential election, and again after each inauguration. -He had indulged in futile impulses to -self-resurrection, in severe attacks of despondency. -Then, at thirty-seven, he had grasped the truth—that -he would remain an assistant secretary to the -end of his days. Thenceforth aspirations and depressions -had ceased, and his life had set to a cynical -sourness. He read, he sneered, he ate, and slept.</p> - -<p>The Bromfields had a small additional income—Mrs. -Bromfield’s twelve hundred a year from her -father’s estate. This was most important, as it represented -a margin above comfort and necessity, a -margin for luxury and for temptation to extravagance. -Mr. Bromfield was fond of good dinners -and good wines, and he could not enjoy them at -the expense of his friends without an occasional return. -Mrs. Bromfield had been an invalid after the -birth of Emily, long enough to form the habit of -invalidism. After Emily passed the period when -dress is not a serious item, they went ever more -deeply into debt.</p> - -<p>While Mrs. Bromfield’s craze for doctors and -drugs was in one view as much an extravagance as -Mr. Bromfield’s club, in another view it was a valuable -economy. It made entertaining impossible; it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -enabled Emily to go everywhere without the necessity -for return hospitalities, and to “keep up appearances” -generally. Many of their friends gave -Mrs. Bromfield undeserved credit for shrewdness -and calculation in her hypochondria.</p> - -<p>Emily had admirers, and, in her first season, one -fairly good chance to marry. The matchmakers -who were interested in her—“for her mother’s sake,” -they said, but in fact from the matchmaking mania,—were -exasperated by her refusal. They remonstrated -with her mother in vain.</p> - -<p>“I know, I know,” sighed Mrs. Bromfield. “But -what can I do? Emily is so headstrong and I am -in such feeble health. I am forbidden the agitation -of a discussion. I’ve told Emily that a girl -without money, and with nothing but family, must -be careful. But she won’t listen to me.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ainslie, the most genuinely friendly of all -the women who insured their own welcome by chaperoning -a clever, pretty, popular girl, pressed the -matter upon Emily with what seemed to her an -impertinence to be resented.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be offended, child,” said Mrs. Ainslie, -replying to Emily’s haughty coldness. “You ought -to thank me. I only hope you will never regret it. -A girl without a dot can’t afford to trifle. A second -season is dangerous, especially here in Washington, -where they bring the babies out of the nursery to -marry them off.”</p> - -<p>“Why, you yourself used to call Bob Fulton one -of nature’s poor jokes,” Emily retorted. “You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -overlooked these wonderful good qualities in him -until he began to annoy me.”</p> - -<p>“Sarcasm does not change the facts.” Mrs. Ainslie -was irritated in her even-tempered, indifferent -fashion. “You think you’ll wait and look about -you. But let me tell you, my dear, precious few -girls, even the most eligible of them, have more -than one really good chance to marry. Oh, I know -what they say. But they exaggerate flirtations -into proposals. This business—yes, <i>business</i>—of -marrying isn’t so serious a matter with the men as -it is with us. And we can’t hunt; we must sit and -wait. In this day the stupidest men are crafty -enough to see through the subtlest kind of stalking.”</p> - -<p>Emily had no reply. She could think of no arguments -except those of the heart. And she felt -that it would be ridiculous to bring them into the -battering and bruising of this discussion.</p> - -<p>It was in May that she refused her “good -chance.” In June her father fell sick. In mid-July -they buried him and drove back from the cemetery -to face ruin.</p> - -<p>Ruin, in domestic finance, has meanings that -range from the borderland of comedy to the blackness -beyond tragedy.</p> - -<p>The tenement family, thrust into the street and -stripped of their goods for non-payment of rent, -find in ruin an old acquaintance. They take a certain -pleasure in the noise and confusion which their -uproarious bewailing and beratings create throughout -the neighbourhood. They enjoy the passers-by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> -pausing to pity them, a ragged and squalid group, -homeless on the curb. They have been ruined -many times, will be ruined many times. They are -sustained by the knowledge that there are other -tenements, other “easy-payment” merchants. A -few hours, a day or two at most, and they are completely -reëstablished and are busy making new -friends among their new neighbours, exchanging -reminiscences of misfortune and rumours of ideal -“steady jobs.”</p> - -<p>The rich family suddenly ruined has greater -shock and sorrow. But usually there are breaks in -the fall. A son or a daughter has married well; -the head of the family gets business opportunities -through rich friends; there is wreckage enough to -build up a certain comfort, to make the descent -into poverty gradual, almost gentle.</p> - -<p>But to such people as the Bromfields the word -<i>ruin</i> meant—ruin. They had not had enough to -lose to make their catastrophe seem important to -others; indeed, the fact that a little was saved made -their friends feel like congratulating them. But the -ruin was none the less thorough. They were shorn -of all their best belongings—all the luxury that was -through habit necessity. They must give up the -comfortable house in Connecticut Avenue, where -they had lived for twenty years. They must leave -their associations, their friends. They must go to -a New England factory village. And there they -would have a tiny income, to be increased only by -the exertions of two women, one a helpless hypochondriac,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -both ignorant of anything for which any one -would give pay. And this cataclysm was -wrought within a week.</p> - -<p>“Fate will surely strike the finishing blow,” -thought Emily, as she wandered drearily through -the dismantling house. “We shall certainly lose -the little we have left.” And this spectre haunted -her wakeful nights for weeks.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bromfield was not a “family man.” He had -left his wife and home first to the neglect of servants, -and afterward to the care of his daughter. -As Emily grew older and able to judge his life-failure, -his vanity, his selfishness—the weaknesses of -which he was keenly conscious, he saw or fancied -he saw in her clear eyes a look that irritated him -against himself, against her, and against his home. -He was there so rarely that the women never took -him into account. Yet instead of bearing his death -with that resigned fortitude which usually characterises -the practical, self-absorbed human race in its -dealings with the inevitable, they mourned him day -and night.</p> - -<p>After one of his visits of business and consolation, -General Ainslie returned home with tears in his -eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is wonderful, wonderful!” he said in his -“sentimental” voice—a tone which his wife understood -and prepared to combat. She liked his sentimental -side, but she had only too good reason to deplore -its influence upon his judgment.</p> - -<p>“What now?” she inquired.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>“I’ve been to see Wentworth’s widow and daughter. -It was most touching, Abigail. He always -neglected them, yet they mourn him in a way that -a better man might envy.”</p> - -<p>“Mourn him? Why, he was never at home. -They hardly knew him.”</p> - -<p>“Yet I have never seen such grief.”</p> - -<p>“Grief? Of course. But not for him. They -don’t miss him; they miss his salary—his four thousand -a year. And that’s the kind of grief you can’t -soothe. The real house of mourning is the house -that’s lost its breadwinner.”</p> - -<p>General Ainslie looked uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember that Chinese funeral we saw -at Pekin, George?” his wife continued. “Do you -remember the widows in covered cages dragging -along behind the corpse—and the big fellow with -the prod walking behind each cage? And whenever -the widows stopped howling, don’t you remember -how those prods were worked until the response -from inside was satisfactory?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but—really, I must say, Abbie——”</p> - -<p>“Well, George—poverty is the prod. No wonder -they mourn Wentworth.”</p> - -<p>General Ainslie looked foolish. “I guess I won’t -confess,” he said to himself, “that it was this afternoon -I told the Bromfields they had only five hundred -a year and the house in Stoughton. It would -encourage her in her cynicism.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II.<br /> - - -<small>THE DESERT ISLAND.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THREE months later—August, September, -and October, the months of -Stoughton’s glory—gave Emily Bromfield -a minute acquaintance with all -that lay within her new horizon. She -was as familiar with Stoughton as Crusoe with his -island—and was in a Crusoe-like state of depression. -She thought she had found the lowest despond of -which human nature is capable on the day she -saw the top of the Washington monument disappear, -saw the last of the city of her enjoyments and -her hopes. But now she dropped to a still lower -depth—that depth in which the heart becomes a -source of physical discomfort, the appetite fails, -the brain sinks into a stupor and the health begins -to decline.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so blue, Emmy,” Mrs. Ainslie had -said at the station as they were leaving Washington. -“Nothing is as bad as it seems in advance. -Even Stoughton will have its consolations—though -I must confess I can’t think what they could be at -this distance.”</p> - -<p>But the proverb was wrong and Stoughton as a -reality was worse than Stoughton as a foreboding.</p> - -<p>At first Emily was occupied in arranging their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -new home—creeper-clad, broad of veranda and -viewing a long sloping lawn where the sun and the -moon traced the shadows of century-old trees. She -began to think that Stoughton was not so bad after -all. The “best people” had called and had made -a good impression. Her mother had for the moment -lifted herself out of peevish and tearful grief, -and had ceased giving double weight to her daughter’s -oppressive thoughts by speaking them. But -illusion and delusion departed with the departing -sense of novelty.</p> - -<p>Nowhere does nature do a kindlier summer work -than in Stoughton. In winter the trees and gardens -and lawns, worse than naked with their rustling -or crumbling reminders of past glory, expose -the prim rows of prim houses and the stiff and dull -life that dozes behind their walls. In winter no one -could be deceived as to what living in Stoughton -meant—living in it in the sense of being forced there -from a city, forced to remain permanently.</p> - -<p>But in summer, nature charitably lends Stoughton -a corner of the gorgeous garment with which -she adorns its country. The sun dries the muddy -streets and walks, and the town slumbers in comfort -under huge trees, whose leaves quiver with what -seems to be the gentle joy of a quiet life. The -boughs and the creepers conspire to transform hideous -little houses into crystallised songs of comfort -and content. The lawns lie soft and green and -restful. The gardens dance in the homely beauty -of lilac and hollyhock and wild rose. Those who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -then come from the city to Stoughton sigh at the -contrast of this poetry with the harsh prose of city -life. They wonder at the sombre faces of the old -inhabitants, at the dumb and stolid expression of -youth, at the fierce discontent which smoulders in -the eyes of a few.</p> - -<p>But if they stay they do not wonder long. For -the town in the bare winter is the real town the -year round. The town of summer, tricked out in nature’s -borrowed finery, is no more changed than was -the jackdaw by his stolen peacock plumes. The -smile, the gaiety, is on the surface. The prim, -solemn old heart of Stoughton is as unmoved as -when the frost is biting it.</p> - -<p>In the first days of November Emily Bromfield, -walking through the wretched streets under bare -black boughs and a gray sky, had the full bitterness -of her castaway life forced upon her. She felt as if -she were suffocating.</p> - -<p>She had been used to the gayest and freest society -in America. Here, to talk as she had been used -to talking and to hearing others talk, would have -produced scandal or stupefaction. To act as she -and her friends acted in Washington, would have -set the preachers to preaching against her. There -was no one with whom she could get into touch. -She had instantly seen that the young men were -not worth her while. The young women, she felt, -would meet her advances only in the hope of getting -the materials for envious gossip about her.</p> - -<p>“It will be years,” she said to herself, “before I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -shall be able to narrow and slacken myself to fit -this place. And why should I? Of what use -would life be?”</p> - -<p>She soon felt how deeply Stoughton disapproved -of her, chiefly, as she thought, because she did not -conceal her resentment against its prying and peeping -inquiry and its narrow judgments. She was -convinced that but for her bicycle and her books -she would go mad. Her ever-present idea, conscious -or sub-conscious, was, “How get away from -Stoughton?” A hundred times a day she repeated -to herself, or aloud in the loneliness of her room, -“How? how? how?” sometimes in a frenzy; again, -stupidly, as if “how” were a word of a complex -and difficult meaning which she could not grasp.</p> - -<p>But there was never any answer.</p> - -<p>She had formerly wished at times that she were -a man. Now, she wished it hourly. That seemed -the only solution of the problem of her life—that, -or marriage. And she felt she might as hopefully -wish the one as the other.</p> - -<p>Year by year, with a patience as slow and persevering -as that of a colony of coral insects, Stoughton -developed a small number of youth of both -sexes. Year by year the railroads robbed her of her -best young men, leaving behind only such as were -stupid or sluggard. Year by year the young women -found themselves a twelvemonth nearer the fate of -the leaves which the frost fails to cut off and disintegrate. -For a few there was the alternative of -marrying the blighted young men—a desperate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -adventure in the exchange of single for double or -multiple burdens.</p> - -<p>Some of the young women rushed about New -England, visiting its towns, and finding each town a -reproduction of Stoughton. Some went to the -cities a visiting, and returned home dazed and -baffled. A few bettered themselves in their quest; -but more only increased their discontent, or, marrying, -regretted the ills they had fled. Those who -married away from home about balanced those who -were deprived of opportunities to marry, by the -girl visitors from other towns, who caught with -their new faces and new man-catching tricks the -Stoughton eligible-ineligibles.</p> - -<p>At twenty a Stoughton girl began to be anxious. -At twenty-five, the sickening doubt shot its anguish -into her soul. At thirty came despair; and rarely, -indeed, did despair leave. It was fluttered sometimes, -or pretended to be; but, after a few feeble -flappings, it roosted again. In Stoughton “society” -the old maids outnumbered the married -women.</p> - -<p>Clearly, there was no chance to marry. Emily -might have overcome the timidity of such young -men as there were, and might have married almost -any one of them. But her end would have been -more remote than ever. It was not marriage in itself -that she sought, but release from Stoughton. And -none of these young men was able to make a living -away from Stoughton, even should she marry him -and succeed in getting him away.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>She revolved the idea of visiting her friends in -Washington. But there poverty barred the way. -She had never had so very many clothes. Now, -she could afford only the simplest and cheapest. -She looked over what she had brought with her -from Washington. Each bit of finery reminded -her of pleasures, keen when she enjoyed them, -cruelly keen in memory. The gowns were of a -kind that would have made Stoughton open its -sleepy eyes, but they would not do for Washington -again.</p> - -<p>The people she knew there were self-absorbed, -inclined to snobbishness, to patronising contemptuously -those of their own set who were overtaken by -misfortunes and could not keep the pace. They -tolerated these reminders of the less luxurious and -less fortunate phases of life, but—well, toleration -was not a virtue which Emily Bromfield cared to -have exercised toward herself. She could hear -Mrs. Ainslie or Mrs. Chesterton or Mrs. Connors-Smith -whispering: “Yes—the poor dear—it’s so -sad. I really had to take pity on her. No—not a -penny—I even had to send her the railway fares. -But I felt it was a duty people in our position owe.”</p> - -<p>And so her prison had no door.</p> - -<p>Emily kept her thoughts to herself. Her mother -was almost as content as she had been in Washington. -Did she not still have her diseases? Were -there not doctors and drug-shops? Was there not -a circulating library, mostly light literature of her -favourite innocuous kind? And did not the old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> -women who called listen far more patiently than -her Washington friends to tedious recitals of symptoms -and of the plots and scenes of novels?</p> - -<p>Emily could keep to her room or ride about the -country on her bicycle. She at least had the freedom -of her prison, and was not disturbed in her -companionship with solitude. With the bad -weather, she hid in her room more and more. She -would sit there hours on hours in the same position, -staring out of the window, thinking the same -thoughts over and over again, and finding fresh -springs of unhappiness in them each time.</p> - -<p>Occasionally she gave way to storms of grief.</p> - -<p>The day she looked over her dresses under the -stimulus of the idea of visiting Washington was -one of her worst days. As she stood with her -finery about her and a half-hope in her heart, she -recalled her Washington life—her school days, her -first season, her flirtations, the confident, arrogant -way in which she had looked forward on life. -Then came the thought that all was over, that she -could not go to Washington, that she must stay in -Stoughton—on and on and on——</p> - -<p>She grew hot and cold by turns, sank to the floor, -buried her face in the heap of cloth and lace and -silk. If the good people of Stoughton had peeped -at her they would have thought her possessed of -an evil spirit. She gnashed her teeth and tore at -the garments, her slight frame shaking with sobs of -impotent rage and despair.</p> - -<p>When she came to herself and went downstairs,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -pale and calm and cold, her mother was talking -with a woman who had come in to gossip. She -took up a book and was gone.</p> - -<p>“Your daughter is not looking well,” said Mrs. -Alcott, sourly resentful of Emily’s courteous frigidity.</p> - -<p>“Poor child!” said Mrs. Bromfield, “she takes -her father’s death <i>so</i> to heart.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III.<br /> - - -<small>SAIL—HO!</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WINTER’S swoop upon Stoughton that -year was early and savage. In her -desperate loneliness and boredom -Emily began occasionally to indulge -in the main distraction of Stoughton—church. -On a Sunday late in March she went -for the first time since Christmas. Her mother had -succumbed to the drugs and had been really ill, so -ill that Emily did not dare let herself admit the -dread of desolation which menaced. But, the crisis -past, Mrs. Bromfield had rapidly returned to her -normal state. The peril of death cowed or dignified -her into silence. When she again took up her -complainings, her daughter was reassured.</p> - -<p>As she walked the half mile to the little church, -Emily was in better spirits than at any time since -she had come to Stoughton. The reaction from -her fears had given her natural spirits of youth their -first chance to assert themselves. She found herself -hopeful for no reason, cheerful not because of benefits -received or expected, but because of calamities -averted. “I might be so much worse off,” she -was thinking. “There is mother, and there is the -income. I feel almost rich—and a little ungrateful. -I’m in quite a church-going mood.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>The walk through the cold air did her good, and -as she went up the aisle her usually pale face was -delicately flushed and she was carrying her slender -but very womanly figure with that erectness and -elasticity which made its charm in the days when -people were in the habit of discussing her prospects -as based upon her title to beauty. Her black dress -and small black hat brought out the finest effects -of her red-brown hair and violet eyes and rosy white -skin. She was, above all, most distinguished looking—in -strong contrast to the stupid faces and ill-carried -forms in “Sunday best.”</p> - -<p>Her coming caused a stir—that rustling and -creaking of garments feminine and starched, which -in the small town church always arouses the dozers -for something uncommon. She faintly smiled a -greeting to Mrs. Cockburn as she entered the pew -where that old lady was sitting. She had just -raised her head from the appearance of prayer, when -Mrs. Cockburn whispered:</p> - -<p>“Have you seen young Mr. Wayland?”</p> - -<p>Emily could not remember that she had heard of -him. But Mrs. Cockburn’s agitation demanded a -show of interest, so she whispered:</p> - -<p>“No—where is he?”</p> - -<p>She would have said, “Who is he?” but that -would have called for a long explanation. And, as -Mrs. Cockburn had a wide space between her upper -front teeth, every time she whispered the letter <b>s</b> -the congregation rustled and the minister was disconcerted.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>“There,” whispered Mrs. Cockburn. “Straight -across—don’t look now, for he’s looking at us—straight -across to the other side two pews forward.”</p> - -<p>When they rose for the hymn, Emily glanced and -straightway saw the cause of Mrs. Cockburn’s -excitement. He was a commonplace-looking young -man with a heavy moustache. His hair was parted -in the middle and brushed back carefully and -smoothly. He was dressed like a city man, as -distinguished from the Stoughton man who, little -as he owed to nature, owed even less to art as -exploited by the Stoughton tailors.</p> - -<p>Young Mr. Wayland would not have attracted -Emily’s attention in a city because he was in no way -remarkable. But in Stoughton he seemed to her -somewhat as an angel might seem to a Peri wandering -in outer darkness. When she discovered him -looking at her a few moments later, and looking -with polite but interested directness, she felt herself -colouring. She also felt pleased—and hopeful in -that fantastic way in which the desperate dream of -desperate chances.</p> - -<p>After the service she stood talking to Mrs. -Cockburn, affecting an unprecedented interest in a -woman whom she liked as little—if as much—as any -in Stoughton. Her back was toward the aisle but -she felt her “sail-ho,” coming.</p> - -<p>“He’s on his way to us,” said Mrs. Cockburn -hoarsely—she had been paying no attention to -what Emily had been saying to her, or to her own<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -answers. She now pushed eagerly past Emily to -greet the young man at the door of the pew.</p> - -<p>“Why, I’m so glad to see you again, Mr. Wayland,” -she said with a cordiality that verged on -hysteria. “It has been a long time. I’m afraid -you’ve forgotten an old woman like me.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, Mrs. Cockburn,” replied Wayland, -who had just provided himself with her name. “It’s -been only four years, and you’ve not changed.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Cockburn saw his eyes turn toward Emily -and introduced him. Emily was not blushing now, -or apparently interested. She seemed to be simply -waiting for her path to be cleared.</p> - -<p>“I felt certain it was you,” began young Wayland, -a little embarrassed. He made a gesture as if to -unbutton his long coat and take something from his -inside pocket, then seemed to change his mind. -“I’ve a note of introduction to you, that is to your -mother—Mrs. Ainslie, you know. But I heard that -your mother was ill. And I hesitated about coming.”</p> - -<p>“Mother is much better.” Emily was friendly, -but not effusive. “I am sure she—both of us—will -be glad to see a friend of Mrs. Ainslie.”</p> - -<p>She smiled, shook hands with him, gave him a -fascinating little nod, submitted to a kiss on the -cheek from Mrs. Cockburn and went swiftly and -gracefully down the aisle. Wayland looked after -her with admiration. He had been in Stoughton -three weeks and was profoundly bored.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Cockburn was also looking after her, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -disapprovingly. “A nice young woman in some -ways,” she said. “But she carries her head too -high for the plain people here.”</p> - -<p>“She’s had a good deal of trouble, I’ve heard,” -Wayland answered, not committing himself.</p> - -<p>The next morning Mrs. Bromfield got a letter -from Mrs. Ainslie. It was of unusual length for -Mrs. Ainslie, who was a bird-of-passage that rarely -paused long enough for extended communication.</p> - -<p>“I never could get used to that big, angular -handwriting,” said Mrs. Bromfield to her daughter. -“Won’t you read it to me, please?”</p> - -<p>Emily began at “My Dear Frances” and read -steadily through, finding in the postscript four -sentences which should have begun the letter of so -worldly-wise a woman: “Don’t on any account let -Emily see this. You know how she acted about -Bob Fulton. She ought to have learned better by -this time, but I don’t trust her. Be careful what -you say to her.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ainslie was urging the opportunity offered -by the sojourn of young Wayland in Stoughton. -“Emily will have a clear field,” she wrote. “He’s -got money in his own right—millions when his -father dies—and he’s a good deal of a fool—dissipated, -I hear, but in a prudent, business-like way. -It’s Emily’s chance for a resurrection.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bromfield was made speechless by the postscript. -Emily sat silent, looking at the letter on -the table before her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>“Don’t be prejudiced against him, dear,” pleaded -her mother.</p> - -<p>“I imagine it doesn’t matter in the least what I -think of him,” Emily replied. She rose and left the -room, sending back from the doorway a short, queer -laugh that made her mother feel how shut out she -was from what was going on in her daughter’s mind.</p> - -<p>If she could have seen into that small, ethereal-looking -head she would have been astounded at the -thoughts boiling there. Emily had been bred in an -atmosphere of mercenary or, rather, “practical” -ideas. But she was also a woman of sound and -independent mind, in the habit of thinking for herself, -and with strong mental and physical self-respect. -She would have hesitated to marry unwisely -for love. But she had been far from that state of -self-degradation in which a young woman deliberately -and consciously closes her heart, locks the -door and flings the key away. Now however, the -deepest instinct of the human animal—the instinct -of self-preservation—was aroused in her. It seemed -to her that an imperative command had issued from -that instinct—a command at any cost to flee the -living death of Stoughton.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That same afternoon Mrs. Bromfield learned—without -having to ask a question—all that Stoughton -knew about the Waylands: They were the -pride of the town and also its chief irritation. It -gloried in them because it believed that the report -of their millions was as clamourous throughout the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -nation as in its own ears. It was exasperated -against them, because it believed that they ought to -live in Stoughton and be content with a life which -it thought, or thought it thought, desirable above -life in any other place whatsoever.</p> - -<p>So as long as Mrs. Wayland lived, the family had -spent at least half of each year there; and Stoughton, -satisfied on that point, disliked them for other -reasons, first of all for being richer than any one -else. When Mrs. Wayland died, leaving an almost -grown daughter and a son just going into trousers, -General Wayland had put the girl in school at -Dobbs Ferry-on-the-Hudson, the boy in Groton, -had closed the house and made New York his residence. -The girl died two years after the death of -her mother. The boy went from Groton to Harvard, -from Harvard to his father’s business—the -Cotton Cloth Trust. The Wayland homestead, the -most considerable in Stoughton with its two wings -built to the original square house, with its conservatories -and its stables, was opened for but a few -weeks each winter. And then it was opened only -in part—to receive the General on his annual business -visit to the factories of the Stoughton Cotton -Mills Company, the largest group in the “combine.” -Sometimes he brought Edgar. But Edgar gave the -young women of Stoughton no opportunities to -ensnare him. He kept to his work and departed at -the earliest possible moment. This year he had -come alone, as his father had now put him in charge -of their Stoughton interests.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV.<br /> - - -<small>A BLACK FLAG.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">UNTIL Wayland saw Emily at church he -had no intention to seize the opportunity -which Mrs. Ainslie’s disinterested -kindliness had made for him. Ever -since he left the restraint of the “prep.” -school for Harvard, with a liberal allowance and -absolute freedom, women had been an important -factor in his life; and they were still second only to -money-making. But not such women as Emily -Bromfield.</p> - -<p>In theory he had the severest ideas of woman. -Practically, his conception of woman’s sphere was -not companionship or love or the family, not either -mental or sentimental, but frankly physical. And -something in that element in Emily’s personality—perhaps -the warmth of her beauty of form in contrast -to the coldness of her beauty of face—made -it impossible for this indulgent and self-indulgent -young man to refrain from seeking her out. He -was close with his money in every way except where -his personal comfort or amusement was concerned. -There he was generous to prodigality. And when -he learned how poor the Bromfields were and how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -fiercely discontented Emily was in her Stoughton -prison-cell, he decided that the only factor in the -calculation was whether or not on better acquaintance -his first up-flaring would persist.</p> - -<p>In one respect Washington society is unequalled. -Nowhere else is a girl able so quickly and at so -early an age to get so complete an equipment of -worldly knowledge. Emily’s three years under the -tutelage of cynical Mrs. Ainslie had made her nearly -as capable to see through men as are acute married -women. Following the Washington custom of -her day, she had gone about with men almost as -freely as do the girls of a Western town. And the -men whom she had thus intimately known were -not innocent, idealising, deferential Western youths, -but men of broad and unscrupulous worldliness. -Many of them were young diplomats, far from -home, without any sense of responsibility in respect -of the women of the country in which they were -sojourners of a day. They played the game of -“man and woman” adroitly and boldly.</p> - -<p>Emily understood Wayland only so far as the -clean can from theoretical experience understand -the unclean. Thus far she quickly penetrated into -his intentions toward her and his ideas of her. He -was the reverse of complex. He had not found it -necessary to employ in these affairs the craft he was -beginning to display in business, to the delight of -his father. His crude and candid method of conquest -had been successful hitherto. Failure in this -instance seemed unlikely. And there were no male<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -relatives who might bring him to an uncomfortable -accounting.</p> - -<p>Two weeks after he met Emily—weeks in which -he had seen her several times—he went to her house -for dinner. She had been advancing gradually, -in strict accordance with her plan of campaign. -Wayland had unwittingly disarmed himself and -doubly armed her by giving undue weight to her -appearance of extreme youth and golden inexperience, -and by overestimating his own and his -money’s fascinations. He had not a suspicion that -there was design or even elaborate preparation in -the vision which embarrassed and fired him as he -entered the Bromfields’ parlour. She was in a simple -black dinner gown, which displayed her arms -and her rosy white shoulders. And she had a small -head and a way of doing her hair that brought out -the charm of every curve of her delicate face. Instead -of looking cold this evening, she put into her -look and smile a seeming of—well, more than mere -liking, he thought.</p> - -<p>It happened to be one of Mrs. Bromfield’s good -days, so she rambled on, covering Wayland’s silence. -Occasionally—not too often—Emily lifted her -glance from her plate and gave the young man the -full benefit of her deep, dark, violet eyes. When -Mrs. Bromfield spoke apologisingly of the absence -of wine, he was surprised to note that he had not -missed it.</p> - -<p>But after dinner, when he was alone in the sitting-room -with Emily, he regretted that he had had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -nothing to drink. He could explain his timidity, -his inability to get near the subject uppermost in his -mind only on the ground that he had had no stimulus -to his courage and his tongue. All that day -he had been planning what he would say; yet as he -went home in his automobile, upon careful review -of all that had been said and done, he found that he -had made no progress. The conversation had been -general and not for an instant personal to her. The -only personalities had been his own rather full -account of himself, past, present and future—a rambling -recital, the joint result of his nervousness and -her encouragement.</p> - -<p>“At least she understands that I don’t intend to -marry,” he thought, remembering one part of the -conversation.</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing in marriage for me,” he had -said, after a clumsy paving of the way.</p> - -<p>“Of course not,” she had assented. “I never -could understand how a young man, situated as you -are, could be foolish enough to chain himself.”</p> - -<p>And then, as he remembered with some satisfaction, -she added the only remark she had made which -threw any light upon her own feelings and ideas: -“It would be as foolish for you to marry, as it would -be for me to refuse a chance to get out of this -dreadful place.”</p> - -<p>As he reflected on this he had no suspicion of -subtlety. It did not occur to him that she hardly -deserved credit for frankly confessing what could -not be successfully denied or concealed, or that she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -might have confessed in order to put him off his -guard, to make him think her guilelessly straightforward.</p> - -<p>A second and a third call, a drive and several long -walks; still he had done nothing to further his -scheme. He put off his return to New York, seeing -her every day, each time in a fresh aspect of beauty, -in a new mood of fascination. One night, a month -after he met her at church, he found her alone on the -wide piazza. She was in an evening dress, white, -clinging close to her, following her every movement. -He soon reached his limit of endurance.</p> - -<p>“You are maddening,” he said abruptly, stretching -out his arms to seize her. He thrust her wraps -violently away from her throat and one shoulder. -He was crushing her against his chest, was kissing -her savagely.</p> - -<p>She wrenched herself away from him, panting -with anger, with repulsion. But he thought it was -a return of his ardour, and she did not undeceive -him. “You mustn’t!” she said. “You know that -it is impossible. You must go. Good-night!”</p> - -<p>She left him and he, after waiting uncertainly a -few moments, went slowly down the drive, in a rage, -but a rage in which anger and longing were curiously -mingled. When he called the next day, she -was “not at home.” When he called again she could -not come down, she must stay beside her mother, -who had had another attack, so the servant -explained in a stammering, unconvincing manner. -He wrote that he wished to see her to say good-bye<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -as he was leaving the next day. Then he called and -she came into the parlour—“just for an instant.” -She was wearing a loose gown, open at the throat, -with sleeves falling away from her arms. Her -small feet were thrust into a pair of high-heeled red -slippers and her stockings had openwork over the -ankles. She seemed so worried about her mother -that it was impossible for him to re-open the one -subject and resume progress, as he had hoped to do. -But it was not impossible for him to think. And -Emily, anxiously watching him from behind her -secure entrenchments, noted that he was thinking -as she wished and hoped. His looks, his voice -encouraged her to play her game, her only possible -game, courageously to the last card.</p> - -<p>“If he doesn’t come back,” she thought, “at -least I’ve done my best. And I think he <i>will</i> -come.”</p> - -<p>She sent him away regretfully, but immediately, -standing two steps up the stairway in a final effective -pose. He set his teeth together and took the train for -New York. There he outdid all his previous impulses -of extravagant generosity with himself, but he could -not drive her from his mind. Those who formerly -amused him, now seemed vulgar, silly, and stale. -They made her live the more vividly in his imagination. -Business gave him no relief. At his office his -mind wandered to her, and the memory of that stolen -kiss made his nerves quiver and hot flushes course -over and through him. At the end of three weeks, -he returned to Stoughton. “I’ve let myself go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -crazy,” he thought, “I’ll see her again and convince -myself that I’m a fool.”</p> - -<p>As he neared her house, his mind became more at -ease. When he rang the bell he was laughing at -himself for having got into such a frenzy over -“nothing but a woman like the rest of ’em.” But -as soon as he saw her, he was drunk again.</p> - -<p>“I love you,” he stammered. “I can’t do without -you. Will you—will you marry me, Emily?”</p> - -<p>There was no triumph either in her face or in her -mind. She was hearing the hammer smash in the -thick walls of her prison, but she shrank from the -sound. As she looked at his commonplace, heavy-featured -face; as she listened to his monotonous -voice, with its hint of tyranny and temper; as she -felt his greedy eyes and hot, trembling fingers;—a -revulsion swept over her and left her sick with -disgust—disgust for her despicable self, loathing for -him and for his feeling for her—his “love.”</p> - -<p>“How can I?” she thought, turning away to hide -her expression from him. “How can I? And yet, -how can I refuse?”</p> - -<p>“I must have until—until this evening,” she said -in a low voice and with an effort. “I—I thought -you had gone—for good and all—and I tried to put -you out of my thoughts.”</p> - -<p>She was standing near him and he crushed her in -his arms. “You must, you must,” he exclaimed. -“I must have you.”</p> - -<p>She let him kiss her once, then pushed him away, -hiding her face in no mere pretence of modesty and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -maidenly repulsion. “This evening,” she said, -almost flying from him.</p> - -<p>She paused at the door of her mother’s sitting-room. -From it came the odor of drugs, and in it -were all the evidences of the tedious companionship -of her poverty-stricken prison life—the invalid chair -with its upholstery tattering; the worn carpet; the -wall paper stained, and in one corner giving way because -of a leak which they had no money to repair; -the table with its litter of bottles, of drug-boxes, of -patent-medicine advertisements and trashy novels; -in the bed the hypochondriac herself, old, yellow, -fat in an unhealthy way, with her empty, childish, -peevish face.</p> - -<p>Emily did not enter, but went on to her own -room—bare, cheerless, proofs of poverty and impending -rags and patches threatening to obtrude. -She looked out through the trees at the glimpses -of the town—every beat of the pulse of her youth -was a sullen and hateful protest against it. Beyond -were the tall chimneys of the mills, with the black -clouds from them smutching the sky—there lived -the work-people, the boredom of the town driving -them to brutal dissipation.</p> - -<p>“I must! I must!” she said, between her set -teeth, then sank down in the window seat and -buried her face in her arms.</p> - -<p>That evening she accepted him, and the next -morning her mother announced the engagement to -the first caller.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V.<br /> - - -<small>THE PENITENT PIRATE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WAYLAND had the commercial instinct -too strongly developed not to fear -that he was paying an exorbitant -price for a fancy which would probably -be as passing as it was powerful. -Whenever Emily was not before his eyes he was -pushing the bill angrily aside. But in the stubbornness -of self-indulgence he refused to permit himself -to see that he was making a fool of himself. If she -had not gauged him accurately, or, rather, if she -had not mentally and visibly shrunk even from the -contact with him necessary to shaking hands, he -might quickly have come to his cool-blooded senses. -But their engagement made no change in their -relations. Her mother’s illness helped her to avoid -seeing him for more than a few minutes at a time. -Her affectation of an extreme of prudery—with -inclination and policy reinforcing each the other—made -her continue to keep herself as elusive, as -tantalising to him as she had been at that dinner -when he “fell head over heels in love—” so he -described it to her. And he thoroughly approved<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -of her primness. For, to him there were only two -classes of women—good women, those who knew -nothing; bad women, those who knew and, knowing, -must of necessity feel and act as coarsely -as himself. The most of the time which he believed -she was devoting to her mother, she was -passing in her room in arguing the two questions: -“How can I give him up? How can I marry -him?”</p> - -<p>Her acute intelligence did not permit her to -deceive herself. She knew with just what kind of -man she was dealing, knew she would continue to -loathe him after she had married him, knew her -reason for marrying him was as base, if not baser, -than his reason for marrying her. “He is at least a -purchaser,” she said to herself contemptuously, -“while I am merely the thing purchased.” And -her conduct was condemned by her whole nature -except the one potent instinct of feminine laziness. -“If only I had been taught to work,” she thought -“or taught not to look down upon work! Yet how -could it be so low as this?”</p> - -<p>She felt that she might not thus degrade herself -if she had some one to consult, some one to encourage -her to recover and retain her self-respect. But -who was there? She laughed at the idea of consulting -her mother—that never strong mind, now enfeebled -to imbecility by drugs and novels. And -even if she had had a capable mother, what would -have been her advice? Would it not have been to -be “sensible” and “practical” and not fling away<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -a brilliant “chance”—wealth and distinction for herself, -proper surroundings and education for the children -that were sure to come? And would not that -advice be sound?</p> - -<p>Only arguments of “sentimentality,” of super-sensitiveness, -appeared in opposition to the urgings -of conventional everyday practice. And was not -Stoughton worse than Wayland? Could it possibly -be more provocative of all that was base in her -to live with Stoughton than to live with Wayland? -Wayland would be one of a great many elements -in her environment after the few first weeks of -marriage. If she accepted the alternative, it would -be her whole environment, in all probability for the -rest of her life.</p> - -<p>A month after the announcement of the engagement, -her mother sank into a stupor and, toward -the end of the fifth day, died. Just as her father -had been missed and mourned more than many a -father who deserved and received love, so now her -mother, never deserving nor trying to deserve love, -was missed and mourned as are few mothers who -have sacrificed everything to their children. This -fretful, self-absorbed invalid was all that Emily had -in the world.</p> - -<p>Wayland was startled when Emily threw herself -into his arms and clinging close to him sobbed and -wept on his shoulder. Sorrow often quickens into -sympathy the meanest natures. The bereaved are -amazed to find the world so strangely gentle for the -time. And Wayland for the moment was lifted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -above himself. There were tenderness, affection in -his voice and in the clasp of his arms about her.</p> - -<p>“I have no one, no one,” she moaned. “Oh, my -good mother, my dear little mother! Ah, God, -what shall I do?”</p> - -<p>“We will bear it together, dear,” he whispered. -“My dear, my beautiful girl.” And for the first -time he genuinely respected a woman, felt the -promptings of the honest instincts of manliness.</p> - -<p>His change had a profound effect upon the young -girl in her mood of loneliness and dependence. She -reproached herself for having thought so ill of him, -for having underrated his character. With quick -generosity she was at the opposite extreme; she -treated him with a friendliness which enabled him -to see her as she really was—in all respects except -the one where desperation was driving her to action -abhorrent to her normal self.</p> - -<p>As her sweetness and high-minded intelligence -unfolded before his surprised eyes, he began to -think of her as a human being instead of thinking -only of the effect of her beauty upon his senses. -He grew to like her, to regard her as an ideal -woman for a wife. But—he did not want a wife. -And as the new feeling developed, the old feeling -died away.</p> - -<p>Emily had gained a friend. But she had lost a -lover.</p> - -<p>Two weeks after her mother’s funeral, Wayland -kissed her good-night as calmly as if he had been -her brother. At the gate he paused and looked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -back at the house, already dark except in one -second-story room, where Emily’s aunt was waiting -up for her. “I am not worthy of her,” he said to -himself. “I am not fit to marry her. I should be -miserable trying to live up to such a woman. I -must get out of it.”</p> - -<p>But how? He pretended to himself that he was -hesitating because of his regard for her and her need -for him. In fact his hesitation arose from doubt -about the way to escape from this most uncongenial -atmosphere without betraying to her what a dishonourable -creature he was. And the more he -studied the difficulty, the more formidable it -seemed. This however only increased his eagerness -to escape, his alarm at the prospect of being -tied for life to moral and mental superiority.</p> - -<p>He hoped she would give him an excuse. But -as she now liked him, she was the better able to -conceal the fact that she did not love him; and had -he been far less unskilled in reading feminine character, -he would still have been deceived. Emily -was deceiving herself—almost.</p> - -<p>As soon as he felt that he could leave with decency, -he told her he must go to New York. She -had been noting that he no longer spoke of their -marriage, no longer urged that it be hastened. But -it occurred to her that he might be restrained by the -fear of distressing her when her mother had been -dead so short a time; and this seemed a satisfactory -explanation. Three days after he reached New -York he sent this letter—the result of an effort that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -half-filled the scrap-basket in a quiet corner of the -writing-room of his club:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I have been thinking over our engagement and I am convinced -that when you know my mind, you will wish it to come -to an end. I am not worthy of you. You are mistaken in me. -I could not make you happy. You are too far above me in -every way. It would be spoiling your whole life to marry you -under such false pretences. Looking back over our acquaintance, -I am ashamed of the motives which led me to make this -engagement. Forgive me for being so abrupt, but I think the -truth is best.</p> -</div> - -<p>“Pretty raw,” he thought, as he read it over. -“But it’s the truth and the truth <i>is</i> best in this case. -I can’t afford to trifle. And—what can she do?”</p> - -<p>When Emily finished reading the letter, she was -crushed. Her pride, her vanity, her future—all -stabbed in the vitals. Just when she thought herself -most secure, she was overthrown and trampled. -She could see Stoughton gloating over her—who -would have thought that Stoughton could ever reach -and touch <i>her</i>? She could see herself pinioned -there, or in some similar Castle Despair, for life.</p> - -<p>To be outwitted by such a man—and how? -She could not explain it. Her experience of ways -masculine had not been intimate enough to give her -a clue to the subtle cause of Wayland’s changed attitude. -She paced her room in fury, denouncing -him as a cur, a traitor, a despicable creature, too -vile and low for adequate portrayal in any known -medium of expression. She went over scheme after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -scheme for holding him to his promise, for bringing -him back—some of them schemes which made her -blush when she recalled them in after years. She -wrote a score of letters—long, short; bitter, pleading; -some appealing to his honour, some filled with -hypocritical expressions of love and veiling a vague -threat which she hoped might terrify him, though -she knew it was meaningless. But she tore them -up. And after tossing much and sleeping a little -she sent this answer:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Edgar</span>:</p> - -<p>Certainly, if you feel that way. But you mustn’t let any -nervousness about the past interfere with our friendship. That -has become very dear to me. The only ill luck I wish you is -that you’ll have to come to Stoughton soon. I won’t ask -you to write to me, because I know you’re not fond of writing -letters—and nothing happens here that any one would care to -hear about. My aunt is staying with me for a few months at -least. Until I see you,</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Emily</span>.</p> -</div> - -<p>“It’s of no use to make a row,” she thought. -“If anything can bring him back, certainly it is not -tears or reproaches or threats. And how appeal to -the honour of a man who has no honour?”</p> - -<p>Her mind was clear enough, but her feelings were -in a ferment. She knew that it was in some way -her fault that she had lost him. “And I deserved -to lose him,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t excuse -him or help me.”</p> - -<p>He answered promptly:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Friend</span>:</p> - -<p>How like you your letter was. If I did not know so well -how unworthy of you I am, how I would plead for the honour -of having such a woman as my wife. I wish I could look forward -to seeing you soon—but I’m going abroad on Saturday -and I shan’t return for some time. As soon as I do, I’ll -let you know. It is good of you to offer me your friendship. -I am proud to accept it. If you ever need a friend, you will -find him in</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">Yours faithfully,</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Edgar Wayland</span>.</p> -</div> - -<p>The expression of Emily’s face was anything but -good, it was the reverse of “lady-like,” as she read -this death-warrant of her last hope. “The coward!” -she exclaimed, and, as her eyes fell on the satirical -formality, “Yours faithfully,” she uttered an ugly -laugh which would have given a severe shock to -Wayland’s new ideas of her.</p> - -<p>“Fooled—jilted—left for dead,” she thought, despair -closing in, thick and black. And she crawled -into bed, to lie sleepless and tearless, her eyes burning.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI.<br /> - - -<small>A CHANGED CRUSOE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">IN the third night Emily had ten hours of the -sleep of exhausted youth. She awoke in the -mood of the brilliant July morning which -was sending sunshine and song and the odour -of honeysuckles through the rifts in the lattices -of her shutters. She was restored to her normal -self. She was able to examine her affairs calmly -in the light of her keen and courageous mind.</p> - -<p>Ever since she had been old enough to be of active -use, she had had the training of responsibility—responsibility -not only for herself, but also for her -mother and the household. She had had the duties -of both woman and man forced upon her and so had -developed capacity and self-reliance. She had read -and experienced and thought perhaps beyond the -average for girls of her age and breeding. Undoubtedly -she had read and thought more than most -girls who are, or fancy they are, physically attractive. -Her father’s caustic contempt for shallow culture, -for ignorance thinly disguised by good manners, had -been his one strong influence on her.</p> - -<p>“All my own fault,” she was saying to herself -now, as she lay propped on her elbow among her -pillows. “It was a base plan, unworthy of me. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -ought to be glad that the punishment was not worse. -The only creditable thing about it is that I played -the game so badly that I lost.” And then she smiled, -wondering how much of her new virtue was real -and how much was mere making the best of a -disastrous defeat.</p> - -<p>Why had she lost? What was the false move? -She could not answer, but she felt that it was -through ignorance of some trick which a worse -woman would have known.</p> - -<p>“Never again, never again,” she thought, “will -I take that road. What I get I must get by direct -means. Either I’m not crafty enough or not mean -enough to win in the other way.”</p> - -<p>She was singing as she went downstairs to join -her aunt. The old woman, her father’s sister who -had never married, was knitting in the shady corner -of the front porch, screened from the sun by a -great overhanging tree, and from the drive and the -road beyond, by the curtain of honeysuckles and -climbing roses. As Emily came into view, she -dropped the knitting and looked at her with disapproval -upon her thin old face.</p> - -<p>“But why, auntie?” said the girl, answering the -look. “I feel like singing. I feel so young and -well and—hopeful. You don’t wish me to play the -hypocrite and look glum and sad? Besides, the -battle must begin soon, and good spirits may be -half of it.”</p> - -<p>Her aunt sighed and looked at her with the -unoffending pity of sympathy. “Perhaps you’re<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -right, Emmy,” she said. “God knows, life is cruel -enough without our fighting to prolong its miseries. -And it does seem as if you’d had more than your -share of them thus far.” She was admiring her -beautiful niece and thinking how ill that fragile fineness -seemed fitted for the struggle which there -seemed no way of averting. “You’re almost -twenty-one,” she said aloud. “You ought to have -had a good husband and everything you wanted by -this time.”</p> - -<p>Emily winced at this unconscious stab into the -unhealed wound. “Isn’t there anything in life for a -woman on her own account?” she asked impatiently. -“Is her only hope through some man? Isn’t it -possible for her to make her own happiness, work -out her own salvation? Must she wait until a man -condescends to ask her to marry him?”</p> - -<p>“I’d like to say no,” replied her aunt, “but I -can’t. As the world is made now, a woman’s -happiness comes through home and children. And -that means a husband. Even if her idea of happiness -were not home and children, still she’s got to -have a husband.”</p> - -<p>“But why? Why do you say ‘as the world is -made now?’ Aren’t there thousands, tens of thousands -of women who make their own lives, working -in all sorts of ways—from teaching school to practising -medicine or law or writing or acting?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but they’re still only women. They may -lie about it. But with a few exceptions, abnormal -women, who are hardly women at all, they’re simply<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -filling a gap in their lives—perhaps trying to find -husbands in unusual ways. Everybody must have -an object, to be in the least happy. And children -is the object the world has fixed for us women. -Whether we’re conscious of it or not, we pursue it. -And if we’re thwarted in it, we’re—well, we’re not -happy.”</p> - -<p>The old woman was staring out sadly into space. -The cheerfulness had faded from the girl’s face. -But presently she shook her head defiantly and -broke the silence.</p> - -<p>“I refuse to believe it,” she said with energy. -“Oh, I don’t deny that I <i>feel</i> just as you describe. -And why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t we all? -Aren’t we brought up that way? Are we ever taught -anything else? It’s the way women have been -trained from the beginning. But—that doesn’t -make it so.”</p> - -<p>“No, it doesn’t,” replied her aunt. “And probably -it isn’t so. But don’t make the mistake, child, -of thinking that the world is run on a basis of -what’s so. It isn’t. It’s run on a basis of think-so -and believe-so and hope-so.”</p> - -<p>Emily stood up beside her aunt and looked out -absently through the leaves. “I don’t care what -any one says or what every one says,” she said. -“I don’t say that I don’t want love and home and -all that. I do want it. But I think I want it as a -man wants it. I want it as my very own, not as the -property of some man which he graciously or -grudgingly permits me to share. And I purpose to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -try to make my own life. If I marry, it will be as -a man marries—when I’m pleased and not before. -No, don’t look frightened, auntie. I’m not going -to do anything shocking. I understand that the -game must be played according to the rules, or one -is likely to be excluded.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you’ve got to make your living—at least -for the present,” replied her aunt. “And it doesn’t -matter much what your theory is. The question -is, what can you do; and if you can do something, -how are you to get the chance to do it. I can’t -advise you. I’m only a useless old maid—waiting in -a corner for death, already forgotten.”</p> - -<p>Emily put on an expression of amused disbelief -that was more flattering than true, and full of -vague but potent consolation. “I don’t think I -need advice,” she said, “so much as I need courage. -And there you can help me, auntie dear—can, and -will.”</p> - -<p>“I?” The old woman was pleased and touched. -“What can I say or do? I can only tell you what -you already know—though I must say I didn’t when -I was your age—can only tell you that there’s -nothing to be afraid of in all this wide world except -false pride.”</p> - -<p>She looked thoughtfully at her knitting, then -anxiously at the resolute face of her niece. “In -our country,” she went on, “it’s been certain from -the start, it seems to me, that what you’ve been -saying would be the gospel of the women as well -as of the men. But it takes women a long time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -to get over false pride. You are going to be a -working-woman. If only you can see that all honest -work is honourable! If only you can remember -that your life must be made by yourself, that to -look timidly at others and dread what they will say -about you is cowardly and contemptible! How I -wish I had your chance! How I wish I’d had the -courage to take my own chance!”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII.<br /> - - -<small>BACK TO THE MAINLAND.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WITHIN a month old Miss Bromfield -was again with her sister at Stockbridge; -the house in Stoughton was -sold; there were twenty-two hundred -dollars to Emily’s credit in the -Stoughton National Bank—her whole capital except -a hundred and fifty dollars which she had with -her; and she herself was standing at the exit from -the Grand Central Station in New York City, facing -with a sinking heart and frightened eyes the row of -squalid cabs and clamourous cabmen. One of these -took her to the boarding-house in East Thirty-first -Street near Madison Avenue where her friend, -Theresa Duncan, lived.</p> - -<p>“Of course there’s a chance,” Theresa had written. -“Come straight on here. Something is sure to -turn up. And there’s nothing like being on the -spot.”</p> - -<p>Of the women of her acquaintance who made -their own living, Theresa alone was in an independent -position—with her time her own, and with no -suggestion of domestic service in her employment. -They had been friends at school and had kept up -the friendship by correspondence. Before Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -Bromfield died, Theresa’s father had been swept -under by a Wall Street tidal wave and, when it receded, -had been found on the shore with empty -pockets and a bullet in his brain. Emily wrote to -her at once, but the answer did not come until six -months had passed. Then Theresa announced -that she was established in a small but sufficient -commission business. “I shop for busy New York -women and have a growing out-of-town trade,” she -wrote. “And I am almost happy. It is fine to be -free.”</p> - -<p>At the boarding-house Emily looked twice at the -number to assure herself that she was not mistaken. -She had expected nothing so imposing as this mansion-like -exterior. When a man-servant opened the -door and she saw high ceilings and heavy mouldings, -she inquired for Miss Duncan in the tone of -one who is sure there is a mistake. But before the -man answered, her illusion vanished. He was a -slattern creature in a greasy evening coat, a day -waistcoat, a stained red satin tie, its flaming colour -fighting for precedence with a huge blue glass scarf -pin. And Emily now saw that the splendours of -what had been a fine house in New York’s modest -days were overlaid with cheap trappings and with -grime and stain and other evidences of slovenly -housekeeping.</p> - -<p>The air was saturated with an odour of inferior -food, cooking in poor butter and worse lard. It -was one of the Houses of the Seem-to-be. The -carpets seemed to be Turkish or Persian, but were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -made in Newark and made cheaply. The furniture -seemed to be French, but was Fourteenth street. -The paper seemed to be brocade, but was from the -masses of poor stuff tossed upon the counters of -second-class department stores for the fumblings -of noisome bargain-day crowds. The paintings -seemed to be pictures, but were such daubs as the -Nassau street dealers auction off to swindle-seeking -clerks at the lunch hour. In a corner of the -“salon” stood what seemed to be a cabinet for -bric-a-brac but was a dilapidated folding bed.</p> - -<p>“Dare I sit?” thought Emily. “What seems -to be a chair may really be some hollow sham that -will collapse at the touch.”</p> - -<p>“A vile hole, isn’t it?” was one of Theresa’s first -remarks, after an enthusiastic greeting and a competent -apology for not meeting her at the station. -“We may be able to take a flat together. I would -have done it long ago, if I’d not been alone.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Emily, “and I may persuade Aunt -Ann to come and live with us as chaperon.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that will be so nice,” replied Theresa in a -doubtful, reluctant tone, with a quizzical look in -her handsome brown eyes. “If there is a prime -necessity for a working-woman, it is a chaperon.”</p> - -<p>“You’re laughing at me,” said Emily, flushing -but good-humoured. “I meant simply that my -aunt could look after the flat while we’re away. -You don’t know her. She’d never bother us. -She understands how to mind her own business.”</p> - -<p>“Well, the flat and the chaperon are still in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -future. The first question is, what are you going -into? You used to write such good essays at -school and your letters are clever. Why not newspaper -work?”</p> - -<p>“But what could I do?”</p> - -<p>“Get a trial as a reporter.”</p> - -<p>Before Emily’s mind came a vision of a ball she -had attended in Washington less than two years -before—the lofty entrance, the fashionable guests -incrowding from their carriages; at one side, a -dingy group, two seedy-looking men and a homely, -dowdy woman, taking notes of names and costumes. -She shuddered.</p> - -<p>Theresa noted the shudder, and laid her hand on -Emily’s arm. “You must drop that, my dear—you -must, must, must.”</p> - -<p>Emily coloured. “I will, will, will,” she said with -a guilty laugh. “But, Theresa, you understand, -don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I remember. But I’ve left all that behind—at -least I’ve tried to. You’ve got to be just -like a man when he makes the start. As Mr. Marlowe -was saying the other night, it’s no worse than -being a bank messenger and presenting notes to -men who can’t pay; or being a lawyer’s clerk and -handing people dreadful papers that they throw in -your face. No matter where you start there are -hard knocks. And——”</p> - -<p>“I know it, I expect it, and I’m not sorry that it -is so. It’s part of the price of learning to live. I’m -not complaining.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>“I hope you’ll be able to say that a year from -now. I confess I did, and do, complain. I can’t -get over my resentment at the injustice of it. Why -doesn’t everybody see that we’re all in the same -boat and that snubbing and sneering only make it -harder all round?”</p> - -<p>Emily had expected to find the Theresa of school -days developed along the lines that were promising. -Instead, she found the Theresa of school days -changed chiefly by deterioration. She was undeniably -attractive—a handsome, magnetic, shrewd -young woman full of animal spirits. But her dress -was just beyond the line of good taste, and on inspection -revealed tawdriness and lapses; her manners -were a little too pronounced in their freedom; -her speech barely escaped license. Her effort to -show hostility to conventions was impudent rather -than courageous. Worst of all, she had lost that -finish of refinement which makes merits shine and -dims even serious defects. She had cultivated a -shallow cynicism—of the concert hall and the -“society” play. It took all the brightness of her -eyes, all the brilliance of her teeth, all her physical -charm to overcome the impression of this gloze of -reckless smartness.</p> - -<p>In her room were many copies of a weekly -journal of gossip and scandal, filled with items about -people whom it called “the Four Hundred” and -“the Mighty Few” and of whom it spoke with -familiarity, yet with the deference of pretended disdain. -Emily noticed that Theresa and her acquaintances<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -in the boarding-house talked much of these -persons, in a way which made it clear that they did -not know them and regarded the fact as greatly to -their own discredit.</p> - -<p>The one subject which Theresa would not discuss -was her shopping business. Emily was eager to -hear about it, and, as far as politeness permitted, encouraged -her to talk of it, but Theresa always -sheered off. Nor did she seem to be under the -necessity of giving it close or regular attention.</p> - -<p>“It looks after itself,” she said, with an uneasy -laugh. “Let’s talk of your affairs. We’re going to -dine Thursday night with Frank Demorest and a -man we think can help you—a man named Marlowe. -He writes for the <i>Democrat</i>. He goes everywhere -getting news of politics and wars. I see his name -signed every once in a while. He’s clever, much -cleverer to talk with than he is as a writer. -Usually writers are such stupid talkers. Frank says -they save all their good wares to sell.”</p> - -<p>On Thursday at half-past seven the two men -came. Demorest was tall and thin, with a languid -air which Emily knew at once was carefully studied -from the best models in fiction and in the class -that poses. One could see at a glance that he was -spending his life in doing deliberately useless things. -His way of speaking to admiring Theresa was after -the pattern of well-bred insolence. Marlowe was not -so tall, but his personality seemed to her as vivid and -sincere as Demorest’s seemed colourless and false. -He had the self-possession of one who is well acquainted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -with the human race. His eyes were gray-green, -keen, rather small and too restless—Emily -did not like them. He spoke swiftly yet distinctly. -Demorest seemed a man of the world, Marlowe a -citizen of the world.</p> - -<p>They got into Demorest’s open automobile, Marlowe -and Emily in the back seat, and set out for -Clairmont. For the first time in nearly two years -Emily was experiencing a sensation akin to happiness. -The city looked vast and splendid and -friendly. Wherever her eyes turned there were -good-humoured faces—the faces of well-dressed, -healthy women and men who were out under that -soft, glowing summer sky in a determined search -for pleasure. She saw that Marlowe was smiling as -he looked at her.</p> - -<p>“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked, as -the automobile slowed down in a press of cabs and -carriages.</p> - -<p>“Not <i>at</i> you, but <i>with</i> you,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“But why?”</p> - -<p>“Because I’m as glad to be here as you are. And -you are very glad indeed, and are showing it so -delightfully.” He looked frank but polite admiration -of her sweet, delicate face—she liked his -expression as much as she had disliked the way in -which Demorest had examined her face and figure -and dress.</p> - -<p>She sighed. “But it won’t last long,” she said, -pensively rather than sadly. She was thinking of -to-morrow and the days thereafter—the days in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -which she would be facing a very different aspect of -the city.</p> - -<p>“But it will last—if you resolve that it shall,” he -said. “Why make up your mind to the worst? -Why not the best? Just keep your eyes on the -present until it frowns. Then the future will be -bright by contrast, and you can look at it.”</p> - -<p>“This city makes me feel painfully small and -weak.” Emily hid her earnestness in a light tone -and smile. “And I’m not able to take myself so -very seriously.”</p> - -<p>“You should be glad of that. It seems to me -absurd for one to take himself seriously. It interferes -with one’s work. But one ought always to -take his work seriously, I think, and sacrifice everything -to it. Do you remember what Cæsar said to -the pilot?”</p> - -<p>“No—what was it?”</p> - -<p>“The pilot said, ‘It’s too stormy to cross the -Adriatic to-night. You will be drowned.’ And -Cæsar answered: ‘It is not important whether I -live or die. But it <i>is</i> important that, if I’m alive -to-morrow morning, I shall be on the other shore. -Let us start!’ I read that story many years ago—almost -as many as you’ve lived. It has stood me in -good stead several times.”</p> - -<p>At the next slowing down, Marlowe went -on:</p> - -<p>“You’re certain to win. All that one needs to do -is to keep calm and not try to hurry destiny. He’s -sure to come into his own.” He hesitated, then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -added. “And I think your ‘own’ is going to be -worth while.”</p> - -<p>They swung into the Riverside Drive—the sun -was making the crest of the wooded Palisades look -as if a forest fire were raging there; the Hudson, -broad and smooth and still, was slowly darkening; -the breeze mingled the freshness of the water and -the fragrance of the trees. And Emily felt a -burden, like an oppressively heavy garment, falling -from her.</p> - -<p>“What are you thinking?” asked Marlowe.</p> - -<p>“Of Stoughton—and this,” she replied.</p> - -<p>“Was Stoughton very bad, as bad as those towns -usually are to impatient young persons who wish to -live before they die?”</p> - -<p>“Worse than you can imagine—a nightmare. It -seems to me that hereafter, whenever I feel low in -my mind, I’ll say ‘Well, at least this is not Stoughton,’ -and be cheerful again.”</p> - -<p>They were at Clairmont, and as Emily saw the inn -and its broad porches and the tables where women -and men in parties and in couples were enjoying -themselves, as she drank in the lively, happy scene -of the summer and the city and the open air, she -felt like one who is taking his first outing after an illness -that thrust him down to death’s door. They -went round the porch and out into the gravelled -open, to a table that had been reserved for them -under the big tree at the edge of the bluff.</p> - -<p>There was enough light from the electric lamps -of the inn and pavilions to make the table clearly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -visible, but not enough to blot out the river and -the Palisades. It was not an especially good dinner -and was slowly served, so Frank complained. But -Emily found everything perfect, and astonished -Theresa and delighted the men with her flow of -high spirits. Theresa drank more, and Emily less, -than her share of the champagne. As Emily had -nothing in her mind which the frankness of wine -could unpleasantly reveal, the contrast between her -and Theresa became strongly, perhaps unjustly, -marked with the progress of the “party,” as Theresa -called it; for Theresa, who affected and fairly well -carried off a man-to-man frankness of speech, began -to make remarks at which Demorest laughed loudly, -Marlowe politely, and which Emily pretended not -to hear. Demorest drank far too much and -presently showed it by outdoing Theresa. Marlowe -saw that Emily was annoyed, and insisted that he -could stay no longer. This forced the return home.</p> - -<p>As they were entering the automobile, Demorest -made a politely insolent observation to Theresa on -“her prim friend from New England,” which Emily -could not help overhearing. She flushed; Marlowe -frowned contemptuously at Demorest’s back.</p> - -<p>“Don’t think about him,” said he to Emily, when -they were under way. “He’s too insignificant for -such a triumph as spoiling your evening.”</p> - -<p>Emily laughed gaily. “Oh, it is a compliment -to be called prim by some men,” she said, “though -I’d not like to be thought prim by those capable of -judging.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>“Only low-minded or ignorant people are prim,” -replied Marlowe.</p> - -<p>“There’s one thing worse,” said Emily.</p> - -<p>“And what is that?”</p> - -<p>“Why, the mask off a mind that is usually -masked by primness. I like deception when it protects -me from the sight of offensive things.”</p> - -<p>At the boarding-house Marlowe got out. “Frank -and I are going to supper,” said Theresa to Emily. -“You’re coming?”</p> - -<p>“Thanks, no,” answered Emily. “I’m tired to-night.”</p> - -<p>Marlowe accompanied her up the steps and asked -her to wait until he had returned from giving -the key to Theresa. When he rejoined her, he -said:</p> - -<p>“If you’ll come to my office to-morrow at two, I -think I can get you a chance to show what you -can or can’t do.”</p> - -<p>Emily’s eyes shone and her voice was a little -uncertain as she said, after a silence:</p> - -<p>“If you ever had to make a start and suddenly -got help from some one, as I’m getting it from you, -you’ll know how I feel.”</p> - -<p>“I’m really not doing you a favour. If you get -on, I shall have done the paper a service. If you -don’t, I’ll simply have delayed you on your way -to the work that’s surely waiting for you somewhere.”</p> - -<p>“I shall insist upon being grateful,” said Emily, -as she gave him her hand. She was pleased that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -held it a little longer and a little more tightly than -was necessary.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like his eyes,” she thought, “but I do like -the way he can look out of them. They must -belie him.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII.<br /> - - -<small>AMONG A STRANGE PEOPLE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">AS the office boy, after inquiry, showed -Emily into Marlowe’s office on the -third floor of the <i>Democrat</i> building, -he was putting on his coat to receive -her.</p> - -<p>“Good morning,” he said, in a business tone. -“You’ll forgive me. I’m in a rush to get away to -Saratoga this evening—for the Republican convention. -Let’s go to the City Editor at once, if you -please.”</p> - -<p>They went down a long hall to a door marked -“News Room—Morning Edition.” Marlowe held -open the door and she found herself in a large room -filled with desks, at many of which were men in -their shirt sleeves writing. They crossed to a -door marked, “City Editor.” Marlowe knocked.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” an irritated voice responded, “if you -must. But don’t stay long.”</p> - -<p>“What a bear,” said Marlowe cheerfully, not lowering -his voice. “It’s a lady, Bobbie. So you must -sheathe your claws.”</p> - -<p>“Bobbie”—or Mr. Stilson—rose, an apology in -his strong-featured, melancholy face.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>“Pardon me, Miss Bromfield,” he said, when he -had got her name. “They’ve been knocking at that -door all day long, and coming in and driving me -half mad with their nonsense.”</p> - -<p>“Excuse me,” said Marlowe, “I must get away. -This is the young woman I talked to you about. -Don’t mind his manner, Miss Bromfield. He’s a -‘soft one’ in reality, and puts on the burrs to shield -himself. Good-bye, good luck.” And he was -gone, Emily noted vaguely that his manner toward -“Bobbie” was a curious mixture of affection, -admiration, and audacity—“like the little dog with -the big one,” she thought.</p> - -<p>Emily seated herself in a chair with newspapers -in it but less occupied in that way than any other -horizontal part of the little office. Stilson was -apparently examining her with disapproval. But -as she looked directly into his eyes, she saw that -Marlowe had told the truth. They were beautiful -with an expression of manly gentleness. And she -detected the same quality in his voice, beneath a -surface tone of abruptness.</p> - -<p>“I can’t give you a salary,” he said. “We start -our beginners on space. We pay seven and a half -a column. You’ll make little at first. I hope Marlowe -warned you against this business.”</p> - -<p>“No,” replied Emily, doing her best to make her -manner and voice pleasing. “On the contrary, he -was enthusiastic.”</p> - -<p>“He ought to be ashamed of himself. However, -I suppose you’ve got to make a living. And if a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -woman must work, or thinks she must, she can’t -discover the superiority of matrimony at its worst -more quickly in any other business.”</p> - -<p>Stilson pressed an electric button and said to the -boy who came: “Tell Mr. Coleman I wish to speak -to him.”</p> - -<p>A fat young man, not well shaved, his shirt sleeves -rolled up and exposing a pair of muscular, hairy -arms to the elbows and above, appeared in the -doorway with a “Yes, sir,” spoken apologetically.</p> - -<p>“Miss Bromfield, Mr. Coleman. Here is the -man who makes the assignments. He’ll give you -something to do. Let her have the desk in the -second row next to the window, Coleman,” Stilson -nodded, opened a newspaper and gave it -absorbed attention.</p> - -<p>Emily was irritated because he had not risen or -spoken the commonplaces of courtesy; but she -told herself that such details of manners could not -be kept up in the rush of business. She followed -Coleman dejectedly to the table-desk assigned her. -He called a poorly preserved young woman of perhaps -twenty-five, sitting a few rows away, and introduced -her as “Miss Farwell, one of the society -reporters.” Emily looked at her with the same -covert but searching curiosity with which she was -examining Emily.</p> - -<p>“You are new?” Miss Farwell asked.</p> - -<p>“Very new and very frightened.”</p> - -<p>“It is terrible for us women, isn’t it?” Miss -Farwell’s plaintive smile uncovered irregular teeth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -heavily picked out with gold. “But you’ll find it -not so unpleasant here after you catch on. They -try to make it as easy as they can for women.”</p> - -<p>Emily’s thoughts were painful as she studied -her fellow-journalist, “Why do women get themselves -up in such rubbish?” she said to herself as she -noted Miss Farwell’s slovenly imitation of an imported -model. “And why don’t they make themselves -clean and neat? and why do they let themselves -get fat and pasty?” Miss Farwell’s hair was -in strings and thin behind the ears. Her hands -were not well looked after. Her face had a shine -that was glossiest on her nose and chin. Her dress, -with its many loose ends of ruffle and puff, was far -from fresh. She looked a discouraged young -woman of the educated class. And her querulous -voice, a slight stoop in her shoulders, and soft, projecting, -pathetic eyes combined to give her the air -of one who feels that she is out of her station, but -strives to bear meekly a doom of being down-trodden -and put upon. “If ever she marries,” -thought Emily, “she will be humbly grateful at first, -and afterwards a nagger.”</p> - -<p>In the hope of seeing a less depressing object, -Emily sent her glance straying about the room. -The men had suspended work and were watching -her with interest and frank pleasure. “No wonder,” -she thought, as she remembered her own neatness, -the freshness and simplicity of her blue linen gown—she -had been able to get it at a fashionable shop -for fifty dollars because it was a model and the selling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -season was ended. In the far corner sat another -woman. Miss Farwell, noting on whom Emily’s -glance paused, said: “That is Miss Gresham. She’s -a Vassar girl who came on the paper last year. She’s -a favorite with Mr. Stilson, so she gets on.”</p> - -<p>Miss Gresham looked up from her writing and -Miss Farwell beckoned. Emily’s spirits rose as -Miss Gresham came. “This,” she thought, “is nearer -my ideal of an intelligent, self-respecting working -woman,” Miss Gresham was dressed simply but -fitly—a properly made shirt-waist, white and clean -and completed at the neck with a French collar; a -short plain black skirt that revealed presentable -feet in presentable boots. She shook hands in a -friendly business-like way, and Emily thought; “She -would be pretty if her hair were not so severely -brushed back. As it is, she is handsome—and <i>so</i> -clean.”</p> - -<p>“I was just going out to lunch. Won’t you come -with me?” asked Miss Gresham.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I’m permitted to do.” Emily -looked toward Mr. Coleman’s desk. He was watching -her and now called her. As she approached, -his grin became faintly flirtatious.</p> - -<p>“Here is a little assignment for you,” he said -graciously, extending one of his unpleasant looking -arms with a cutting from the <i>Evening Journal</i> held -in the large, plump hand. As he spoke the door of -Mr. Stilson’s office immediately behind him opened, -and Mr. Stilson appeared.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing there?” he demanded.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>Coleman jumped guiltily. “I was just going to -start Miss Bromfield.” His voice was a sort of -wheedling whine, like that of a man persuading a -fractious horse on which he is mounted and of which -he is afraid.</p> - -<p>“Let me see.” Stilson took the cutting. “Won’t -do. Send her with Miss Gresham.” And he turned -away without looking at Emily or seeming conscious -of her presence. But she sent a grateful glance -after him. “How much more sensible,” she -thought, “than turning me out to wander helplessly -about alone.”</p> - -<p>Miss Gresham’s assignment was a national convention -of women’s clubs—“A tame affair,” said -she, “unless the delegates get into a wrangle. If -men squabble and lose their tempers and make fools -of themselves, it’s taken as a matter of course. But -if women do the very same thing in the very same -circumstances, it’s regarded as proof of their folly -and lack of capacity.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose the men delight in seeing the women -writhe under criticism,” said Emily.</p> - -<p>“Well, it isn’t easy to endure criticism,” replied -Miss Gresham. “But it must be borne, and it does -one good, whether it’s just or unjust. It teaches -one to realise that this world is not a hothouse.”</p> - -<p>“I wish it were—sometimes,” confessed Emily. -The near approach of “the struggle for existence” -made her faint-hearted.</p> - -<p>Miss Gresham could not resist a smile as she -looked at Emily, in face, in dress, in manner, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -“hothouse” woman. “It could be for you, if -you wished it.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t,” said Emily, with sudden energy -and a change of expression that brought out the -strong lines of her mouth and chin. And Miss -Gresham began to suspect that there were phases to -her character other than sweetness and a fondness -for the things immemorially feminine. “I purpose -to learn to like the open air,” she said, and looked -it.</p> - -<p>Miss Gresham nodded approvingly. “The open -air is best, in the end. It develops every plant -according to its nature. The hothouses stunt the -best plants, and disguise lots of rank weeds.”</p> - -<p>As they were coming away from the convention, -Miss Gresham said: “Instead of handing in your -story to the City Desk, keep it, and we’ll go over it -together this evening, after I’m through.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you—it’s so good of you to take the -trouble. Yes, I’ll try.” Emily hesitated and grew -red.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” asked Miss Gresham, encouragingly.</p> - -<p>“I was thinking about—this evening. I never -thought of it before—do you write at night? And -how do you get home?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I write at night. And I go home as -other business people do. I take the car as far as -it will take me, then I walk.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be frightened—horribly frightened.”</p> - -<p>“For a few evenings, but you’ll soon be used to it.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -You don’t know what a relief it will be to feel free -to go about alone. Of course, they’re careful at -the office what kind of night-assignments they give -women. But I make it a point not to let them -think of my sex any more than is absolutely -necessary. It’s a poor game to play in the end—to -shirk on the plea of sex. I think most of the -unpleasant experiences working-women have are -due to that folly—dragging their sex into their -business.”</p> - -<p>Emily felt and looked dismal as she sat at her -desk, struggling to put on paper her idea of what -the newspaper would want of what she had seen -and heard. She wasted so many sheets of paper -in trying to begin that she was ashamed to look at -the heap they made on the floor beside her. Also, -she felt that every one was watching her and secretly -laughing at her. After three hours of -wretchedness she had produced seven loosely written -pages—“enough to fill columns,” she thought, -but in reality a scant half-column. “I begin to understand -why Miss Farwell looks so mussy,” she -said to herself, miserably eyeing her stained hands -and wilted dress, and thinking of her hair, fiercely -bent upon hanging out and down. She was so -nervous that if she had been alone she would have -cried.</p> - -<p>“It is impossible,” she thought. “I can never -do it. I’m of no account. What a weak, foolish -creature I am.”</p> - -<p>She looked round, with an idea of escaping, to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -hide herself and never return. But Miss Gresham -was between her and the door. Besides, had she -not burned her bridges behind her? She simply -must, must, must make the fight.</p> - -<p>She remembered Marlowe’s story of Cæsar and -the pilot—“I can’t more than fail and die,” she -groaned, “and if I am to live, I must work.” Then -she laughed at herself for taking herself so seriously. -She thought of Marlowe—“What would he say if -he could see me now?” She went through her -list of acquaintances, picturing to herself how each -would look and what each would say at sight of her -sitting there—a working-girl, begrimed by toil. -She thought of Wayland—the contrast between her -present position and what it would have been had -she married him. Then she recalled the night he -seized her and kissed her—her sensation of loathing, -how she had taken a bath afterward and had gone -to bed in the dark with her neck where he had -kissed her smarting like a poisoned sore.</p> - -<p>“You take the Madison Avenue car?” Miss -Gresham interrupted, startling her so that she leaped -in her chair. “We’ll go together and read what -you’ve written.”</p> - -<p>Miss Gresham went through it without changing -expression. At the end she nodded reassuringly. -“It’s a fairly good essay. Of course you couldn’t -be expected to know the newspaper style.”</p> - -<p>And she went on to point out the crudities—how -it might have been begun, where there might have -been a few lines of description, why certain paragraphs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -were too stilted, “too much like magazine -literature.” She gave Emily a long slip of paper -on which was about a newspaper column of print. -“Here’s a proof of my story. I wrote it before -dinner and it was set up early. Of course, it’s not -a model. But after you leave me you can read it -over, and perhaps it may give you some points. -Then you might try—not to-night, but to-morrow -morning—to write your story again. That’s the -easiest and quickest way to catch on.”</p> - -<p>At Emily’s corner Miss Gresham said, “I’ll take -you home this once,” and left the car with her. As -they went through the silent, empty street, their -footsteps lightly echoing from house wall to house -wall, Emily forgot her article and her other worriments -in the foreboding of these midnight journeys -alone. “It seems to me that I simply can’t,” she -thought. “And yet I simply must—and of course -I will. If only I had been doing it for a month, -or even a week, instead of having to look forward -to the first time.”</p> - -<p>Miss Gresham took her to her door, then strode -away down the street—an erect, resolute figure, -business-like from head to heels. Emily looked -after her with rising courage, “What a brave, fine -girl she is,” she thought, “how intelligent, how -capable. She is the kind of woman I have dreamt -about.”</p> - -<p>And she went in with a lightening heart.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX.<br /> - - -<small>AN ORCHID HUNTER.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THE first night that Emily ventured home -alone a man spoke to her before she had -got twenty feet from the car tracks. -She had thought that if this should happen -she would faint. But when he said, -“It’s a pleasant evening,” she put her head down -and walked steadily on and told herself she was not -in the least frightened. It was not until she was -inside her door that her legs trembled and her -heart beat fast. She sank down on the stairs in the -dark and had a nervous chill. And it was a very -unhappy, discouraged, self-distrustful girl that presently -crept shakily up to bed.</p> - -<p>On the second night-journey she thought she -heard some one close and stealthy behind her. She -broke into a run, arriving at the door out of breath -and ashamed of herself. “You might have been -arrested,” said Miss Gresham when Emily confessed -to her. “If a policeman had seen you, he’d have -thought you were flying from the scene of your -crime.”</p> - -<p>A few nights afterwards a policeman did stop -her. “You’ve got to keep out of this street,” he -began roughly. “I’ve noticed you several times -now.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>Instead of being humiliated or frightened, Emily -became angry. “I’m a newspaper woman—on the -<i>Democrat</i>,” she said haughtily, and just then he got -a full view of her face and of the look in her eyes.</p> - -<p>He took off his helmet. “Beg pardon, miss,” he -said humbly, and with sincerity of regret. “I’m -very sorry. I didn’t see you distinctly. I’ve got -a sister that does night work. I ought to a knowed -better.”</p> - -<p>Emily made no reply, but went on. She was -never afraid again, and after a month wondered -how it had been possible for her to be afraid, and -pitied women who were as timid and helpless as she -had been. Whenever the policeman passed her he -touched his hat. She soon noticed that it was not -always the same policeman and understood that the -first one had warned the entire force at the station -house. Often when there were many loungers in the -street the policeman turned and followed her at a -respectful distance until she was home; and one -rainy night he asked her to wait in the shelter of a -deep doorway at the corner while he went across to -a saloon and borrowed an umbrella. He gave it to -her and dropped behind, coming up to get it at her -door.</p> - -<p>Thus what threatened to be her greatest trial -proved no trial at all.</p> - -<p>On the last day of her first week, Mr. Stilson sent -for her and gave her an order on the cashier for -twelve dollars. “Are they treating you well?” he -asked, his eyes kind and encouraging.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>“Yes, <i>you</i> are treating me well.”</p> - -<p>Stilson coloured.</p> - -<p>“And I honestly don’t think I’ve earned so much -money,” she went on.</p> - -<p>“I’m not in the habit of swindling the owners of -the <i>Democrat</i>,” he interrupted curtly.</p> - -<p>Emily turned away, humiliated and hurt. “He is -insulting,” she said to herself with flashing eyes -and quivering lips. “Oh, if I did not have to endure -it, I’d say things he’d not forget.”</p> - -<p>She was sitting at her desk, still fuming, when he -came out of his office and looked round. As he -walked toward her, she saw that he was limping -painfully. “Pardon me, Miss Bromfield,” he said. -“I’m suffering the tortures of hell from this infernal -rheumatism.” And he was gone without -looking at her or giving her a chance to reply.</p> - -<p>“So, it’s only rheumatism,” she thought, mollified -as to the rudeness, but disappointed as to the -office romance of the City Editor’s “secret sorrow.” -She did not tell Miss Gresham of the apology, but -could not refrain from saying: “I have heard that -Mr. Stilson is rude because he is rheumatic.”</p> - -<p>“That may have something to do with it. I -remember when he got it. He was a writer then, -and went down to the Oil River floods. The correspondents -had to sleep on the wet ground, and -endure all sorts of hardships. He was in a hospital -in Pittsburg for two months. But there’s something -else besides rheumatism in his case. Long -before that, I saw——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>Miss Gresham stopped short, seemed irritated -against herself, and changed the subject abruptly.</p> - -<p>Emily timidly joined the crowd at the cashier’s -window and, when her turn came, was much disconcerted -by the sharp, suspicious look which the man -within cast at her. She signed and handed in her -order. He searched through the long rows of envelopes -in the pay drawer—searched in vain. Another -suspicious look at her and he began again. -“I’m not to get it after all” she thought with a -sick, sinking feeling—how often afterward she -remembered those anxious moments and laughed at -herself. The cashier’s man searched on and presently -drew out an envelope. Again that sharp look -and he handed her the money. She could not restrain -a deep sigh of relief.</p> - -<p>She went home in triumph to Theresa and displayed -the ten dollar bill and the two ones as if they -were the proofs of a miracle. “It’s a thrilling sensation,” -she said, “to find that I can really do -something for which somebody will pay.” She -remembered Stilson’s rudeness. “It was not so bad -after all,” she thought. “He convinced me that I -had really earned the money. If he’d been polite -I should have feared he was giving it to me out of -good-nature.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re getting on all right,” said Theresa. -“I saw Marlowe last night at Delmonico’s. Frank -and I were dining there, and he stopped to speak to -us. I asked him about you, and—shall I tell you -just what he said?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>“I want to know the worst.”</p> - -<p>“Well, he said—of course, I asked about you the -first thing—and he said that he and your City Editor -had been dining at the Lotos Club—Mr. Stilson, -isn’t it? And Mr. Stilson said: ‘If she wasn’t so -good-looking, there might be a chance of her becoming -a real person.’ Marlowe says that’s a high compliment -for Mr. Stilson, because he is mad on the -subject of idle, useless women and men. And, Mr. -Stilson went on to say that you had judgment and -weren’t vain, and that you had as much patience -and persistence as Miss—I forget her name——”</p> - -<p>“Was it Gresham?” asked Emily.</p> - -<p>“No—that wasn’t the name. Was it Tarheel or -Farheel or Farville—no—it was——”</p> - -<p>“Oh.” Emily looked disappointed and foolish. -She had seen Miss Farwell an hour before—patient -and persevering indeed, but frowzier and more “put -upon” than ever.</p> - -<p>“Yes—Miss Farwell. Who is she?”</p> - -<p>“One of the women down at the office,” Emily -said, and hurried on with: “What else did Marlowe -say?”</p> - -<p>“That’s all, except that he wanted us four to -dine together soon. When can you go—on a -Sunday?”</p> - -<p>“No, Monday—that’s my free day. I took it -because it is also Miss Gresham’s day off. She’s -the only friend I’ve made downtown thus far.”</p> - -<p>Marlowe came to Emily’s desk one morning in -her third week on the <i>Democrat</i>. “What did you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -have in the paper to-day?” he asked, after he had -explained that he was just returned from Washington -and Chicago.</p> - -<p>“A few paragraphs,” she replied, drawing a space -slip from a drawer and displaying three small items -pasted one under the other.</p> - -<p>“Not startling, are they?” was Marlowe’s comment. -“I’ve asked Miss Duncan to bring you to -dine with Demorest and me—the postponed dinner. -But I’d rather dine with you alone. I don’t think -Demorest shines in your society; then, too, we can -talk shop. I’ve a great deal to say to you, and I -think I can be of some use. We could dine in the -open air up at the Casino—don’t you like dining in -the open air?”</p> - -<p>Emily had been brought up under the chaperon -system. While she had no intention of clinging to -it, she hesitated now that the occasion for beginning -the break had come. Also, she remembered what -Marlowe had said to her at her door. She wished -that she were going unchaperoned with some other -man first.</p> - -<p>“There’s a prejudice against the Casino among -some conventional people,” he said. “But that -does not apply to us.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that,” and she accepted.</p> - -<p>She asked Miss Gresham about him a few hours -afterward.</p> - -<p>“You’ve met Mr. Marlowe?” she said, in a cordial -tone. “Don’t you think him clever? You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -may hear some gossip about him—and women. -He’s good-looking, and—and much like all men in -one respect. He’s the sort of man that is suspected -of affairs, but whose name is never coupled with -any particular woman’s. That’s a good sign, don’t -you think? It shows that the gossip isn’t started -or encouraged by him.”</p> - -<p>“Is it—proper for me to go to dinner with him -alone?”</p> - -<p>“Why not? Of course, if they see you, they -may talk about you. But what does that matter? -It would be different if you were waiting with -folded hands for some man to come along and undertake -to support you for life. Then gossip might -damage your principal asset. But now your principal -asset isn’t reputation for conventionality, but -brains. And you don’t have to ask favours of anybody.”</p> - -<p>Marlowe and Emily had a table at the end of the -walk parallel with the entrance-drive. The main -subject of conversation was Emily—what she had -done, what she could do, and how she could do it. -“All that I’m saying is general,” he said. “I’ll -help you to apply it, if I may. There’s no reason -why you should not be doing well—making at least -forty dollars a week—within six months. We’ll get -up some Sunday specials together to help you on -faster. The main point is a new way of looking at -whatever you’re writing about. Your good taste -will always save you from being flat or silly, even -when you’re not brilliant.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>While Marlowe talked, Emily observed, as accurately -as it is possible for a young person to observe -when the person under observation is good-looking, -young, of the opposite sex, and when both are, consciously -and unconsciously, doing their utmost to -think well each of the other. He had a low, agreeable -voice, and an unusually attractive mouth. His -mind was quick, his manner simple and direct. Although -he was clearly younger than thirty-five, his -hair was sprinkled with gray at the temples, and -there were wrinkles in his forehead and at the -corners of his eyes. He made many gestures, and -she liked to watch his hands—the hands of an athlete, -but well-shaped.</p> - -<p>“I ride and swim almost every day,” he said incidentally -to some discussion about the sedentary -life. And she knew why he looked in perfect -health. Emily admired him, liked him, with the -quick confidence of youth trusted him, before -they had been talking two hours. And it pleased -her to see admiration of her in his eyes, and to feel -that he was physically and mentally glad to be near -her.</p> - -<p>As they were drinking champagne (slightly modified -by apollinaris), the acquaintance progressed -swiftly. It would have been all but impossible for -her to resist the contagion of his open-mindedness, -had she been so inclined. But she herself had -rapidly changed in her month in New York. She -felt that she was able to meet a man on his own -ground now, and that she understood men far<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -better, and she seemed to herself to be seeing life in a -wholly new aspect—its aspect to the self-reliant and -free. She helped him to hasten through those ante-rooms -to close acquaintance, where, as he put it, -“stupid people waste most of their time and all -their chances for happiness.”</p> - -<p>He had a way of complimenting her which was -peculiarly insidious. He was talking earnestly -about her work, his mind apparently absorbed. -Abruptly he interrupted himself with, “Don’t mind -my talking so much. It’s happiness. One is not -often happy. And I feel to-night”—this with -raillery in his voice—“like an orchid hunter who -has been dragging himself through jungles for days -and is at last rewarded with the sight of a new and -wonderful specimen—high up in a difficult tree, but -still, perhaps, accessible.” And then he went on to -discuss orchids with her and told a story of an -acquaintance, a half-mad orchid hunter—all with no -further reference to her personality.</p> - -<p>It was not until they were strolling through the -Park toward Fifty-ninth street that the subject -which is sure to appear sooner or later in such circumstances -and conjunctions started from cover and -fluttered into the open.</p> - -<p>He glanced at the moon. “It would be impossible -to improve upon that nice old lady up there as -a chaperon, wouldn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure that I’d give my daughter into her -charge,” said Emily.</p> - -<p>“Why do you say that?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>“Oh, I think it all depends upon the woman.”</p> - -<p>“Any woman who couldn’t be trusted with the -moon as a chaperon, either wouldn’t be safe with -any chaperon or wouldn’t be worth saving from the -consequences of her own folly.”</p> - -<p>“Possibly. But—I confess I wouldn’t trust even -myself implicitly to that old lady up there, as you -call her.”</p> - -<p>“But you are doing so this evening.”</p> - -<p>“Mercy, no. I’ve two other guardians—myself -and you.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you for including me. I’m afraid I -don’t deserve it.”</p> - -<p>“Then I’ll try to arrange it so that I sha’n’t have -to call you in to help me.”</p> - -<p>“Would you think me very absurd if I told you, -in the presence of your chaperon, that”—His look -made her’s waver for an instant—“I must have my -orchid?”</p> - -<p>“Not absurd,” replied Emily. “But abrupt -and——”</p> - -<p>“And—what?”</p> - -<p>“And”—She laughed. “And interesting.”</p> - -<p>“There’s only a short time to live,” he answered, -“and I’m no longer so young as I once was. But -I don’t wish to hurry you. I don’t expect any -answer now—it would be highly improper, even if -your answer were ready.” He looked at her with -a very agreeable audacity. “And I’m not sure that -it isn’t ready. But I can wait. I simply spoke my -own mind, as soon as I saw that it would not be -disagreeable to you to hear it.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>“How did you know that?”</p> - -<p>“Instinct, pure instinct. No sensitive man ever -failed to know whether a woman found him tolerable -or intolerable.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t think,” said Emily, seriously but not -truthfully, “that I’m taking your remark as a -tribute to myself. I understand that you are -striving to do what is expected of a man on such a -night as this.”</p> - -<p>“Does one have to tear his hair, and foam at the -mouth, in order to convince you?” asked Marlowe, -his eyes laughing, yet earnest too.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Emily calmly. “Begin—please.”</p> - -<p>“No—I’ve said enough, for the evening.” He -was walking close to her, and there was no raillery -in either his tone or his eyes. “It’s so new and -wonderful a sensation to me, that as yet, just the -pleasure of it is all that I ask.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t fit in with my plans—not at all,” -she said, in a way that must have been encouraging -since it was not in the least discouraging. “I’m -a working-woman, and must not bother with—with -orchid hunters.”</p> - -<p>“Your plans? Oh!” He laughed, “Let me -help you revise them.” He saw her face change. -“Or rather,” he quickly corrected, “let me help -you realise them.”</p> - -<p>They were to join Theresa and Frank at the -New York roof-garden. Just before they entered -the street doors, he said: “I think there are only -two things in the world worth living for—work and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -love. And I think neither is perfect without the -other. Perhaps—who knows?—”</p> - -<p>Her answering look was not directed toward him, -but it was none the less an answer. It made him -feel that they were both happy in the anticipation -of greater happiness imminent.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X.<br /> - - -<small>FURTHER EXPLORATION.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WHEN Emily came into the sitting-room -the next morning at ten she found -that Theresa had ordered breakfast -for both sent there, and was waiting. -She was in a dressing-gown, her hair -twisted in a careless knot, her eyes tired and clouded. -The air was tainted with the sweet, stale, heavy -perfume which was an inseparable part of her personality. -“I wish Theresa wouldn’t use that scent,” -thought Emily—her first thought always when she -came near Theresa or into any place where Theresa -had recently been.</p> - -<p>“How well you have slept,” began Theresa, looking -with good-natured envy at Emily’s fresh face -and fresh French shirt-waist.</p> - -<p>“Not very,” replied Emily. “I was awake until -nearly daylight.”</p> - -<p>“Did you hear me come in?”</p> - -<p>“I heard you moving about your room just as I -was going to sleep.” Emily knew Theresa’s mode -of life. But she avoided seeming to know, and ignored -Theresa’s frequent attempts to open the subject -of herself and Frank. She thought she had -gone far enough when she made it clear that she -was not sitting in judgment upon her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>“I’m blue—desperately blue,” continued Theresa. -“I don’t know which way to turn.” There was a -long pause, then with a flush she looked at Emily -and dropped her uneasy eyes. “How——”</p> - -<p>“I think it most unwise,” interrupted Emily, “to -confide one’s private affairs to any other, and I know -it’s most impertinent for any other to peer into -them.”</p> - -<p>“You’re right—but I’ve got to talk it over with -some one.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you won’t tell me more than is absolutely -necessary, Theresa.”</p> - -<p>“Well—I’m ‘up against it’—to use the kind of -language that fits such a vulgar muddle. And I’ve -neglected my business until there’s nothing left of -it.” A long pause, then in a strained voice: “I’ve -been planning all along to marry Frank Demorest -and—I find not only that he wouldn’t marry me if -he could, but couldn’t if he would. He’s going to -marry money. He’s got to. He told me frankly -last night. He’s down to less than ten thousand a -year, about a third of what it costs him to live. -And he’s living up his principal.”</p> - -<p>“This is the saddest tale of privation and poverty -I ever heard,” said Emily. Then more seriously: -“You’re not in love with him?”</p> - -<p>“Well—he’s good-looking; he knows the world; -he has the right sort of manners, and goes with the -right sort of people, and he comes of a splendid old -family.”</p> - -<p>“His father kept a drygoods shop, didn’t he?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>“Yes—but that was when Frank was a young -man. And it was a big shop—wholesale, you know—not -retail. He never worked in it or anywhere -else. You could tell that he’d never worked, but -had always been a gentleman, and only looked after -the property.”</p> - -<p>“I understand,” Emily nodded with great solemnity. -“We’ll concede that he’s a gentleman. What next?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I wanted to marry him. It would have -been satisfactory in every way. I’d have got back -my position in society that we had to give up when -father lost everything and—and died—and mother -wanted to drag me off to live in Blue Mountain. -Just think of it—Blue Mountain, Vermont!”</p> - -<p>“I am thinking of it—or, rather, of Stoughton,” -said Emily, with a shiver.</p> - -<p>“And I simply wouldn’t go. I went to work -instead.—But—well—I’m too lazy to work. I -couldn’t—and I can’t. I can talk about it and pretend -about it—but I can’t <i>do</i> it. And now I’ve got -to choose between work and Blue Mountain once -more.”</p> - -<p>“But you had that choice before, and you didn’t -go to Blue Mountain. Why are you so cut up -now?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been skating on thin ice these last four -years. And I’ve begun to think about the future.”</p> - -<p>“How could I advise you? I can only say that -you do well to think seriously about what you’re to -do—if you won’t work.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>“I can’t, I simply can’t, work. It’s so common, -so—Oh, I don’t see it as you do, as I was trying to -make believe I saw it when I first talked to you. I -feel degraded because I am not as we used to be. -I want a big house and lots of servants and social -position. You don’t know how low I feel in a street -car. You don’t know how wretched I am when -I am in the Waldorf or Sherry’s or driving in the -Park in a hired hansom, or when I see the carriages -in the evening with the women on their way to -swell dinners or balls. You don’t know how I despise -myself, how I have despised myself for the -last four years. No wonder Frank wouldn’t marry -me. He’d have been a fool to.” The tears were -rolling down Theresa’s face.</p> - -<p>It was impossible for Emily not to sympathize -with a grief so genuine. “Poor girl,” she thought, -“she can no more help being a snob than she can -help being a brunette.” And she said aloud in a -gentle voice: “What have you thought of doing?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to marry,” answered Theresa. “And -marry quick. And marry money.”</p> - -<p>A queer look came into Emily’s face at this restatement -of her own attempted solution of the -Stoughton problem. Theresa misunderstood the -look. “You are so unsympathetic,” she said, -lighting a cigarette.</p> - -<p>Emily was putting on her hat. “No—not unsympathetic,” -she replied. “Anything but that. -Only—you are healthy and strong and capable, -Theresa. Why should you sell yourself?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>“Oh, I know—you imagine you think it fine and -dignified to work for one’s living. But in the -bottom of your heart you know better. You know -it is not refined and womanly—that it means that -a woman has been beaten, has been unable to -get a man to support her as a lady should be supported.”</p> - -<p>Emily faced her and, as she put on her gloves, -said in a simple, good-tempered way: “I admit -that I’m conventional enough at times and discouraged -enough at times to feel that it would be a -temptation if some man—not too disagreeable—were -to offer to take care of me for life. But I’m trying -to outgrow it, trying to come up to a new ideal of -self-respect. And I believe, Theresa, that the new -ideal is better for us. Anyhow in the circumstances, -it’s certainly wiser and—and safer.”</p> - -<p>“What are you going to do about Marlowe?” -Theresa thrust at her with deliberate suddenness -and some malice.</p> - -<p>Emily kept the colour out of her face, but her -eyes betrayed to Theresa that the thrust had -reached. “Well, what about Marlowe?” She -decided to drop evasion and was at once free from -embarrassment.</p> - -<p>“He’ll not marry you. He isn’t a marrying man.”</p> - -<p>“And why should he marry me? And why -should I marry him? I have no wish to be tied. -It was necessity that forced me to be free; but I -know more certainly every day that it isn’t necessity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -that will keep me free. You see, Theresa. I -don’t hate work, as you do. I feel that every one -has to work anyhow, and I prefer to work for myself -and be paid for it, rather than to be some man’s -housekeeper and get my wages as if they were -charity.”</p> - -<p>“If I married, you may be sure I’d be no man’s -housekeeper,” said Theresa, with a toss of the head.</p> - -<p>“I was making the position as dignified as possible. -Suppose you found after marriage that you -didn’t care for your husband; or suppose you deliberately -married for money. I should say that -mere housekeeper would be enviable in comparison.”</p> - -<p>“There’s a good deal of pretence about that, isn’t -there, honestly?” Theresa was laughing disagreeably. -“It’s a thoroughly womanish remark. But -it’s a remark to make to a man, not when two -women who understand woman-nature are talking -quietly, with no man to overhear.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I’ve known a great many women, -nice women, who seemed to be living quite comfortably -and contentedly with husbands they did not -in the least like. And I am no better, no more -sensitive than other women. Still—I feel as I say. -Let’s call it a masculine quality in me. I doubt if -there are many husbands who live with wives they -don’t like—like a little for the time, at any rate.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve often thought of that. It’s the most satisfactory -thing about being a woman and having a -man in love with one. One knows, as a man never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -can know about a woman, that he means at least -part of it. But you ought to be at your beloved -office. You don’t think I’m so horribly horrid, do -you?”</p> - -<p>Emily stood behind Theresa and put her arms -around her shoulders. “You’ve a right to feel about -yourself and do with yourself as you please,” she -said. “And in the ways that are important to me, -you are the most generous, helpful girl in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t believe I’m mean. But what is a -woman to do in such a hard world?”</p> - -<p>“Go to the office,” said Emily. She patted -Theresa’s cheek encouragingly. “Put off being -blue, dear, until the last minute. Then perhaps -you won’t need to be blue or won’t have time. -Good-bye!”</p> - -<p>What <i>was</i> she going to do about Marlowe? She -began to think of it as she left the house, and she -was still debating it as she entered the <i>Democrat</i> -building and saw him waiting for the elevator.</p> - -<p>“Just whom I wish to see,” he began. “No, not -for that reason—altogether,” he went on audaciously -answering her thought, as if she had spoken it or -looked it, when she had done neither. “This is -business. I’m going to Pittsburg to get specials on -the strike. Canfield’s sending you along.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” Resentment was rising in her. How -could he, how dare he, advertise her to the Managing -Editor thus falsely?—“Why should he send -me?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>“Because I asked him. He opposed it, but I -finally persuaded him. I wanted you for my own -sake. Incidentally I saw that it was a chance for -you. I laid it on rather strong about your talents, -and so you’ve simply got to give a good account of -yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot go,” she said coldly. “It’s impossible.”</p> - -<p>They went into the elevator. “Come up to the -Managing Editor’s office with me,” he said. He -motioned her into a seat in Canfield’s anteroom -and sat beside her. “What is the matter?” he -asked. “Let us never be afraid to tell each other -the exact truth.”</p> - -<p>“How could I go out there alone with you? -The whole office, everybody we meet there, would be -talking about us.”</p> - -<p>“I see,” he said with raillery. “You thought I -had sacrificed your reputation in my eagerness to -get you within easy reach of my wiles? Well, perhaps -I might have done it in some circumstances. -But in this case that happens not to have been my -idea. I remembered what you have for the moment -forgotten—that you are on the staff of the <i>Democrat</i>. -I got you the assignment to do part of this -strike. My private reasons for doing so are not in -the matter at all. You may rest assured that, if I -had not thought you’d send good despatches and -make yourself stronger on the paper and justify my -insistence, I should not have interfered.”</p> - -<p>She sat silent, ashamed of the exhibition of vanity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -and suspicion into which she had been hurried. “I -beg your pardon,” she said at last.</p> - -<p>“I love you,” he answered in a low voice. “And -those three little words mean more to me—than I -thought they could mean. Let us go in to see -Canfield.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t in the least trust Marlowe’s judgment -about you, now that I’ve seen you,” said Mr. Canfield—polite, -pale, thin of face, with a sharp nose; -his dark circled eyes betrayed how restlessly and -sleeplessly his mind prowled through the world in -the daily search for the newest news. “But my -own judgment is gone too. So if you please, go -to Furnaceville for us.” He dropped his drawing-room -tone and poured out a flood of instructions—“Send -us what you see—what you really see. If -you see misery, send it. If not, for heaven’s sake, -don’t ‘fake’ it. Put humour in your stuff—all the -humour you possibly can—‘fake’ that, if necessary. -But it won’t be necessary, if you have real eyes. Go -to the workmen’s houses. Look all through them—parlours, -bedrooms, kitchen. Look at the grocer’s -bills and butcher’s. Tell what their clothes cost. -Describe their children. Talk to their children. -Make us see just what kind of people these are that -are making such a stir. You’ve a great opportunity. -Don’t miss it. And don’t, don’t, don’t, do ‘fine -writing.’ No ‘literature’—just life—men, women, -children. Here’s an order for a hundred dollars. -If you run short, Marlowe will telegraph you -more.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>“Then we don’t go together after all?” she said -to Marlowe, as they left Canfield’s office.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry you’re to be disappointed,” he replied, -mockingly. “I stay in Pittsburg for the present. -You go out to the mills—out to Furnaceville first.”</p> - -<p>“Where the militia are?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—they’re expecting trouble there next week. -I’ll probably be on in a day or so. But I must see -several people in Pittsburg first. You’ll have the -artist with you, though. Try to keep him sober. -But if he <i>will</i> get drunk, turn him adrift. He’ll -only hamper you.”</p> - -<p>Emily was in a fever as she cashed the order and -went uptown to pack a small trunk and catch the -six o’clock train. Going on an important mission -thus early in her career as a working-woman would -have been exciting enough, however quiet the occasion. -But going among militia and rioters, going -unchaperoned with two men, going the wildest -part of the excursion with one man and he an artist -of unsteady habits who would need watching—she -could not grasp it. However, an hour after -they were settled in the Pullman, she had forgotten -everything except the work she was to do—or fail -to do. Indeed, it had already begun. Marlowe -brought with him a big bundle of newspapers, and -a boy from the <i>Democrat’s</i> Philadelphia office came -to the station there, and gave him another and -bigger bundle.</p> - -<p>“I’m reading up,” said Marlowe, “and it won’t -do you any harm to do the same. Then, when we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -arrive, we’ll know all that’s been going on, and we’ll -be able to step right into it without delay.”</p> - -<p>The artist went to the smoking compartment. -She and Marlowe attacked the papers. Both read -until dinner, and again after dinner until the berths -were made. When they talked it was of the strike. -Marlowe neither by word nor by look indicated -that he was conscious of any but a purely professional -bond between them. And she soon felt as -he acted—occasionally hoping that <i>he</i> did not altogether -feel as he acted, but was restraining himself -through fine instinct.</p> - -<p>When they separated at Pittsburg, and she and -the artist were on the way in the chill morning to -the train for Furnaceville, she remembered that he -had not shown the slightest anxiety about the peril -into which she was going—and going by his arrangement. -But she was soon deep in the Pittsburg -morning papers, her mind absorbed in the -battle between brain-workers and brawn-workers of -which she was to be a witness. She was impatient -to arrive, impatient to carry out the suggestions -which her imagination had evolved from what she -had been reading. To her the strike, with its anxieties -and perils for thousands, meant only her own -opportunity, as she noted with some self-reproach.</p> - -<p>“I hope they’ll get licked,” said the artist.</p> - -<p>“Who?” asked Emily, looking at him more -carefully than she had thus far, and remembering -that he had not been introduced to her and that -she did not know his name.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>“The workingmen, of course,” he replied. “I -know them. My father was one of ’em. I came -from this neighbourhood.”</p> - -<p>“I should think your sympathies would be with -them.” Emily was coldly polite. She did not like -the young man’s look of coarse dissipation—dull -eyes, clouded skin, and unhealthy lips and teeth.</p> - -<p>“That shows you don’t know them. They are -the most unreasonable lot, and if they had the -chance they’d be brutal tyrants. They have no -respect for brains.”</p> - -<p>“But they might be right in this case. I don’t -say that they are. It’s so difficult to judge what is -right and what wrong.”</p> - -<p>“You may be sure they’re wrong. My father -was always wrong. Why, if he and his friends had -been able to carry out all they used to talk, the -whole world would be a dead level of savages. -They used to call everybody who didn’t do manual -labour a ‘parasite on the toiling masses.’ As if the -toiling masses would have any toiling to do to enable -them to earn bread and comfortable homes for -themselves if it were not for the brain-workers.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it seems to me that we’re all toilers together, -each in his own way. Perhaps it’s because I’m too -stupid to understand it, but I don’t think much of -theories about these things.”</p> - -<p>The train stopped, the brakeman shouted, “Furnaceville!” -Emily and the artist descended to the -station platform, there to be eyed searchingly by a -crowd of roughly dressed men with scowling faces.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -When the train had moved on without discharging -the load of non-union workers they were expecting, -their faces relaxed and they became a cheerful crowd -of Americans. They watched the “lady from the -city,” with respectful, fascinated side-glances. Those -nearest her looked aimlessly but earnestly about, as -if hoping to see or to imagine some way of being -of service to her. Through the crowd pushed a -young man, whom Emily at once knew was of the -newspaper profession.</p> - -<p>“Is this Miss Bromfield?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” replied Emily, “from the New York <i>Democrat</i>.”</p> - -<p>“My name is Holyoke. I’m the Pittsburg correspondent -of the <i>Democrat</i>. Mr. Marlowe telegraphed -me to meet you and see that you did not -get into any danger, and also to engage rooms for -you.”</p> - -<p>Emily beamed upon Mr. Holyoke. Marlowe <i>had</i> -thought of her—had been anxious about her. -And instead of saying so, he had acted. “Thank -you so much,” she said. “This gentleman is from -the <i>Democrat</i> also.”</p> - -<p>“My name is Camp,” said the artist, making a -gesture toward the unwieldy bundle of drawing -sheets wrapped flat which he carried under his arm.</p> - -<p>“I have arranged for you at the Palace Hotel,” -continued Holyoke. “Don’t build your hopes too -high on that name. I took back-rooms on the -second floor because the hotel is just across an open -space from the entrance to the mills.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>Emily thought a moment on this location and its -reason, then grew slightly paler. Holyoke looked -at her with the deep sympathy which a young man -must always feel for the emotions of a young and -good-looking woman. “If there is any trouble, it’ll -be over quickly once it begins,” he said, “and you -can easily keep out of the way.”</p> - -<p>They climbed a dreary, rough street, lined with -monotonous if comfortable cottages. It was a -depressing town, as harsh as the iron by which all -of its inhabitants lived. “People ought to be well -paid to live in such a place as this,” said Emily.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how they stand it,” Holyoke replied. -“But the local paper has an editorial against the -militia this morning, and it speaks of the town as -‘our lovely little city, embowered among the mountains, -the home of beauty and refinement.’”</p> - -<p>The Palace was a three-story country-town hotel, -with the usual group of smoking and chewing -loungers impeding the entrance. Emily asked -Holyoke to meet her in the small parlour next to the -office in half an hour.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI.<br /> - - -<small>SEEN FROM A BARRICADED WINDOW.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">SHE was in the parlour when Holyoke returned. -The loungers and her fellow-guests -had been wandering through the -room to inspect her—“the lady writer -from New York.” She herself was absorbed -in the view of the mills rising above a stockade -fence not five hundred feet away, across a -flagged public square. There were three entrances, -and up and down in front of each marched a soldier -with a musket at shoulder-arms. In each entrance -Emily saw queer-looking little guns on wheels. -Their tubes and mountings flashed in the sunlight.</p> - -<p>“What kind of cannon are those?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“They’re machine-guns,” explained Holyoke. -“You put in a belt full of cartridges, aim the muzzle -at the height of a man’s middle or calves as the -case may be. Then you turn the crank and the -muzzle waggles to and fro across the line of the -mob and begins to sputter out bullets—about fifteen -hundred a minute. And down go the rioters like -wheat before a scythe. They’re beauties—those -guns.”</p> - -<p>Emily looked from Holyoke to the guns, but -she could not conceive his picture. It seemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -impossible that this scene of peace, of languor, -could be shifted to a scene of such terror as some -of the elements in it ought to suggest. How -could these men think of killing each other? Why -should that soldier from the other end of the State -leave his home to come and threaten to shoot his -fellow citizen whom he did not know, whose town -he had not seen until yesterday, and in whose grievance, -real or fancied, he had no interest or part? -She felt that this was the sentimental, unreasoning, -narrow view to take. But now that she was face to -face with the possibility of bloodshed, broad principles -grew vague, unreal; and the actualities before -her eyes and filling her horizon seemed all-important.</p> - -<p>She and Holyoke wandered about the town, he -helping her quickly to gather the materials for her -first “special,” her impression of the town and its -people and their feelings and of the stockaded mills -with the soldiers and guns—her supplement to -the strictly news account Holyoke would send. -Camp accompanied them, making sketches. He -went back to the hotel in advance of them to draw -several large pictures to be sent by the night mail -that they might reach New York in time for the -paper of the next day but one. Toward four -o’clock Emily shut herself in her room, and began -her first article.</p> - -<p>An hour of toil passed and she had not yet made -a beginning. She was wrought to a high pitch of -nervous terror. “Suppose I should fail utterly?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -Can it be possible that I shall be unable to write -anything at all?” The floor was strewn with sheets -of paper, a sentence, a few sentences—failed beginnings—written -on each. Her hands were grimed -with lead dust from sharpened and resharpened -pencils. There was a streak of black on her left -cheek. Her hair was coming down—as it seemed -to her, the forewarning of complete mental collapse. -She rose and paced the floor in what was very -nearly an agony of despair.</p> - -<p>There was a knock and she opened the door to -take in a telegram. It was from the Managing -Editor:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>If there should be trouble to-night, please help Holyoke all -you can. Do not be afraid of duplicating his stuff.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>The Democrat.</i></p> -</div> - -<p>This put her in a panic. She began to sob hysterically. -“What possessed Marlowe to drag me -into this scrape? And they expect me to do a -man’s work! Oh, how could I have been such a -fool as to undertake this? I can’t do it! I shall -be disgraced!”</p> - -<p>She washed her face and hands and put her hair -in order. She was so desperate that her sense of -humour was not aroused by the sight of her absurdly -tragic expression. She sat at the table and began -again. She had just written:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“The shining muzzles of six machine-guns and the spotless -new uniforms of the three soldiers that march up and down on -guard at the mill stockade are the most conspicuous——”</p> -</div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>when there was a knock and her door was flung -open. She started up, her eyes wide with alarm, -her cheeks blanched, her lips apart, her throat ready -to release a scream. It was only Holyoke.</p> - -<p>“Beg pardon,” he gasped out. “No time for -ceremony. The company is bringing a gang of -‘scabs’ through the mountains on foot. The strikers -are on to it. There’ll be a fight sure. Don’t -stir out of your room, no matter what you hear. -If the hotel’s in any danger, I’ll let you know. -Camp’ll be looking out for you too—and the other -newspaper boys. As soon as it’s over, I’ll come. -Sit tight—remember!”</p> - -<p>He rushed away. Emily looked at her chaos of -failures. Of what use to go on now—now, when -real events were impending? From her window -she could see several backyards. In one, three -children were making mud pies and a woman was -hanging out the wash—blue overalls, red flannel, -and cheap muslin underclothes, polkadot cotton -slips and dresses in many sizes, yarn stockings and -socks, white and gray.</p> - -<p>Crack!</p> - -<p>The woman paused with one leg of a pair of -overalls unpinned. The children straightened up, -feeling for each other with mud-bedaubed hands. -Emily felt as if her ears were about to burst with -the strain of the silence.</p> - -<p>Crack! Crack! Crack! An answering volley of -oaths. A scream of derision and rage from a mob.</p> - -<p>The children fled into the house. The woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> -gathered in a great armful of clothes from the line -as if a rain storm had suddenly come. She ran, -entangled in her burden, her thick legs in drab stockings -interfering one with the other. Emily jumped -to her feet.</p> - -<p>“I cannot stay here,” she exclaimed. “I must -<i>see</i>!”</p> - -<p>She flew down the hall to the front of the house. -There was a parlour and Camp’s paper and drawing -materials were scattered about. He was barricading -a window with the bedding from a room to the -rear. He glanced at her. “Go back!” he said in a -loud, harsh voice. “This is no place for a woman.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s just the place for a reporter,” she replied. -“I’ll help you.”</p> - -<p>They arranged the mattresses so that, sheltered -by them and the thick brick wall, they could peer -out of the window from either side.</p> - -<p>The square was empty. The gates in the stockade -were closed. In each of the barricaded upper -windows of the mill appeared the glittering barrels -of several rifles at different heights.</p> - -<p>“See that long, low building away off there to -the left?” said Camp. “The ‘scabs’ and their -militia guard are behind it. The strikers are in the -houses along this side of the street.”</p> - -<p>Crack! A bullet crashed into the mirror hanging -on the rear wall of their parlour. It had cut a -clean hole through the window pane without shivering -it and had penetrated the mattresses as if they -had been a single thickness of paper.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>“Now will you go back to your room?” angrily -shouted Camp, although he was not three feet from -her.</p> - -<p>“Why are they firing at the hotel?” was Emily’s -reply.</p> - -<p>“Bad aim—that’s all. The strikers aren’t here. -That must have been an answer to a bullet from -next door. The soldiers shoot whenever a striker -shows himself to aim.”</p> - -<p>Crack! There was a howl of derision in reply. -“That’s the way they let the soldiers know it was -a close shot but a miss,” said Camp.</p> - -<p>A man ran from behind a building to the right -and in front of the stockade, and started across the -open toward where the strikers were entrenched. -He was a big, rough-looking fellow. As he came, -Emily could see his face—dark, scowling, set.</p> - -<p>Crack!</p> - -<p>The man ran more swiftly. There was a howl of -delight from the strikers. But, a few more leaps -and he stumbled, flung up his hands, pitched forward, -fell, squirmed over so that he lay face upward. -His legs and arms were drawing convulsively up -against his body and shooting out to their full -length again. His face was twisting and grew shiny -with sweat and froth. A stream of blood oozed -from under him and crawled in a thin, dark rivulet -across the flagging to a crack, then went no further. -He turned his face, a wild appeal for help in it, -toward the house whence he had come.</p> - -<p>At once from behind that shelter ran a second<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -man, younger than the first. He had a revolver in -his right hand. Emily could plainly see his -clinched jaws, his features distorted with fury. -His lips were drawn back from his teeth like an -angry bulldog’s.</p> - -<p>“He’s a madman!” shrieked Camp. “He can -do nothing!”</p> - -<p>“He’s a hero,” panted Emily.</p> - -<p>Crack!</p> - -<p>He stopped short. Emily saw his face change in -expression—from fury to wonder, from wonder to -fear, from fear to a ghastly, green-white pallor of -pain and hate. He tossed his arms high above his -head. The revolver flew from his hand. Then, -within a few feet of the still-twitching body of the -other, he crashed down. The blood spurted from -his mouth, drenching his face. He worked himself -over and around, half rose, wiped his face with his -sleeve, fell back. Emily saw that he was looking -toward the shelter, his features calm—a look of love -and longing, a look of farewell for some one concealed -there.</p> - -<p>And now a third figure ran from the shelter into -that zone of death—a boyish figure, lithe and swift. -As it came nearer she saw that it was a youth, a -mere lad, smooth faced, with delicate features. He -too carried a revolver, but the look in his face was -love and anguish.</p> - -<p>Crack!</p> - -<p>The boy flung the revolver from him and ran on. -One arm was swinging limp. Now he was at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -side of the second man. He was just kneeling, -just stretching out his hand toward the dear dead—</p> - -<p>Crack!</p> - -<p>He fell forward, his arm convulsively circling the -head of his beloved. As he fell, his hat slipped -away and a mass of brown hair uncoiled and showered -down, hiding both their faces.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Emily drew back, sick and trembling. -She glanced at Camp. He looked like a maniac. -His eyes bulged, bloodshot. His nostrils stood -out stiff. His long yellow teeth were grinding and -snapping.</p> - -<p>“God damn them!” he shrieked. “God damn -the hell-hounds of the capitalists! Murderers! -Murderers! killing honest workingmen and women!”</p> - -<p>And as Emily crouched there, too weak to lift herself, -yet longing to see those corpse-strewn, bloodstained -stones—the stage of that triple tragedy of -courage, self-sacrifice, love and death—Camp raved -on, poured out curses upon capitalists and militia. -Camp!—who that very morning had been trying to -impress Emily with his superiority to his origin, his -contempt of these “mere machines for the use of -men of brains.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XII.<br /> - - -<small>A RISE AND A FALL.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WHEN Emily looked again two of the -strikers, one waving a white rag at -the end of a pole, were advancing -toward the limp bodies in the centre -of the square. They made three -trips. Neither shots nor shouts broke the silence. -Soon the only evidences of the tragedy were the -pools and streaks of blood on the flagging.</p> - -<p>Camp was once more at his drawing, rapidly outlining -a big sketch of the scene they had witnessed. -“Good stuff, wasn’t it?” he said, looking up with -an apologetic grin and flush. “It couldn’t have -been better if it had been fixed for a theatre.”</p> - -<p>“It’ll make a good story,” replied Emily, struggling -with some success to assume the calmly professional -air and tone. “I’m going to my room. -If I hear any more shots, I’ll come again. When -Mr. Holyoke returns, please tell him I’d like to see -him.”</p> - -<p>She had rushed through that hall an hour before, -a panic-stricken girl. She returned a woman, confident -of herself. She had seen; she had felt; she -had lived. She sat at her table, and, with little -hesitation, wrote. When she had been at work an -hour and a half, Holyoke interrupted her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>“Oh, I see you’re busy,” he began.</p> - -<p>“I wanted to say,” said Emily, “that I shall send -a little about the trouble a while ago—quite independently -of the news, you know. So, just write -as if I were not here at all.”</p> - -<p>“All right. They’ll want every line we can both -send.” Holyoke looked at her with friendly anxiety. -“You look tired,” he said, “as if you’d been under -a strain. It must have been an awful experience -for you, sitting here. Don’t bother to write anything. -I’ll sign both our names to my despatch.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, but I couldn’t let you do that. -What were the names of those people who were -killed out in the square?”</p> - -<p>“They were a puddler named Jack Farron, and -his son Tom, and Tom’s wife. Tom got married -only last week. She insisted on going out with -him. They had been scouting, and had news that -the militia were moving to take the strikers from -the rear and rout them out of their position. You -heard about the shooting?”</p> - -<p>“No—I saw it,” said Emily. “Mr. Camp and I -watched from the parlour window. Is there going -to be more trouble?”</p> - -<p>“Not for a good many hours. The ‘scabs’ retreated, -and won’t come back until they’re sure the -way is clear.”</p> - -<p>Emily took up her pencil and looked at her paper. -“I’ll call again later,” said Holyoke, as he departed. -“You can file your despatch downstairs. -The Postal telegraph office is in the hotel.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>She wrote about four thousand words, and went -over her “copy” carefully three times. It did not -please her, but she felt that she had told the facts, -and that she had avoided “slopping over”—the -great offence against which every newspaper man -and woman who had given her advice had warned -her. She filed the despatch at nine o’clock.</p> - -<p>“We can put it on the wire at once,” said the -telegraph manager. “We’ll get a loop straight into -the <i>Democrat</i> office. We knew you people would -be flocking here, and so we provided against a crush. -We’ve got plenty of wires and operators.”</p> - -<p>Emily ate little of the dinner that had been -saved for her, and at each sudden crash from the -kitchen where noisy servants were washing dishes, -her nerves leaped and the blood beat heavily against -her temples. She went back to the little reception -room and stood at the window, looking out into the -square. In the bright moonlight she saw the soldiers -marching up and down before the entrance to the -stockade. The open space between it and her was -empty, and the soft light flooded round the great -dark stains which marked the site of the tragedy.</p> - -<p>“Why aren’t you in bed?” It was Marlowe’s -voice, and it so startled her that she gave a low cry -and clasped her clinched hands against her breast. -She had been thinking of him. The death of those -lovers, its reminder of the uncertainty of life and of -the necessity of seizing happiness before it should -escape forever, had brought him, or, rather, love -with him as the medium, vividly into her mind.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>“You frightened me—I’m seeing ghosts to-night,” -she said. “How did you reach here when there is -no train?”</p> - -<p>“Several of us hired a special and came down—just -an engine and tender. We fancied there might -be more trouble. But it’s all over. The Union -knows it can’t fight the whole State, and the Company -is very apologetic for the killing of those people, -especially the woman. Still, her death may -have saved a long and bloody strike. That must -have been an awful scene this afternoon.” He was -talking absently. His eyes, his thoughts were upon -her, slender, pale, yet golden.</p> - -<p>Emily briefly described what she had seen.</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity you didn’t telegraph an account of -it. Your picture of it would have been better than -Holyoke’s, even if you didn’t see the shooting.”</p> - -<p>“But I <i>did</i> see it!”</p> - -<p>Marlowe’s look became dazed. “What?” he -said. “How? Where were you?”</p> - -<p>“Upstairs—in the parlour. I was so fascinated that -I forgot to be afraid. And a bullet came through -the window.”</p> - -<p>He made a gesture as if to catch her in his arms. -Instead he took her hands and kissed them passionately.</p> - -<p>“I never dreamed you would be actually in -danger,” he said pleadingly. “I was heedless—I—heedless -of you—you who are everything to me. -Forgive me, dear.”</p> - -<p>She leaned against the casement, her eyes fixed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -dreamily upon the sky, the moonlight making her -face ethereal.</p> - -<p>“Was I too abrupt?” he asked. “Have I -offended in saying it again at this time?” His exaggerated, -nervous anxiety struck him as absurd, for -him, but he admitted that his unprecedented fear -of what a woman might think of him was real.</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered. “But—I must go. I’m -very tired. And I’m beginning to feel queer and -weak.” She put out her hand. “Good-night,” she -said, her eyes down and her voice very low.</p> - -<p>When she was in her room she half-staggered to -the bed. “I’ll rest a moment before I undress,” -she thought, and lay down. She did not awaken -until broad daylight. She looked at her watch. -“Ten minutes to twelve—almost noon!” she exclaimed. -She had been asleep twelve hours. As -she took a bath and dressed again, she was in high -spirits. “It’s good to be alive,” she said to herself, -“to be alive, to be young, to be free, to be loved, -and to—to like it.”</p> - -<p>Was she in love with Marlowe? She thought so—or, -at least, she was about to be. But she did -not linger upon that. The luxury of being loved -in a way that made her intensely happy was enough. -She liked to think of his arms clasping her. She -liked him to touch her. She liked to remember -that look of exalted passion in his eyes, and to -know that it was glowing there for her.</p> - -<p>The late afternoon brought news that the strike -had been settled by a compromise. Within an hour<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -the New York special correspondents were on the -way home. At Philadelphia the next morning -Emily came into the restaurant car. “This way, -Miss Bromfield,” said the steward, with a low bow. -She wondered how he knew her. She noticed that -the answering smiles she got as she spoke to the -newspaper men she had met at Furnaceville were -broader than the occasion seemed to warrant. She -glanced at herself in the mirror to see whether -omission or commission in dressing was the cause. -Then she took the seat Marlowe had reserved for -her, opposite himself.</p> - -<p>“There were three of us in the dressing-room -making it as disagreeable for each other as possible -after the usual feminine fashion,” she began, and -her glance fell upon the first page of the <i>Democrat</i> -of the day before, which Marlowe was holding up. -She gasped and stared. “Why!” she exclaimed, -the red flaring up in her face, “where did they get -it? It’s disgraceful!”</p> - -<p>“It” was a large reproduction of a pen and ink -sketch of herself. Under “it” in big type was the -line, “Emily Bromfield, the <i>Democrat’s</i> Correspondent -at the Strike.” Beside “it” under a “scare-head” -was the main story of the strike, and the last -line of the heading read, “By Emily Bromfield.” -Then followed her account of what she had seen -from the parlour window. What with astonishment, -pleasure, and mortification over this sudden -brazen blare of publicity for herself and her work, -she was on the verge of a nervous outburst.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>“Be careful,” said Marlowe. “They’re all looking -at you. What I want to know is where did -they get that sketch of you in a dreamy, thoughtful -attitude at a desk covered with papers. It -looks like an idyll of a woman journalist. All the -out-of-town papers will be sure to copy that. But -where did our people get it?”</p> - -<p>Just then Camp came through on his way to the -smoking car. “Who drew this, Camp?” asked -Marlowe, stopping him.</p> - -<p>Camp looked embarrassed and grinned. “I made -it one day in the office,” he said to Emily. “They -must have fished it out of my desk in the art room.”</p> - -<p>Emily did not wish to hurt his feelings, so she concealed -her irritation. Marlowe said: “A splendid -piece of work! Lucky they knew about it and got -it out.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” said Camp, looking appealingly at -Emily. “You’re not offended?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“It gave me a turn,” Emily replied evasively. -Camp took her smile for approval, thanked her and -went on.</p> - -<p>“You don’t altogether like your fame?” said -Marlowe with a teasing expression. “But you’ll -soon get used to it, and then you’ll be cross if you -look in the papers and don’t find your name or a -picture of yourself. That’s the way ‘newspaper -notoriety’ affects everybody. They first loathe, -then endure, then pursue.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t mock at me, please. It’s good in a -business way, isn’t it? And I’m sure the picture<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -is not bad—in fact, it makes me look very—intellectual. -And as they printed my despatch, that -can’t have been so horribly bad. Altogether I’m -beginning to be reconciled and shall presently be -delighted.”</p> - -<p>“You can get copies of the paper ready for mailing -in the business office—a reduction on large -quantities,” said Marlowe. “And you won’t need -to unwrap them to mark where your friends must -look.”</p> - -<p>Emily was glancing at her story with pretended -indifference. “It makes more than I thought,” -she said carelessly, giving him the paper.</p> - -<p>“Vanity! vanity! You know you are dying to -read every word of it. I’ll wager you’ll go through -it a dozen times once you are alone. We always -do—at first.”</p> - -<p>“Well, why not? It’s a harmless vanity and it -ought to be called honest pride. And—I owe it to -you—all to you. And I’m glad it is to <i>you</i> that I -owe it.”</p> - -<p>At the office she was the centre of interest—for a -few hours. “Isn’t she a perfect picture?” said -Miss Farwell to Miss Gresham, as they watched her -receiving congratulations. “And she doesn’t exaggerate -herself. She probably knows that it was -her looks and her dresses that got her the assignment -and that make them think she’s wonderful. -She really didn’t write it so very well. You could -tell all the way through that it was a beginner, -couldn’t you?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>“Of course it wasn’t a work of genius,” admitted -Miss Gresham. “But it was very good indeed.”</p> - -<p>“A story like that simply tells itself.” Miss -Farwell used envy’s most judicial tone. “It -couldn’t be spoiled.”</p> - -<p>Miss Gresham and Emily went uptown together. -“I’ve read my special several times,” said Emily, -“and I don’t feel so set up over it as I did at first. -I suspect they would have rewritten it if it had not -got into the office late.”</p> - -<p>“You did wonderfully well,” Miss Gresham assured -her. “And you’ve put yourself in a position -where your work will be noted and, if it’s good, -recognised. The hardest thing in the world is to -get disentangled from the crowd so that those above -are able to see one.”</p> - -<p>The routine of petty assignments into which she -sank again was wearisome and distasteful. She had -expected a better kind of work. Instead, she got -the same work as before. As Coleman was giving -her one of these trifles, he looked cautiously round -to make sure that no one was within hearing distance, -then said in a low voice: “Don’t blame me -for giving you poor assignments. I have orders -from Mr. Stilson—strict orders.”</p> - -<p>Emily did not like Coleman’s treachery to his -superior, but her stronger feeling was anger against -Stilson. “Why does he dislike me?” she thought. -“What a mean creature he is. It must be some -queer sort of jealous envy.” She laughed at herself -for this vanity. But she had more faith in it than<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -she thought, and it was with the latent idea of getting -it a prop that she repeated to Miss Gresham -what Coleman had said. “Why do you think Mr. -Stilson told him that?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, I can’t imagine,” replied Miss -Gresham. She reflected a moment and then turned -her head so that Emily could not see her eyes. -She thought she had guessed the reason. “Stilson -is trying to save her from the consequences of her -vanity,” she said to herself, “I had better not tell -her, as it would do no good and might make her -dislike me.” And watching Emily more closely, -she soon discovered that premature triumph had -been a little too much for her good sense. Emily -was entertaining an opinion of herself far higher -than the facts warranted. “Stilson is doing her a -service,” Miss Gresham thought, as Emily complained -from time to time of trifling assignments. -“He’ll restore her point of view presently.”</p> - -<p>After a month of this Stilson called her into his -office. He stood at the window, tall and stern—he -was taller than Marlowe and dark; and while Marlowe’s -expression was one of good-humoured, rather -cynical carelessness, his was grave and haughty.</p> - -<p>Without looking at her he began: “Miss Bromfield, -we’ve been giving you a very important kind -of work—the small items. They are the test of a -newspaper’s standard of perfection. I’m afraid you -don’t appreciate their importance.”</p> - -<p>“I’m doing the best I can,” said Emily coldly.</p> - -<p>He frowned, but she watched him narrowly, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -saw that he was suffering acute embarrassment. -“It isn’t easy for me to speak to you,” he went on. -“But—it’s necessary. At first you did well. Now—you’re -<i>not</i> doing well.”</p> - -<p>There was a long, a painful silence. Then he -suddenly looked at her. And in spite of herself, -his expression melted resentment and obstinacy. -“You can do well again,” he said. “Please try.”</p> - -<p>The tone of the “Please try” made her feel his -fairness and friendliness as she had not felt it before. -“Thank you,” she said impulsively. “I <i>will</i> try.” -She paused at the door and turned. “Thank you,” -she said again, earnestly. He was bending over -his desk and seemed to be giving his attention to -his papers. But Emily understood him well enough -now to know that he was trying to hide his embarrassment. -When she was almost hidden from him -by the closing door, she heard him begin to speak. -“I beg your pardon,” she said, showing her head -round the edge of the door, “What did you say?”</p> - -<p>“No matter,” he replied, and she thought she -saw, rather than heard, something very like a sigh.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIII.<br /> - - -<small>A COMPROMISE WITH CONVENTIONALITY.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">MARLOWE was as responsible for -Emily’s self-exaggeration as was -Emily herself. He had been enveloping -her in an atmosphere of adulation, -through which she could see -clearly and sensibly neither him nor herself nor her -affairs.</p> - -<p>When she first appeared he was deeply entangled -elsewhere. But at once with the adroitness of experience, -he extricated himself and boldly advanced -into the new and unprecedently attractive net which -fate was spreading for him. He was of those men -who do not go far on the journey without a woman, -or long with the same woman. He abhorred monotony -both in work and in love; a typical impressionist, -he soon found one subject, whether for -his mind or for his heart, exhausted and wearisome.</p> - -<p>Emily in her loneliness and youth, yearning for -love and companionship, was so frankly attracted -that he at first thought her as easy a conquest as -had been the women who dwelt in the many and -brief chapters of the annals of his conquering career. -But he, and she also, to her great surprise, discovered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -that, while she had cast aside most conventionality -in practice and all conventionality in theory -there remained an immovable remnant. And this, -fast anchored in unreasoning inherited instinct, -stubbornly resisted their joint attack. In former -instances of somewhat similar discoveries, he had -winged swiftly, and gracefully, away; now, to his -astonishment, he found that his wings were snared. -Without intention on his part, without effort on -her part, he was fairly caught. Nor was he struggling -against the toils.</p> - -<p>They had been together many times since the -return from Furnaceville. And usually it was just -he and she, dining in the open air, or taking long -drives or walks, or sailing the river or the bay. But -their perplexed state of mind had kept them from -all but subtle reference to the one subject of which -both were thinking more and more intently and intensely. -One night they were driving in a hansom -after a dinner on the Savoy balcony—he suddenly -bent and kissed the long sleeve of her thin summer -dress at the wrist. “You light a flame that goes -dancing through my veins,” he said. “I wish I -could find new words to put it in. But I’ve only -the old ones, Emily—I love you and I want your -love—I want you. This is an unconditional surrender -and I’m begging you to receive it. You won’t -say no, will you, Emily?”</p> - -<p>Her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks pale. But -she succeeded in controlling her voice so that she -could put a little mockery into her tone when she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -said: “What—you! You, who are notoriously -opposed to unconditional surrender. I never -expected to live to see the day when you would -praise treason and proclaim yourself a traitor.”</p> - -<p>“I love you,” he said—“that’s all the answer I -can make.”</p> - -<p>“And only a few days ago some one was repeating -to me a remark of yours—let me see, how did -you put it? Oh, yes—‘love is a bird that does not -sing well in a cage.’”</p> - -<p>“I said it—and I meant it,” he replied. “And I -love you—that’s all. I still believe what I said, but—please, -Emily, dear—bring the cage!”</p> - -<p>The mockery in her face gave place to a serious -look. “I wonder,” she said, “does love sing at all -in a cage? I’ve never known an instance, though -I’ve read and heard of them. But they’re almost all -a long way off, or a long time ago, or among old-fashioned -people.”</p> - -<p>“But I’m old-fashioned, I find—and won’t you be, -dear? And I think we might teach our wild bird -to sing in a cage, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>Emily made no answer but continued to watch -the dark trees, that closed in on either side of the -shining drive.</p> - -<p>“Since I’ve known you, Emily, I’ve found a -new side to my nature—one I did not suspect the -existence of. Perhaps it didn’t exist until I knew -you.”</p> - -<p>“It has been so with me,” she said. She had been -surprised and even disquieted by the upbursting of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -springs of tenderness and gentleness and longing -since she had known Marlowe.</p> - -<p>“Do you care—a little, dear?” he asked.</p> - -<p>She nodded. “But what were you going to say?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve always disliked the idea of marriage,” he -went on. “There’s something in me—not peculiar -to me, I imagine, but in most men as well—that -revolts at the idea of a bond of any kind. A man -falls in love with a woman or a woman with a man. -And heretofore I’ve always said to myself, how can -they know that love will last?”</p> - -<p>“They can’t know it,” replied Emily. “And -when they pledge themselves to keep on loving and -honouring, they must know, if they are capable of -thinking, that they’ve promised something they had -no right to promise. I hate to be bound. I love -to be free. Nothing, nothing, could induce me to -give up my freedom.”</p> - -<p>Marlowe had expected that she would gladly -put aside her idea of freedom the moment he announced -that he was willing to sacrifice his own. -Her earnestness disconcerted, alarmed him. -“Emily!” he said in a low, intense tone, putting -his hand upon hers. “Tell me”— She had -turned her head and they were now looking each -into the other’s eyes—“do you—can’t you—care -for me?” He wondered at the appeal in his voice, -at the anxiety with which he waited for her answer. -“I cannot live without you, Emily.”</p> - -<p>“But if I were tied to you,” she said, “if I felt -compelled, if I felt that you were being compelled,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -to keep on with me—well, I’m not sure that -I could continue to care or to believe that you -cared.”</p> - -<p>“Then”—he interrupted.</p> - -<p>“But,” she went on, “I’m not great enough or -wise enough, or perhaps I was too long trained to -conventionality, or am too recently and incompletely -freed,—to——”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t necessary,” he began, as she hesitated -and cast about for a phrase. “Perhaps—in some -circumstances—I’d have hoped that it would be -so. But with you—it’s different. I can’t explain -myself even to myself. All I know is that my -theories have gone down the wind and that—I -want you. I want you on the world’s terms—for -better or for worse, for ever and a day. Dear, can’t -you care enough for me to take the risk?”</p> - -<p>He put his arm round her and kissed her. She -said in a faint voice, hardly more than a murmur, -“I think so—yes.”</p> - -<p>“Will you marry me, Emily?” he asked eagerly, -and then he smiled with a little self-mockery. “I’ve -always loathed that word ‘marry’—and all other -words that mean finality. I’ve always wished to be -free to change my mind and my course at any moment. -And now——”</p> - -<p>She pushed him from her, but left her hand on -his shoulder. “Yes, dear, but it isn’t a finality -with us. We go through a ceremony because—say, -because it is convenient. But if we—either -of us—cease to love, each must feel free to go. If<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -I ever found out that you had kissed me once, -merely because you thought it was expected of you, -I’d despise myself—and you. If I promise to -marry you, dear, you must promise to leave me -free.”</p> - -<p>“Since I could not hold you—the real you—an instant -longer than you wished—I promise.” He -caught her in his arms and kissed her again and -again. “But you’ll never call on me to redeem -my promise, will you, dear?”</p> - -<p>“That’s why I ask you to make it. If we’re both -free, we may not ever care to test it,” she answered. -The words came from her mind, but with them came -a tone and a look from the heart that were an answer -to his.</p> - -<p>“We—you talk the new wisdom,” he said, “but—” -and he kissed her once more “feel the old wisdom, -or folly—which is it? No matter—I love -you.”</p> - -<p>“The road is very bright here and carriages are -coming,” she answered, sitting up and releasing -herself from him. And then they both laughed at -their sensitiveness to conventions.</p> - -<p>Marlowe was all for flinging their theories overboard -in the mass and accepting the routine as it is -marked out for the married. But Emily refused. -She could not entertain the idea of becoming a dependent -upon him, absorbed in his personality. “I -wish to continue to love him,” she said to herself. -“And also I’d be very foolish to bind him, though -he wishes to be bound. The chances are, he’d grow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -weary long before I did. A man’s life is fuller than -a woman’s, even than a working-woman’s. And he -has more temptations to wander.”</p> - -<p>“We will marry,” she said to him, “but we will -not ‘settle down’.”</p> - -<p>“I should hope <i>not</i>,” he answered, with energy, -as before his eyes rose a vision of himself yawning -in carpet-slippers with a perambulator in the front -hall.</p> - -<p>“We will compromise with conventionality,” -she went on. “We will marry, but we won’t tell -anybody. And I’ll take an apartment with Joan -Gresham and will go on with my work. And— Dearest, -I don’t wish to become an old story to -you—at least not so long as we’re young. I don’t -want you as my husband. I want you to be my -lover. And I want to be always, every time we -meet, new and interesting to you.”</p> - -<p>“But—why, I’d be little more than a stranger.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” She put her arms about -his neck and looked him full in the eyes. “You -know it wouldn’t be so.”</p> - -<p>He thought a moment. “I see what you mean,” -he said. “I suppose it is familiarity that drives -love out of marriage. Whatever you wish, Strange -Lady—anything, everything. We can easily try -your plan.”</p> - -<p>“And if it fails, we can ‘settle down’ just like -other people, where, if we ‘settled down’ first and -failed at that, we’d have nothing left to try.”</p> - -<p>“You are so—so different from any other woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -that ever was,” he said. “No wonder I love you in -the way that a man loves only once.”</p> - -<p>“And I’m determined that you shall keep on -loving me.”</p> - -<p>“I can see that you are getting ready to lead me -a wild life.” There was foreboding as well as jest -in his tone.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIV.<br /> - - -<small>“EVERYTHING AWAITS MADAME.”</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">FRANK wished to see Theresa well provided -for—he was most amiable and generous -where serving a friend cost him -nothing and agreeably filled a few of his -many vacant hours. He cast shrewdly -about among the susceptible and eligible widowers -and bachelors of his club and fixed upon Edgar -Wayland’s father. The old General and “cotton -baron” was growing lonelier and lonelier. He was -too rich to afford the luxury of friendship. He -suspected and shunned sycophants. He dreaded -being married for his money, yet longed for a home -with some one therein who would make him comfortable, -would listen patiently to his reminiscences -and moralisings. He had led an anything -but exemplary life, but having reached the age and -condition where his kinds of self-indulgence are -either highly dangerous or impossible, he wished to -become a bulwark of the church and the social -order.</p> - -<p>“He needs me even more than I need him,” said -Theresa, when she disclosed her scheme to Emily, -“and that’s saying a good deal. He thinks I’ve -been living in Blue Mountain, thinks I’m simple<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> -and guileless—and I am, in comparison with him. -I’ll make a new and better man of him. If he got -the sort of woman he thinks he wants, he’d be miserable. -As it is, he’ll be happy.”</p> - -<p>Theresa offered to introduce the General to Emily, -but she refused, much to Theresa’s relief. “It’s -just as well,” she said, with the candour that was the -chief charm of her character. “You’re entirely too -fascinating with your violet eyes and your wonderful -complexion, my dear. But after he’s safe, you -must visit us.”</p> - -<p>When the time came for Theresa to go to Blue -Mountain for her marriage, she begged Emily to go -with her. “I didn’t know how fond I was of you,” -she said, “until now that we’re separating. And -when I look at you, and forget for the moment what -a sensible, self-reliant girl you are, it seems to me -that you can’t possibly get along without me to -protect you.”</p> - -<p>But Emily could not go to the wedding. She -was moving into an apartment in Irving Place which -she and Joan had taken. Also she was marrying.</p> - -<p>The wedding was set for a Thursday, but Marlowe -found that he must leave town on Wednesday -night to go with the President on a short “swing -round the circle.” So on Wednesday afternoon he -and Emily went to a notary in One Hundred and -Twenty-fifth street and were married by certificate.</p> - -<p>“Certainly the modern improvements do go far -toward making marriage painless,” said Marlowe as -they left with the certificates. “I haven’t felt it at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -all. Have you?” And he stopped at a letter box -to mail the duplicate for the Board of Health. As -he balanced it on the movable shelf, he looked at -her with a queer expression in his eyes. “You can -still draw back,” he said. “If we tear up the papers, -we’re not married. If I mail this one we are.”</p> - -<p>She made a movement toward the balancing letter -and he hastily let it drop into the box. “Too -late,” he said, in a mock tragic tone. “We are married—tied—bound!”</p> - -<p>“And now let us forget it,” was Emily’s reply. -“No one knows it except us; and we need never -think of it.”</p> - -<p>They were silent on the journey downtown, and -her slight depression seemed to infect him deeply. -Two hours after the ceremony he was dining alone -in the Washington express, and she and Joan were -having their first dinner in their first “home.”</p> - -<p>Two weeks later—in the last week of September—she -took the four o’clock boat for Atlantic Highlands -and the train there for Seabright. At the -edge of the platform of the deserted station she -found the yellow trap with stripes of red on the -body and shafts—the trap he had described in his -letter.</p> - -<p>“For Germain’s?” she asked the driver, after she -had looked round carefully, as if she were not going -to meet her husband.</p> - -<p>“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “They’re expecting -you.”</p> - -<p>Her trunk and bag were put on the seat with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> -driver and they were soon in the Rumson road, gorgeous -with autumn finery. There were the odours -of the sea and the woods, and the air was tranquil -yet exhilarating. The trim waggon, the brilliant -trees arching overhead, the attractive houses and -lawns on either side—it seemed to her that she was -in a dream. They turned down a lane to the right. -It led through a thick grove of maples, its foliage -a tremulous curtain of scarlet and brown lit by the -declining sun. Another turn and they were at the -side entrance to an old-fashioned brick house with -creepers screening verandas and balconies. There -were tables on the verandas, and tables out in the -garden under the trees. She could hear only the -birds and the faint sigh of the distant surf.</p> - -<p>Rapid footsteps, and a small, fat, smooth man -appeared and bowed profoundly. “Monsieur has -not arrived yet,” he said. “Madame Marlowe, is -it not?”</p> - -<p>She blushed and answered nervously, “Yes—that -is—yes.” It was the first time she had heard -her legal name, or even had definitely recognised -its existence.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur telegraphed for madame”—He had a -way of saying madame which suggested that it was -a politeness rather than an actuality—“to order -dinner, and that he will presently come to arrive by -the Little Silver station from which he will drive. -He missed his train unhappily. But madame need -not derange herself. Monsieur comes to arrive -now.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>Emily seated herself on the veranda at its farthest -table from the entrance. “How guilty and queer -and—happy I feel,” she thought.</p> - -<p>Monsieur Germain brought the dinner card. -“I’m sure we can trust to you for the dinner,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“Bien, madame. It will be a pleasure. And -will madame have a refreshing drink while she -passes the time?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—a little—perhaps—a little brandy?” she -said tentatively.</p> - -<p>“Excellent.” And Germain himself brought a -“pony” of brandy, a tall empty glass and a bottle -of soda. He opened the soda and went away. She -drank the brandy from the little glass, and then -some of the soda. Almost instantly she felt her -timidity flying before a warm courage that spread -through her veins and sparkled in her eyes. “It is -even more beautiful here than I imagined it would -be,” she thought, as she looked round. “And I’m -glad I got here first and had a chance to get—the -brandy.”</p> - -<p>When her husband came he found her leaning -against a pillar of the veranda looking out into -space, an attitude that was characteristic of her. -She greeted him with a blush, with downcast eyes, -with mischievous radiance.</p> - -<p>“I just saw my first star,” she said, “and I made -a wish.”</p> - -<p>He put his arm round her and his head against -hers. “Don’t tell me what you wished,” he said,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> -“for—I—we—want it to come true. It <i>must</i> come -true. And it will, won’t it?”</p> - -<p>“I’m very, very happy—thus far,” she answered.</p> - -<p>They stood in silence, watching Germain and the -waiter set a table under the trees—the linen, the -silver and glass and china, the candlesticks. And -then Germain came to the walk below them and -beamed up at them.</p> - -<p>“Everything awaits madame,” he said.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XV.<br /> - - -<small>A FLICKERING FIRE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THEY made several journeys to Monsieur -Germain that fall, as he did not close his -inn and return to Philadelphia until the -second week in December. He had the -instinctive French passion for the romantically -unconventional; and, while he was a severely -proper person in his own domestic relations, the -mystery of the quiet visits of this handsome young -couple delighted him. He made them very comfortable -indeed, and his big smooth face shone like -a sun upon their happiness.</p> - -<p>As Marlowe had always been most irregular in his -appearances at the office, Emily’s absences did not -connect her with him in the minds of their acquaintances. -Even Joan suspected nothing. She saw -that Marlowe was devoted to her beautiful friend -and she believed that Emily loved him, but she had -seen love go too often to be much affected by its -coming.</p> - -<p>After three months of this prolonged and peculiar -honeymoon, Marlowe showed the first faint -signs of impatience. It was a new part to him, this -of being the eluded instead of the eluder, the uncertain,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -not the creator of uncertainty. And it was -a part that baffled his love and irritated his vanity. -He thought much upon ways and means of converting -his Spartan marriage into one in which his -authority, his headship would be recognized, and at -last hit upon a plan of action which he ventured to -hope might bring her to terms. He stayed away -from her for two weeks, then went to Chicago for a -month, writing her only an occasional brief note.</p> - -<p>Before he left for Chicago, Emily was exceeding -sick at heart. She kept up appearances at the -office, but at home went about with a long and sad -face. “They’ve quarrelled,” thought Joan, “and -she’s taking it hard.” Emily was tempted to do -many foolish things—for example, she wrote a -dozen notes at least, each more or less ingeniously -disguising its real purpose. But she sent none of -them. “If he doesn’t care,” she reflected, “it -would be humiliating myself to no purpose. And -if he does care, he has a good reason which he’ll -tell when he can.”</p> - -<p>Then came his almost curt note announcing his -departure for Chicago. She was angry—“he’s -treating his wife as he wouldn’t treat a girl he’d -been merely attentive to.” But, worse than angry, -she was wounded, in the mortal spot in her love -for him—her unquestioning confidence in him.</p> - -<p>This might be called her introduction to the real -Marlowe, the beginning of her acquaintance with -the man she had married after a look at the outside -of him and a distorted glimpse of such parts of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -the inside man as are shown by one bent upon -making the most favourable impression.</p> - -<p>When he had been in Chicago three weeks, came -a long letter from him—“Forgive me. I was not -content as we were living. I want you—all of you, -all of the time. I want you as my very own. And -I thought to win you to my way of thinking. But -you seem to be stronger than I.” And so on -through many pages, filled with passionate outpourings—extravagant -compliments, alternations of -pride and humility, all the eloquence of a lover -with an emotional nature and a gift for writing. It -was to her an irresistible appeal, so intensely did -she long for him. But there drifted through her -mind, to find lodgment in an obscure corner, the -thought: “Why is he dissatisfied with a happiness -that satisfies me? Why do I feel none of this desire -to abandon my independence and submerge -myself?” At the moment her answer was, that if -she were to do as he wished he would remain free, -while she would become his dependent. Afterward -that answer did not satisfy her.</p> - -<p>He came back, and their life went on as before -until——</p> - -<p>She overheard two men at the office talking of -an adventure he had had while he was in Chicago. -She did not hear all, and she got no details, but -there was enough to let her see that he had not -lived up to their compact. “Now I understand -his letter,” she said. “It was the result of remorse.” -And with a confused mingling of jealousy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -and indignation, she reviewed his actions -toward her immediately after his return. She now -saw that they were planned deliberately to make it -impossible for her to think him capable of such a -lapse. She could follow the processes of his mind -as it worked out the scheme, gauging her credulity -and his own adroitness. When she had done, she -had found him guilty of actions that concerned their -most sacred relations, and that were tainted with -the basest essence of hypocrisy.</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t care what he had done,” she said -to herself bitterly, “if he had been honest with me—honestly -silent or honestly outspoken. I cannot, -shall not, ever trust him again. And such needless -deception! He acted as if I were the ordinary -silly woman who won’t make allowances and can’t -generously forgive. I love him, but——”</p> - -<p>“I love him, but—” that is always the beginning -of a change which at least points in the direction of -the end. At first she was for having it out with -him. But she decided that he would only think her -vulgarly jealous; and so, with unconscious inconsistency, -she resolved to violate her own fundamental -principle of absolute frankness.</p> - -<p>A few weeks and these wounds to her love, inflicted -by him and aggravated by herself, seemed to -have healed. They were again together almost -every day and were apparently like lovers in the -first ecstasy of engagement. But while he was -completely under her spell, her attitude toward -him was slightly critical. She admired his looks,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -his physical strength, his brilliant quickness of mind, -as much as ever. At the same time she began to -see and to measure his weaknesses.</p> - -<p>She was often, in the very course of laughter or -admiration at his cleverness, brought to a sudden -halt by the discovery that he was not telling the -truth. Like many men of rapid and epigrammatic -speech, he would sacrifice anything, from a fact of -history to the reputation of a friend, for the sake -of scoring a momentary triumph. And whenever -she caught him in one of these carelessly uttered -falsehoods she was reminded of his falsehood to -her—that rankling, cankerous double falsehood of -unfaithfulness and deceit.</p> - -<p>Another hastener of the mortal process of de-idealisation -was the discovery that his sparkle was -hiding a shallowness which was so lacking in depth -that it offended even her, a woman—and women -are not easily offended by pretence in men. His -mind was indeed quick, but quick only to see and -seize upon that which had been discovered and -shown to him by some one else. And so forgetful -or so used to borrowing without any sort of -credit was he, that he would even exhibit to Emily -as original with himself the ideas which she had expressed -to him only a few days before. He had a -genius for putting everything in the show-window; -but he could not conceal from her penetrating, and -now critical and suspicious eyes, the empty-shelved -shop behind, with him, full of vanity and eagerness -to attract any wayfarer, and peering out to note what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -effect he was producing. She discovered that one -of the main sources of his education was Stilson—that -it was to an amazing, a ridiculous, a pitiful extent -Stilson’s views and ideas and knowledge and -sardonic wit which he bore away and diluted and -served up as his own. Comparison is the life and -also the death of love. As soon as she began to -compare him with Stilson and to admit that he was -the lesser, she began to neglect love, to leave it to -the alternating excessive heat and cold of passion.</p> - -<p>But all these causes of a curious decline were -subordinate to one great cause—she discovered that -he was a coward, that he was afraid of her. The -quality which she admired in a man above every -other was courage. She had thought Marlowe had -it. And he was physically brave; but, when she -knew him well and had got used to that cheapest -form of courage which dazzles the mob and deceives -the unthinking, she saw a coward lurking -beneath. He wrote things he did not believe; -he shirked issues both in his profession and in his -private life; he lied habitually, not because people -intruded upon his affairs and so compelled and excused -misrepresentation, but because he was afraid -to face the consequences of truth.</p> - -<p>In February she was saying sadly to herself: -“If he’d been brave, he would have made me come -to him, could have made me do as he wished. -Instead——” She was not proud, yet neither was -she ashamed, of the conspicuous tyranny she had -established over him.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>“It seems to me,” she said to Joan at breakfast -one morning, to draw her out, “that the only way -to be married, is for each to live his own life. Then -at least there can be none of that degrading familiarity -and monotony.”</p> - -<p>Joan shook her head in vigorous dissent.</p> - -<p>“Why not?” asked Emily.</p> - -<p>“Because it is certain to end in failure—absolutely -certain.”</p> - -<p>Emily looked uncomfortable, “I don’t see why,” -she said, somewhat irritably. “Don’t you think -people can get too much of each other?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly—and in marriage they always do; -but if it’s to be a marriage, if there’s to be anything -permanent about it, they must live together, -see each other constantly, become completely -united in the same current of life; all their interests -must be in common, and they must have a -common destiny and must never forget it.”</p> - -<p>“But that isn’t love,” objected Emily.</p> - -<p>“No, it isn’t love—love of the kind we’re all -crazy about nowadays. But it is married love—and -that’s the kind we’re talking about. If I were married -I shouldn’t let my husband out of my sight for -a minute, except when it was necessary. I’d see to -it that we became one. If he were the stronger, -he’d be the one. If I were the stronger, I’d be the -one—but I’d try to be generous.”</p> - -<p>Emily laughed at this picture of tyranny, so -directly opposed to her own ideas and to her own -tyranny over her husband. She mocked Joan for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -entertaining such “barbaric notions.” But later in -the day, she caught herself saying, with a sigh she’d -have liked to believe was not regret, “It’s too late -now.”</p> - -<p>There were days when she liked him, hours when -she wrought herself into an exaltation which was a -feeble but deceptive imitation of his adoration of -her—and how he did adore her then, how he did -strain to clasp her more tightly, believing her still -his, and not heeding instinctive, subtle warnings -that she was slipping from him. But in contrast to -these days of liking and hours of loving were her -longer periods of indifference and, occasionally, of -weariness.</p> - -<p>Early in the summer, there was a revival of her -interest—a six weeks’ separation from him; an attack -of the “blues,” of loneliness; a sudden appreciation -of the strength and comfort of the habit -which a husband had become with her.</p> - -<p>On a Friday evening in June he was coming to -dine, and Miss Gresham was dining out. He arrived -twenty minutes late. “I’ve been making my arrangements -to sail to-morrow,” he explained. -“You can come on the Wednesday or Saturday -steamer—if you can arrange to leave on such short -notice.”</p> - -<p>She looked surprised—she was no longer astonished -at the newspaper world’s rapid shifts.</p> - -<p>“They’re sending me to reorganise the foreign -service. They also wish to send a woman to Paris, -and didn’t know whom to ask. I suggested you,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -and reminded them that you speak French. They -soon consented. My headquarters will be London, -but I’ll be free to go where I wish. Will you come? -Won’t you come?”</p> - -<p>Evidently he was assuming that she would; but -she said, “I’ll have to think it over.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her nervously. “Why, I may -be away several years,” he said. “And over -there——”</p> - -<p>“You forget—I’m tied up with Joan. We have -a lease. But that might be arranged. Do you -know what salary they’ll give me?”</p> - -<p>“Sixty a week—and your travelling expenses.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Emily, after a moment’s silent casting -up of figures. “Yes—the lease can be taken -care of. Then, there is my work—what are the advantages?”</p> - -<p>“Experience—a change of scene—a chance to do -more individual work—and last, and, of course, -least in your eyes, lady-with-a-career-to-make, the -inestimable advantages of——”</p> - -<p>The servant was out of the room. He went behind -her chair, and bent over and kissed her. “We -shall be happy as never before, dear—happy though -we have been, haven’t we? Think what we can do -together—how free we shall be, how many beautiful -places we can visit.”</p> - -<p>She was looking at him tenderly and dreamily -when he was sitting opposite her again. “Yes, we -shall be happy,” she said, and to herself she added, -“again.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>The next morning, at about the hour when Marlowe’s -boat was dropping down the bay, Joan went -into Emily’s room and awakened her. “I can’t -wait any longer,” she said. “Did you know you -were going abroad?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Emily, sleepily rubbing her eyes, -“Marlowe was dining here last night, and he told -me.”</p> - -<p>“It’s very evident that Stilson likes and appreciates -you,” continued Joan. “He selected -you.”</p> - -<p>Emily smiled faintly—she was remembering what -Marlowe had said.</p> - -<p>“I happened to be in Stilson’s office,” continued -Joan, “when he was deciding. It seems the London -man suddenly resigned and something had to -be done at once. You know Stilson is acting Managing -Editor. He asked me if you spoke French. -He said: ‘I’m just sending for Marlowe to come -down, as I wish him to go to London for us; and -if Miss Bromfield can speak French, I’ll send her to -Paris.’ I told him that you spoke it almost like a -native. ‘That settles it,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell her to-morrow—but -I don’t mind if you tell her first. -You live together, don’t you?’ And you were -asleep when I came last night, and I’m <i>so</i> disappointed -that I’m not the first to tell you.”</p> - -<p>Emily had sunk back into her pillow and was -concealing her face from Joan. “I wish they’d -sent you,” she said presently, in a strained voice.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I couldn’t have gone. The fact is I’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -written a play and had it accepted. It’s to be produced -at the Lyceum in six weeks.”</p> - -<p>“But why didn’t you tell me?” Emily could -not uncover her face, could not put interest in her -tone—she could think only of Marlowe, of his -petty, futile, vainglorious lie to her. A few hours -before—it seemed but a few minutes—they had -been so happy together. She had fancied that the -best was come again. Her nerves were still vibrating -to his caresses. And now—this adder-like reminder -of all his lies, deceptions, hypocrisies.</p> - -<p>“I thought I’d surprise you,” replied Joan. -“Besides, it’s not a very good play. And when -you’re in Paris, you might watch the papers for the -notices of the first night of ‘Love the Liar, by -Harriette Stone’—that will be my play and I.”</p> - -<p>“Love the Liar,” Emily repeated, and then Joan -saw her shoulders shaking.</p> - -<p>“Laughing at me? I don’t wonder; it’s very -sentimental—but then, you know, I have a streak of -sentiment in me.”</p> - -<p>When Joan left her, Emily brushed the tears from -her eyes and slowly rose. “I ought to be used to -him by this time,” she said. “But—oh, why did -he spoil it! Why does he <i>always</i> spoil it!”</p> - -<p>At the office, she was apparently bright again, -certainly was looking very lovely and a little mischievous -as she went in to see Stilson. “I’d thank -you, if I dared,” she said, “but I know that you’d -cut me short with some remark about my thanks -being an insinuation that you were cheating the proprietors<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -of the <i>Democrat</i> by showing favouritism.” -She was no longer in the least afraid of him. “Perhaps -you’d like it better if I told you I was angry -about it.”</p> - -<p>“And why angry, pray?” There was a twinkle -deep down in his sombre sardonic eyes.</p> - -<p>“Because you’re sending me away to get rid of -me.”</p> - -<p>He winced and flushed a deep red. He rose -abruptly and bowed. “No thanks are necessary,” -he said, and he was standing at the window with his -back to her.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” she said to his strong, uncompromising -shoulders. “I did not mean to offend -you—you must know that.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Offend</i> me?” He turned his face toward her -but did not let her see his eyes. He put out his -hand and just touched hers before drawing it away. -“My manner is unfortunate. But—that is not important. -Success to you, if I don’t see you before -you sail.”</p> - -<p>As she left his office she could see his face, his -eyes, in profile. His expression was more than sad—it -was devoid of hope.</p> - -<p>“Where have I seen an expression like that before?” -she wondered. But she could not then remember.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVI.<br /> - - -<small>EMBERS.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">ON the way across the Atlantic her painful -thoughts faded; and, after the mid-ocean -period when the worlds on -either side of those infinite waters -dwindle into unreality, she found her -imagination looking forward to her new world as -a place where there would be a new beginning -in her work and in her love. At Cherbourg Marlowe -came out on the lighter. “How handsome he -is,” she was saying to herself, as she leaned against -the rail, watching his eyes search for her. “And -how well he wears his clothes. His head is set -upon his shoulders just right—what a strong, graceful -figure he has.” And she again felt something -resembling her initial interest and pride in him, her -mind once more, as at first, interpreting his character -through his appearance, instead of reading into -his appearance the man as she knew him.</p> - -<p>When their eyes met she welcomed and returned -the thought he sent her in his look.</p> - -<p>They were soon together, bubbling over with the -joy of living like two children let out into the sunshine -to play after a long imprisonment with lessons. -They had a compartment to themselves down<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -to Paris and sat very near each to the other, with -illustrated papers as the excuse for prolonging the -enormous pleasure of the physical sensation of -nearness. They repeated again and again the -commonplaces which all human beings use as -public coaches to carry their inarticulate selves a -visiting each other.</p> - -<p>She went to sleep for a few minutes, leaning -against him; and a breeze teased his nerves into an -ecstasy of happiness with a stray of her fine -red-brown hair. “I’ve never been so happy,” she -thought as she awakened, “I could never be -happier.” She did not move until it became impossible -for her to refrain from some outward expression -of her emotions. Then she only looked -up at him. And his answer showed that his mood -was hers. As they sank back in the little victoria -outside the station, she gave a long look round the -busy, fascinating scene—strange, infectious of -gaiety and good-humour. “Paris!” she said, with -a sigh of content in her dream realised.</p> - -<p>“Paris—and Emily,” he replied.</p> - -<p>They went to a small hotel in the Avenue Montaigne—“Modern -enough,” he said, “but very -French and not yet discovered by foreigners.” At -sunset they drove to d’Armenonville to dine under -the trees and to watch the most interesting groups -in the world—those groups of the civilised through -and through, in dress, in manners, in thought. -After two days he was called back to London. -When he returned at the end of two weeks she had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -transformed herself. A new gown, a new hat, a -new way of wearing her hair, an adaptation of her -graces of form and manner to the fashion of the -moment, and she seemed a Parisienne.</p> - -<p>“You <i>have</i> had your eyes open,” he said, as he -noted one detail after another, finally reaching the -face which bloomed so delicately beneath the -sweeping brim of her hat. “And what a gorgeous -hat! And put on at the miraculous angle—how -few women know how to put on a hat.” Of his -many tricks in the art at which he excelled—the -art of superficially pleasing women—none was more -effective than his intelligent appreciation of their -dress.</p> - -<p>They staid at her pretty little apartment in a -maison meublèe in the Rue des Capucines; in a -few days they went down into Switzerland, and -then, after a short pause at Paris, to Trouville. In -all they were together about a month, he neglecting -his work in spite of her remonstrances and her example. -For she did her work conscientiously—and -she had never written so well. He tried to stay on -with her at Paris, but she insisted on his going.</p> - -<p>“I believe you wish to be rid of me,” he said, -irritation close beneath the surface of his jesting -manner.</p> - -<p>“This morning’s is the third complaining cable -you’ve had from the office,” she answered.</p> - -<p>He looked at her, suspecting an evasion, but he -went back to London. The unpleasant truth was -that he had worn out his welcome. She had never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -before been with him continuously for so much as a -week. Now, in the crowded and consecutive -impressions of these thirty uninterrupted days, all -the qualities which repelled her stood out, stripped -of the shimmer and glamour of novelty. And as -she was having more and more difficulty in deceiving -herself and in spreading out the decreasing area -of her liking for him over the increasing gap where -her love for him had been, he, in the ironical perversity -of the law of contraries, became more and -more demonstrative and even importunate. Many -times in her effort to escape him and the now ever-impending -danger of open rupture, she was driven to -devices which ought not to have deceived him, perhaps -did not really deceive him.</p> - -<p>When he was gone she sat herself down to a -“good cry”—an expression of overwrought nerves -rather than of grief.</p> - -<p>But after a few weeks she began to be lonely. -The men she met were of two kinds—those she did -not like, all of whom were willing to be friends with -her on her terms; those she did like more or less, -none of whom was willing to be with her on any -but his own terms. And so she found herself often -spending the most attractive part of the day—the -evening—dismally shut up at home, alone or with -some not very interesting girl. She had never been -so free, yet never had she felt so bound. With joy -all about her, with joy beckoning her from the -crowded, fascinating boulevards, she was a prisoner. -She needed Marlowe, and she sent for him.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>She was puzzled by the change in him. She had -only too good reason to know that he loved her as -insistently as ever, but there was a strain in his -manner and speech, as if he were concealing something -from her. She caught him looking at her in -a peculiar way—as if he were angry or resentful or -possibly were suspecting her changed and changing -feelings toward him. And he had never been less -interesting—she had never before heard him talk -stupidities and lifeless commonplaces or break long -silences with obvious attempts to rouse himself to -“make conversation.”</p> - -<p>She was not sorry when he went—he stayed four -days longer than he had intended; but she was also -glad to get a message from him ten days later, -announcing a week-end visit. The telegram reached -her at <i>dejeuner</i> and afterward, in a better mood, -she drove to the Continental Hotel, where she -sometimes heard news worth sending. She sat at a -long window in the empty drawing-rooms and -watched a light and lazy snow drift down.</p> - -<p>As it slowly chilled her to a sense of loneliness, of -disappointment in the past, of dread of the future, she -became conscious that a man was pointedly studying -her. She looked at him with the calm, close, yet -repelling, stare which experience gives a woman as -a secure outlook upon the world of strange men. -This strange man was not ungracefully sprawled in -a deep chair, his top hat in a lap made by the loose -crossing of his extremely long and extremely strong -legs. His feet and hands were proportionate to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> -his magnitude. His hands were white and the fingers -in some way suggested to her a public speaker. -He had big shoulders and a great deal of coat—a -vast overcoat over a frock coat, all made in the loosest -English fashion. She had now reached his head—a -large head with an aggressive forehead and -chin, the hair dark brown, thin on top and at the -temples, the skin pallid but healthy. His eyes -were bold and keen, and honest. He looked a tremendous -man, and when he rose and advanced -toward her she wondered how such bulk could be -managed with so much grace. “An idealist,” she -thought, “of the kind that has the energy to be -very useful or very dangerous.”</p> - -<p>“You are alone, mademoiselle,” he said, in French -that was fluent but American, “and I am alone. -Let us have an adventure.”</p> - -<p>Emily’s glance started up his form with the -proper expression of icy oblivion. But by the time -it reached the lofty place from which his eyes were -looking down at her it was hardly more than an -expression of bewilderment. To give him an icy -stare would have seemed as futile as for the valley -to try to look scorn upon the peak. Before Emily -could drop her glance, she had seen in his eyes an -irresistible winning smile, as confiding as a boy’s, -respectful, a little nervous, delightfully human and -friendly.</p> - -<p>“I can see what you are,” he continued in -French, “and it may be that you see that I am not -untrustworthy. I am lonely and shall be more so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -if you fail me. It seemed to me that—pardon me, -if I intrude—you looked lonely also—and sad. -Why should we be held from helping each the -other by a convention that sensible people laugh at -even when they must obey it?”</p> - -<p>His voice pleaded his cause as words could not; -and there was a certain compulsion in it also. -Emily felt that she wished to yield, that it would -be at once unkind and absurd not to yield, and -that she must yield. The impression of mastering -strength was new and, to her surprise, agreeable.</p> - -<p>“Why not?” she said slowly in French, regarding -him with unmistakable straightforwardness and -simplicity. “I am depressed. I am alone. I have -been looking inside too much. Let us see. What -do you propose?”</p> - -<p>“We might go to the Louvre. It is near, and -perhaps we can think of something while we are -there.”</p> - -<p>They walked to the Louvre, he talking appreciatively -of France and the French people. He -showed that he thought her a Frenchwoman and -she did not undeceive him. She could not decide -what his occupation was, but felt that he must be -successful, probably famous, in it. “He is not so -tall after all,” she said to herself, “not much above -six feet. And he must be about forty-five.”</p> - -<p>As they went through the long rooms, she found -that he knew the paintings and statuary. “You -paint?” she asked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>“No,” he replied with an impatient shrug. “I -only talk—talk, talk, talk, until I am sick of myself. -Again, I am compelled to listen—listen to -the outpourings of vanity and self-excuse and self-complacence -until I loathe my kind. It seems to -me that it is only in France that one finds any -great number of people with a true sense of -proportion.”</p> - -<p>“But France is the oldest, you know. It inherited -from Greece and Rome when the rest of -Europe was a wilderness.”</p> - -<p>“And we inherited a little from France,” he -said. “But, unfortunately, more from England. I -think the strongest desire I have is to see my country -shake off the English influence—the self-righteousness, -the snobbishness. In England if a man -of brains compels recognition, they hasten to give -him a title. Their sense of consistency in snobbishness -must not be violated. They put snobbishness -into their church service and create a snob-god -who calls some Englishmen to be lords, and others -to be servants.”</p> - -<p>“But there is nothing like that in America?”</p> - -<p>“Not officially, and perhaps not among the mass -of the people. But in New York, in one class with -which my—my business compels me to have much -to do, the craze for imitating England is rampant. It -is absurd, how they try to erect snobbishness into -a virtue.”</p> - -<p>Emily shrugged her shoulders. “What does it -matter?” she said. “Caste is never made by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> -man who looks down, but always by the man who -looks up.”</p> - -<p>“But it is evil. It is a sin against God. It——”</p> - -<p>“I do not wish to dispute with you,” interrupted -Emily. “But let us not disturb God in his -heaven. We are talking of earth.”</p> - -<p>“You do not believe in God?” He looked at -her in astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Do you?”</p> - -<p>“I—I think I do. I assume God. Without Him, -life would be—monstrous.”</p> - -<p>“Yet the most of the human race lives without -Him. And of those who profess to believe in Him, -no two have the same idea of Him. Your God is -a democrat. The Englishman’s God is an autocrat -and a snob.”</p> - -<p>“And your God?”</p> - -<p>Emily’s face grew sad. “Mine? The God that -I see behind all the mischance and stupidity and -misery of this world—is—” She shook her head. -“I don’t know,” she ended vaguely.</p> - -<p>“It seems strange that a woman so womanly—looking -as you do, should feel and talk thus.”</p> - -<p>“My mode of life has made me see much, has compelled -me to do my own thinking. Besides, I am a -child of this generation. We suspect everything -that has come down to us from the ignorant past. -Even so ardent a believer as you, when asked, ‘Do -you believe?’ stammers, ‘I <i>think</i> I do.’”</p> - -<p>“I am used to one-sided arguments,” said the -stranger with a laugh. “Usually, I lay down the -law and others listen in silence.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>Emily looked at him curiously. Could he be a -minister? No, it was impossible. He was too -masculine, too powerful.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I was not arguing,” she answered lightly. -“I was only trying to suggest that you might be -more charitable.”</p> - -<p>“I confess,” he said, “that I am always talking -to convince myself. I do not know what is right -or what is wrong, but I wish to know. I doubt, -but I wish to believe. I despair, but I wish to -hope.”</p> - -<p>She had no answer and they were silent for a few -minutes. Then he began:</p> - -<p>“I have an impulse to tell you what I would -not tell my oldest and dearest friend—perhaps because -we are two utter strangers whose paths have -crossed in their wanderings through infinity and -will never cross again. Do you mind if I speak of -myself?”</p> - -<p>“No.” Emily intensely wished to hear. “But -I warn you that our paths <i>may</i> cross again.”</p> - -<p>“That does not matter. I am obeying an instinct. -It is always well to obey instincts. I think -now that the instinct which made me speak to you -in the first place was this instinct to tell you. But -it is not a tragic story or even exciting. I am -rather well known in the community where I live. -I am what we call in America a self-made man. I -come from the people—not from ignorance and -crime and sensuality, but from the real people—who -think, who aspire, who advance, who work and take<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -pleasure and pride in their work, the people who -have built our republic which will perish if they decline.”</p> - -<p>He hesitated, then went on with increasing energy: -“I am a clergyman. I went into the ministry -because I ardently believed in it, saw in it an -opportunity to be a leader of men in the paths -which I hoped it would help me to follow. I have -been a clergyman for twenty-five years. And I -have ceased to believe that which I teach. Louder -than I can shout to my congregation, louder than -my conscience can shout to me, a voice continually -gives me the lie.” He threw out his arm with a gesture -that suggested a torrent flinging aside a dam. -“I preach the goodness of God, and I never make a -tour among the poor of my parish that I do not -doubt it. I preach the immortality of the soul, and -I never look out upon a congregation and remember -what an infinite multitude of those same commonplace, -imperfect types there have been, that I -do not think: ‘It is ridiculous to say that man, the -weak, the insignificant, the deformity, is an immortal -being, each individual worth preserving through eternity.’ -I preach the conventional code of morals, -and——”</p> - -<p>“You ought not to tell me these things,” said -Emily, as he paused. She felt guilty because she -was permitting him to think her a Frenchwoman, -when she was of his own country and city.</p> - -<p>“Well—I have said enough. And how much -good it has done me to confess! You could not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -possibly have a baser opinion of me than I deserve. -Telling such things is nothing in comparison with -living them. I have lied and lied and lied so long -that the joy of telling the truth intoxicates me. I -am like a man crawling up out of years in a slimy -dungeon to the light. Do you suppose it would -disturb his enjoyment to note that spectators were -commenting upon his unlovely appearance?”</p> - -<p>“After all, what you tell me is the commonplace -of life. Who doesn’t live lies, cheating himself and -others?”</p> - -<p>“But I do not wish the commonplace, the false, -the vulgar. There is something in me that calls for -higher things. I demand a <i>good</i> God. I demand -an <i>immortal</i> soul. I demand a <i>right</i> that is clear -and absolute. And I long for real love—ennobling, -inspiring. Why have I all these instincts when I -am compelled to live the petty, swindling, cringing -life of a brute dominated by the passion for self-preservation?”</p> - -<p>Emily thought a moment, then with a twinkle of -mockery in her eyes, yet with seriousness too, -quoted: “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it -shall be opened unto you.”</p> - -<p>He smiled as the waters of his own fountain thus -unexpectedly struck him in the face. “But my -legs are weary, and my knuckles sore,” he replied. -“Still—what is there to do but to persist? One -must persist.”</p> - -<p>“Work and hope,” said Emily, musingly. And -she remembered Marlowe’s “work and love”; love<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -had gone, but hope—she felt a sudden fresh upspringing -of it in her heart.</p> - -<p>When they set out from the hotel she had been -in a reckless mood of despondency. She had lost -interest in her work, she had lost faith in her future—was -not the heart-interest the central interest of -life, and what had become of her heart-interest? -This stranger to whose power she had impulsively -yielded in the first instance, had a magical effect -upon her. His pessimism was not disturbing, for -beneath it lay a tremendous belief in men and in -destiny. It was his energy, his outgiving of a compelling -masculine force, that aroused her to courage -again. She looked at him gratefully and at once -began to compare him with Marlowe. “What a -child this man makes him seem,” she thought. -“This is the sort of man who would inspire one. -And what inspiration to do or to be am I getting -from my husband?”</p> - -<p>“You are disgusted with me.” The stranger was -studying her face.</p> - -<p>“No—I was thinking of some one else,” she replied—“of -my own troubles.” And then she -flushed guiltily, as if she had let him into her confidence—“a -traitor’s speech” she thought. Aloud -she said: “I must go. I thank you for the good -you have done me. I can’t tell you how or why, -but—” She ended abruptly and presently added, -“I mustn’t say that I hope we shall meet again. -You see, I have your awful secret.”</p> - -<p>He laughed—there was boyishness in his laugh,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -but it was not boisterous. “You terrify me,” he -exclaimed. Then, reflectively, “I have an instinct -that we shall meet again.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps. Why not? It would be far stranger -if we did not than if we did?”</p> - -<p>He went with her to a cab and, with polite consideration, -left her before she could give her address -to the cabman. “I wish he had asked to see me -again,” she thought, looking after his tower-like -figure as he strode away. “But I suspect it was -best not. There are some men whom it is not wise -to see too much of, when one is in a certain mood. -And I must do my duty.” She made a wry face—an -exaggeration, but the instinct to make it was -genuine.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVII.<br /> - - -<small>ASHES.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">EMILY’S “adventure” lingered with increasing -vagueness for a few days, then -vanished under a sudden pressure of -work. When she was once more at leisure -Marlowe came, and she was surprised -by the vividness and persistence with which her -stranger returned. She struggled in vain against -the comparisons that were forced upon her. Marlowe -seemed to her a clever “understudy”—“a -natural, born, incurable understudy,” she thought, -“and now that I’m experienced enough to be able -to discriminate, how can I help seeing it?” She -was weary of the tricks and the looks of a man -whom she now regarded as a trafficker in stolen bits -of other men’s individualities—and his tricks and -his looks were all there was left of him for her.</p> - -<p>“Some people—two I want you to meet, came -with me—that is, at the same time,” he said. -“Let’s dine with them at Larue’s to-morrow night.”</p> - -<p>“Why not to-night? I’ve an engagement to-morrow -night. You did not warn me that you were -coming.”</p> - -<p>Marlowe looked depressed. “Very well,” he said, -“I can arrange it, I think.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>“Are they Americans—these friends of yours?”</p> - -<p>There was a strain in his voice as he answered, -which did not escape Emily’s supersensitive ears. -“No—English,” he said. “Lord Kilboggan and -Miss Fenton—the actress. You may have heard -of her. She has been making a hit in the play -every one over there is talking about and running -to see—‘The Morals of the Marchioness.’”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—the play with the title <i>rôle</i> left out.”</p> - -<p>“It <i>is</i> pretty ‘thick’—and Miss Fenton was the -marchioness. But she’s not a bit like that in private -life. Even Kilboggan gives her a certificate -of good character.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Even</i> Kilboggan?”</p> - -<p>“He’s such a scoundrel. He blackguards every one. -But he’ll amuse you. He’s witty and good-looking -and one of those fascinating financial mysteries. -He has no known source of income, yet he’s -always idle, always well-dressed, and always in funds. -He would have been a famous adventurer if he’d -lived a hundred years ago.”</p> - -<p>“But as he lives in this practical age, he comes -dangerously near to being a plain ‘dead beat’—is -that it?” Emily said this carelessly enough, but -something in her manner made Marlowe wince.</p> - -<p>“Oh, wait until you see him. We can’t carry -our American ideas among these English. They -look upon work as a greater disgrace than having a -mysterious income. Kilboggan is liked by every one, -except women with daughters to marry off and -husbands whose vanity is tempered by misgivings.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>“And what is your friend doing in Miss Fenton’s -train?”</p> - -<p>“Well—at first I didn’t know what to make of it. -But afterward I saw that I was probably mistaken. -I suppose she tolerates him because he’s an earl. -It’s in the blood.”</p> - -<p>“And why do <i>you</i> tolerate him?” Emily’s tone -was teasing, but it made Marlowe wince again.</p> - -<p>“I don’t. I went with Denby—the theatrical -man over in New York—several times to see Miss -Fenton. He has engaged her for next season. And -Kilboggan was there or joined us at dinner or supper. -They were coming over to Paris at the same time. -I thought it might amuse you to meet them.”</p> - -<p>Marlowe’s look and speech were frank, yet instinctively -Emily paused curiously upon his eager -certificate of good character to Miss Fenton in face -of circumstances which a man of his experience -would regard as conclusive. Also she was puzzled -by the elaborateness of his explanation. She -wished to see Miss Fenton.</p> - -<p>They met that evening at Larue’s and dined -downstairs. Emily instantly noted that Marlowe’s -description of Kilboggan was accurate. “How can -any one be fooled by these frauds?” she thought. -“He carries his character in his face, as they all do. -I suppose the reason they get on is because the -first impression wears away.” Then she passed to -her real interest in the party—Miss Fenton. Her -first thought was—“How beautiful!” Her second -thought—“How shallow and stupid!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>Victoria Fenton was tall and thin—obtrusively -thin. Her arms and legs were long, and they and -her narrow hips and the great distance from her -chin to the swell of her bosom combined to give -her an appearance of snake-like grace—uncanny, -sensuous, morbidly fascinating. Her features were -perfectly regular, her skin like an Amsterdam baby’s, -her eyes deep brown, and her hair heavy ropes of -gold. Her eyes seemed to be brilliant; but when -Emily looked again, she saw that they were dull, -and that it was the colouring of her cheeks which -made them seem bright. In the mindless expression -of her eyes, in her coarse, wide mouth and long -white teeth, Emily found the real woman. And -she understood why Miss Fenton could say little, -and eat and drink greedily, and still could shine.</p> - -<p>But, before Miss Fenton began to exhibit her -appetite, Emily had made another discovery. As -she and Marlowe entered Larue’s, Victoria gave him -a look of greeting which a less sagacious woman -than she would not have misunderstood. It was -unmistakably the look of potential proprietorship.</p> - -<p>Emily glanced swiftly but stealthily at Marlowe -by way of the mirror behind the table. He was -wearing the expression of patient and bored indifference -which had become habitual with him since -he had been associating with Englishmen. Their -eyes met in the mirror—“He is trying to see how -I took that woman’s look at him,” she thought, -contemptuously. “But he must have known in -advance that she would betray herself and him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> -He must have brought me here deliberately to see -it or brought her here to see me—or both.” A -little further reflection, and suspicion became certainty, -and her eyelids hid a look of scorn.</p> - -<p>She made herself agreeable to Kilboggan, who -proved to be amusing. As soon as the food and -drink came, Victoria neglected Marlowe. He, -after struggling to draw her out and succeeding in -getting only dull or silly commonplaces, became -silent and ill-at-ease. He felt that so far as rousing -Emily’s jealousy was concerned, he had failed dismally, -“Victoria is at her worst to-night,” he -thought. “She couldn’t make anybody jealous.” -But he had not the acuteness to see that Emily had -penetrated his plan—if he had been thus acute, he -would not have tried such a scheme, desperate -though he was.</p> - -<p>All he had accomplished was to bring the two -women before his eyes and mind in the sharpest -possible contrast, and so increase his own infatuation -for Emily. The climax of his discomfiture -came when Victoria, sated by what she had eaten -and inflamed by what she had drunk, began to -scowl jealously at Emily and Kilboggan. But Marlowe -did not observe this; his whole mind was -absorbed in Emily. He was not disturbed by her -politeness to Kilboggan; he hardly noted it. He -was revolving her fascinations, her capriciousness, -her unreachableness. “I have laughed at married -men,” he said to himself. “They are revenged. -Of all husbands I am the most ridiculous.” And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span> -he began to see the merits of the system of locking -women away in harems.</p> - -<p>He and she drove to her apartment in silence. -He sent away the cab and joined her at the outside -door which the concierge had opened. “Good -night.” She spoke distantly, standing in the doorway -as if she expected him to leave. “I’m afraid -I can’t see you to-morrow. Theresa and her General -arrived at the Ritz to-night from Egypt, and -I’ve engaged to lunch and drive and dine with -them.”</p> - -<p>“I will go up with you,” he said, as if she had -not spoken. There was sullen resolve in his tone, -and so busy was he with his internal commotion -that he did not note the danger fire in her eyes. -But she decided that it would not be wise to oppose -him there. When they were in her tiny salon, she -seated herself, after a significant glance at the clock. -He lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantel-shelf. -He could look down at her—if she had been -standing also, their eyes would have been upon a -level.</p> - -<p>“How repellent he looks,” she thought, as she -watched him expectantly. “And just when he -needs to appear at his best.”</p> - -<p>“Emily,” he began with forced calmness, “the -time has come when we must have a plain talk. -It can’t be put off any longer.”</p> - -<p>She was sitting with her arms and her loosely-clasped, -still gloved hands upon the table, staring -across it into the fire. “I must not anger him,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span> -she was saying to herself. “The time has passed -when a plain talk would do any good.” Aloud she -said: “I’m tired, George—and not in a good -humour. Can’t you——”</p> - -<p>Her impatience to be rid of him made him desperate. -“I must speak, Emily, I must,” he replied. -“For many months—in fact for nearly a year of -our year and four months—I’ve seen that our plan -was a failure. We’re neither bound nor free, neither -married nor single. We—I, at least—am exposed -to—all sorts of temptations. I need you—your -sympathy, your companionship—all the time. I -see you only often enough to tantalise me, to keep -me in a turmoil that makes happiness impossible. -And,” he looked at her uneasily, appealingly, -“each time I see you, I find or seem to find that -you have drifted further away from me.”</p> - -<p>She did not break the silence—she did not know -what to say. To be frank was to anger him. To -evade was impossible.</p> - -<p>“Emily,” he went on, “you know that I love you. -I wish you to be happy and I know that you don’t -wish me to be miserable. I ask you to give up, or -at least put aside for the time, these ideas of yours. -Let us announce our marriage and try to work out -our lives in the way that the experience of the -world has found best. Let us be happy again—as -we were in the beginning.”</p> - -<p>His voice vibrated with emotion. She sighed -and there were tears in her eyes and her voice was -trembling as she answered: “There isn’t anything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -I wouldn’t do, George, to bring back the happiness -we had. But—” she shook her head mournfully, -“it is gone, dear.” A tear escaped and rolled -down her cheek. “It’s gone.”</p> - -<p>He was deceived by her manner and by his hopes -and longings into believing that he was not appealing -in vain; and there came back to him some of -the self-confidence that had so often won for him -with women. “Not if we both wish it, and will it, -and try for it, Emily.”</p> - -<p>“It’s gone,” she repeated, “gone. We can’t -call it back.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you say that, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t ask me. I can’t be untruthful with you, -and telling the truth would only rouse the worst -in us both. You know, George, that I wouldn’t be -hopeless about it, if there were any hope. We’ve -drifted apart. We can go on as we are now—friends. -Or we can—can—drift still further—apart. -But we can’t come together again.”</p> - -<p>“Those are very serious words, my dear,” he -said, trying to hide his anger. “Don’t you think -you owe me an explanation?”</p> - -<p>“Please, George—let me write it to you, if you -must have it. Spare me. It is so hard to speak -honestly. Please!”</p> - -<p>“If you can find the courage to speak, I can find -the patience to listen,” he said with sarcasm. “As -we are both intelligent and sensible, I don’t think -you need be alarmed about there being a ‘scene.’ -What is the matter, Emily? Let us clear the air.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>“We’ve changed—that’s all. I’m not regretting -what we did. I wouldn’t give it up for anything. -But—we’ve changed.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> have not changed. I’m the same now as then, -except that I appreciate you more than I did at -first. Month by month you’ve grown dearer to me. -And——”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, it is I who have changed,” she interrupted, -desperately. “It’s not strange, is it, -George? I was, in a way, inexperienced when we -were married, though I didn’t think so. And life -looks very different to me now.” She could not go -on without telling him that she had found him out, -without telling him how he had shrivelled and -shrunk until the garb of the ideal in which she had -once clothed him was now a giant’s suit upon a -pigmy—pitiful, ridiculous. “How can I help it -that my mind has changed? I thought so and so—I -no longer think so and so. Put yourself in my -place, dear—the same thing might have happened -to you about me.”</p> - -<p>Many times the very same ideas had formed in -his mind as he had exhausted his interest in one -woman after another. They were familiar to him—these -ideas. And how they mocked him now! It -seemed incredible that he, hitherto always the one -who had broken it off, should be in this humiliating -position.</p> - -<p>“It’s all due to that absurd plan of ours,” he -said bitterly. “If we had gone about marriage -in a sensible way, we should have grown together.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -As it is, you’ve exaggerated trifles into mountains -and are letting them crush our happiness to death.” -His tone became an appeal. “Emily—my dear—my -wife—you must not!”</p> - -<p>She did not answer. “If we’d lived together I’d -have found him out just the same—more quickly,” -she thought. “And either I’d have degraded myself -through timidity and dependence, or else I’d -have left him.”</p> - -<p>“You admit that our plan has been a failure?” -he went on.</p> - -<p>She nodded.</p> - -<p>“Then we must take the alternative.”</p> - -<p>She grew pale and looked at him with dread in -her eyes—the universal human dread of finalities.</p> - -<p>“We must try my plan,” he said. “We must try -married life in the way that has succeeded—at least -in some fashion—far oftener than it has failed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” She felt relieved, but also she regretted -that he had not spoken as she feared he would -speak. She paused to gather courage, turned her -face almost humbly up to him, and said: “I wish -I could, George. But don’t urge me to do that. -Let us go on as we are, until—until—Let us wait. -Let us——”</p> - -<p>He threw back his head haughtily. The patience -of his vanity was worn through. “No,” he said. -“That would be folly. It must be settled one way -or the other, Emily.” He looked at her, his -courage quailing before the boldness of his words. -But he saw that she was white and trembling, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -misunderstood it. He said to himself: “She -must be firmly dealt with. She’s giving in—a -woman always does in the last ditch.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he repeated. “The door must be either -open or shut. Either I am your husband, or I go -out of your life.”</p> - -<p>“You <i>can’t</i> mean that, George?” She was so -agitated that she rose and came round the table to -face him. “Why shouldn’t we wait—and hope? -We still care each for the other, and—it hurts, oh, -how it <i>hurts</i>—even to think of you as out of my -life.”</p> - -<p>He believed that she was yielding. He put his -hand on her arm. “Dearest, there has been too -much indecision already. You must choose between -your theories and our happiness. Which -will you take? You must choose here and now. -Shall I go or stay?”</p> - -<p>She went slowly back to her chair and sat down -and again stared into the fire. “To-morrow,” she -said at last. “I will decide to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“No—to-night—now.” He went to her and sat -beside her. He put his arm around her. “I love -you—I love you,” he said in a low tone, kissing -her. “You—my dearest—how can you be so -cruel? Love is best. Let us be happy.”</p> - -<p>At the clasp of his arm and the touch of his lips, -once so potent to thrill her, she grew cold all over.</p> - -<p>What he had thought would be the triumphant -climax of his appeal made every nerve in her body -cry out in protest against a future spent with him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -She would have pushed him away, if she had not -pitied him and wished not to offend him. “Don’t -ask me to decide to-night,” she pleaded. “Please!”</p> - -<p>“But you have decided, dearest. We shall be -happy. We shall——”</p> - -<p>She gradually drew away from him, and to the -surface of her expression rose that iron inflexibility, -usually so completely concealed by her beauty and -gentleness and sweetness. “If I must decide—if -you force me to decide, then—George, my heart is -aching with the past, aching with the loneliness -that stares horribly from the future. But I cannot, -I cannot do as you ask.” And she burst into -tears, sobbing as if her heart were breaking. “I -cannot,” she repeated. “I must not.”</p> - -<p>All the ugliness which years of unbridled indulgence -of his vanity had bred in him was roused by -her words. Such insolence from a woman, one of -the sex that had been his willing, yielding instrument -to amusement, and that woman his wife! But he -had talked so freely to her of his alleged beliefs in -the equality of the sexes, he had urged and boasted -and professed so earnestly, that he did not dare unmask -himself. Instead, with an effort at self-control -that whitened his lips, he said: “You no -doubt have reasons for this—this remarkable attitude. -Might I venture to inquire what they are? -I do not fancy the idea of being condemned unheard.”</p> - -<p>“Unheard? <i>I</i>—condemn <i>you</i> unheard! George, -do not be unjust to me. You know—you must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> -know—that there was not a moment when my -heart was not pleading your cause. Do you think -I have not suffered as I saw my love being murdered—my -love which I held sacred while you -were outraging and desecrating it.”</p> - -<p>“It is incredible!” he exclaimed. “Emily, who -has been lying to you about me? Who has been -poisoning your mind against me?”</p> - -<p>“You—George.” She said it quietly, sadly. -“No one else in all this world could have destroyed -you with me.”</p> - -<p>“I do not understand,” he protested. But his -eyes shifted rapidly, then turned away from her -full gaze, fixed upon him without resentment or -anger, with only sorrow and a desire to spare him -pain.</p> - -<p>“I could remind you of several things—you -remember them, do you not? But they were not -the real cause. It was, I think, the little things—it -always is the little things, like drops of water -wearing away the stone. And they wore away the -feeling I had for you—carried it away grain by grain. -Forgive me, George—.” The tears were streaming -down her face. “I loved you—you were my life—I -have lost you. And I’m alone—and a woman. -No, no—don’t misunderstand my crying—my love -is dead. Sometimes I think I ought to hate you -for killing it. But I don’t.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said, springing to his feet. His -lips were drawn back in a sneer and he was shaking -with anger. He took up his hat and coat. “I shall<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -not intrude longer.” He bowed with mock respect. -“Good-night—good-<i>bye</i>.”</p> - -<p>“George!” She started up. “We must not -part, with you in anger against me.”</p> - -<p>He gave her a furious look and left the apartment. -“What a marriage!” he said to himself. “Bah! -She’ll send me a note in the morning.” But this -prophecy was instantly faced with the memory of -her expression as she gave her decision.</p> - -<p>And Emily did not send for him. She tore up -in the morning the note she rose in the night to -write.</p> - -<p>The next evening while she and the Waylands -were dining at the Ritz, Victoria Fenton came in -with Kilboggan and sat where Emily could study -her at leisure.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that a beautiful woman?” she said to -Theresa.</p> - -<p>“Yes—a gorgeous animal,” Theresa replied, after -a critical survey. “And how she does love food!”</p> - -<p>Emily was grateful.</p> - -<p>“She looks rather common too,” Theresa continued. -“What a bad face the fellow she’s with -has.”</p> - -<p>Emily tried to extract comfort out of these confirmations -of her opinion of the couple she was -blaming for Marlowe’s forcing the inevitable issue -at a most inopportune time. But her spirits refused -to rise. “It’s of no use to deny it,” she said to herself, -with a sick and sinking heart. “I shall miss -him dreadfully. What can take his place?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>She wished to be alone; the dinner seemed an -interminable prospect, was an hour and a half of -counted and lingering minutes. When the coffee -was served she announced a severe headache, insisted -on going at once and alone, would permit escort -only to a cab. As she went she seemed to be passing, -deserted and forlorn, through a world of comrades -and lovers—men two and two, women two -and two, men and women together in pairs or in -parties. Out in the Champs Elysees, stars and soft, -warm air, and love-inviting shadows among the trees; -here and there the sudden dazzling blaze of the -lights of a café chantant, and music; a multitude of -cabs rolling by, laughter or a suggestion of romance -floating in the wake of each. “Hide yourself!” -the city and the night were saying to her, “Hide -your heartache! Nobody cares, nobody wishes to -see!”</p> - -<p>And she hastened to hide herself, to lie stunned -in the beat of a black and bitter sea.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVIII.<br /> - - -<small>“THE REAL TRAGEDY OF LIFE.”</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">MARLOWE had been held above his -normal self, not by Emily, but by -an exalting love for her. Except in -occasional momentary moods of exuberant -animalism, he had not been -low and coarse. Whatever else might be said of -the love affairs whose tombstones strewed his past, -it could not be said that they were degrading to -the parties at interest. But there was in his mind -a wide remove between all the others and Emily. -His love for her was as far above him as her love -for him after she ceased to respect him had been -beneath her. And her courage and independence -came to her rescue none too soon. He could not -much longer have persisted in a state so unnatural -to his character and habit. Indeed it was unconsciously -the desire to get her where he could gradually -lead her down to his fixed and unchangeable level, -that forced him on to join that disastrous issue.</p> - -<p>As he journeyed toward London the next night, -he was industriously preparing to eject love for her -by a vigorous campaign of consolation. Vanity -had never ceased to rule him. It had tolerated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -love so long as love seemed to be coöperating with -it. It now resumed unchecked sway.</p> - -<p>Before he went to Paris he was much stirred by -Victoria’s beauty. He thought that fear of her -becoming a menace to his loyalty had caused him -to appeal to Emily. And naturally he now turned -toward Victoria, and made ready for a deliberately -reckless infatuation. He plunged the very afternoon -of his return to London, and he was soon -succeeding beyond the bounds which his judgment -had set in the planning. This triumph over a -humiliating defeat was won by many and powerful -allies—resentment against Emily for her wounds to -his vanity, craving for consolation, a vigorous and -passionate imagination, the desire to show his -superiority over the fascinating Kilboggan, and, -strongest of all, Victoria’s fame and extraordinary -physical charms. If Emily could have looked into -his mind two weeks after he left her, she would -have been much chagrined, and would no doubt -have fallen into the error of fancying that his love -had not been genuine and, for him, deep.</p> - -<p>He erected Victoria into an idol, put his good -sense out of commission, fell down and worshipped. -He found her a reincarnation of some wonderful -Greek woman who had inspired the sculptors of -Pericles. He wrote her burning letters. When he -was with her he gave her no opportunity to show -him whether she was wise or silly, deep or shallow, -intelligent or stupid. When she did speak he heard, -not her words, but only the vibrations of that voice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -which had made her the success of the season—the -voice that entranced all and soon seemed to him to -strike the chord to which every fibre of his every -nerve responded. He dreamed of those gold braids, -unwound and showering about those strange, lean, -maddening shoulders and arms of hers.</p> - -<p>In that mood, experience, insight into the ways -and motives of women went for no more than in -any other mood of any other mode of love. He -knew that he was in a delirium, incapable of reason -or judgment. But he had no desire to abate, perhaps -destroy, his pleasure by sobering and steadying -himself.</p> - -<p>He convinced himself that Kilboggan was an unsatisfied -admirer of Victoria. When Kilboggan -left her to marry the rich wife his mother had at -last found for him, he believed that the “nobleman” -had been driven away by Victoria because -she feared her beloved Marlowe disapproved of him. -And when he found that Victoria would never be -his until they should marry, he began to cast about -to free himself. After drafting and discarding -many letters, and just when he was in despair—“It’s -impossible even to begin right”—he had what -seemed to him an inspiration. “The telegraph! -One does not have to begin or end a telegram; and -it can be abrupt without jar, and terse without -baldness.” He sent away his very first effort:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p><span class="smcap">Emily Bromfield</span>,<br /> - -<span class="indentleft">—Boulevard Haussmann, Paris.</span></p> - -<p>Will you consent to quiet Dakota -divorce on ground of incompatibility. No danger publicity.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -You will not need leave Paris or take any trouble whatever. -Please telegraph answer to—Dover Street, Piccadilly.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Marlowe.</span></p> -</div> - -<p>He was so bent upon his plan that not until he -had handed in the telegram did the other side of -what he was doing come forcibly to him. With a -sudden explosion there were flung to the surface of -his mind from deep down where Emily was uneasily -buried, a mass of memories, longings, hopes, -remnants of tenderness and love, regrets, remorse. -He had no definite impulse to recall the telegram -but, as he went out into the thronged and choked -Strand, he forgot where he was and let the crowd -bump and thump and drift him into a doorway; and -he stood there, not thinking, but feeling—forlorn, -acutely sensitive of the loneliness and futility of life.</p> - -<p>“I was just going to ask you to join me at -luncheon,” said a man at his side—Blackwell, an -old acquaintance. “But if you feel as you look, I -prefer my own thoughts.”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of a paragraph I read in <i>Figaro</i> -this morning,” said Marlowe. “It went on to say -that the real tragedy of life is not the fall of splendid -fortunes, nor the death of those who are beloved, -nor any other of the obvious calamities, but the -petty, inglorious endings of friendships and loves -that have seemed eternal.”</p> - -<p>When Marlowe went to his lodgings after luncheon, -he found Emily’s answer: “Certainly, and I -know I can trust you completely.”</p> - -<p>He expected a note from her, but none came.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -He cabled for leave of absence and in the following -week sailed for New York. He “established a -residence” one morning at Petersville, an obscure -county seat in a remote corner of South Dakota, -engaged a lawyer for himself and another for -Emily in the afternoon, and in the evening set out -for New York. At the end of three months, spent -in New York, he returned to his “residence”—a -bedroom in Petersville. The case was called the -afternoon of his arrival. Emily “put in an appearance” -through her lawyer, and he submitted to the -court a letter from her in which she authorised him -to act for her, and declared that she would never -return to her husband. After a trial which lasted -a minute and three-quarters—consumed in reading -Emily’s letter and in Marlowe’s testimony—the -divorce was granted. The only publicity was -the never-read record of the Petersville court.</p> - -<p>Marlowe reappeared in London after an absence -of three months and three weeks. When Victoria -completed her tour of the provinces, they were -married and went down to the South Coast for the -honeymoon.</p> - -<p>The climax of a series of thunderclaps in revelation -of Victoria as an intimate personality came at -breakfast the next morning. She was more beautiful -than he had ever seen her, and her voice had its -same searching vibrations. But he could think of -neither as he watched her “tackle”—the only word -which seemed to him descriptive—three enormous -mutton chops in rapid succession. He noted each<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -time her long white teeth closed upon a mouthful -of chop and potato; and as she chewed with now -one cheek and now the other distended and with -her glorious eyes bright like a feeding beast’s, he -repeated to himself again and again: “My God, -what have I done?”—not tragically, but with a -keen sense of his own absurdity. He turned away -from her and stood looking out across the channel -toward France—toward Emily.</p> - -<p>“What shall I do?” he said to himself. “What -shall I do?”</p> - -<p>He was compelled to admit that she was not in -the least to blame. She had made no pretences to -him. She had simply accepted what he cast at her -feet, what he fell on his knees to beg her to take. She -had not deceived him. Her hair, her teeth—what -greedy, gluttonous teeth!—her long, slender form, -her voice, all were precisely as they had promised. -He went over their conversations. He remembered -much that she had said—brief commonplaces, -phrases which revealed her, but which he thought -wonderful as they came to his entranced ears upon -that shimmering stream of sound. Not an idea! -Not an intelligent thought except those repeated—with -full credit—from the conversation of others.</p> - -<p>“Fool! Fool!” he said to himself. “I am the -most ridiculous of men. If I tried to speak, I -should certainly bray.”</p> - -<p>He turned and looked at her as she sat with her -back toward him. Her hair was caught up loosely, -coil on coil of dull gold. It just revealed the nape<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -of her neck above the lace of her dressing-gown. -“Yes, it is a beautiful neck! She is a beautiful -woman.” Yet the thought that that beauty was -his, thrust at him like the red-hot fork of a teasing -devil. “It is what I deserve,” he said. “But that -makes it the more exasperating. What <i>shall</i> I do?”</p> - -<p>“Why are you so quiet, sweetheart?” she said, -throwing her napkin on the table. “Come here -and kiss me and say some of those pretty things. -You Americans do have a queer accent. But you -know how to make love cleverly. No wonder you -caught poor, foolish me.”</p> - -<p>“My <i>wife</i>,” he thought. “Good God, what have -I done? It must be a ghastly dream.” But he -crossed the room and sat opposite her without looking -at her. “I’m not very fit this morning,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I thought you weren’t.” Her spell-casting -voice was in the proper stage-tone for sympathy. -“I saw that you didn’t eat.”</p> - -<p>“Eat!” He shuddered and closed his eyes to -prevent her seeing the sullen fury which blazed -there. He was instantly ashamed of himself. -Only—if she <i>would</i> avoid reminding him of the -chops and potato disappearing behind that gleaming -screen of ivory. He was sitting on a little sofa. -She sat beside him and drew his head down upon -her shoulder. She let her long, cool fingers slide -slowly back and forth across his forehead.</p> - -<p>“I <i>do</i> love you.” There was a ring of reality in -her tone beneath the staginess. “We are going to -be very, very happy. You are so different from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -Englishmen. And I’m afraid you’ll weary of your -stupid English wife. I’m not a bit clever, you -know, like the American women.”</p> - -<p>He was unequal to a hypocritical protest in -words, so he patted her reassuringly on the arm. -He was less depressed now that she had stopped -eating and was at her best. He rose and with -ashamed self-reproach kissed her hair. “I shall -try to make you not repent your bargain,” he said, -with intent to conceal the deeper meaning of his -remark. “But I must send off some telegrams. -Then we’ll go for a drive. I need the air.”</p> - -<p>He liked her still better as she came down in a -becoming costume; he particularly liked the agitation -her appearance created in the lounging rooms. -They got through the day well, and after a dinner -with two interesting men—a dinner at which he -drank far more than usual—he felt temporarily -reconciled to his fate.</p> - -<p>But at the end of a week, in which he had so -managed it that they were alone as little as possible -he had not one illusion left. He did not love her. -She did not attract him. She was tiresome through -and through. Instead of giving life a new meaning -and him a new impetus, she was an added burden, -another source of irritation. He admitted to -himself that he had been tricked by his senses, as a -boy of twenty might have been. He felt like a -professional detective who has yielded to a familiar -swindling game.</p> - -<p>She had grown swiftly fonder of him, won by his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> -mental superiority, by his gentleness exaggerated -in his anxiety not basely to make her suffer for his -folly. “He’s a real gentleman,” she thought. -“His manners are not pretence. I’ve done much -better than I fancied.” And she began further to -try his nerves by a dog-like obedience. She would -not put on a dress without first consulting him. -She had no will but his in any way—except one. -She insisted upon ordering her own meals. There -she did not care what he thought.</p> - -<p>Once they were back in London, his chain became -invisible and galled him only in imagination. She -had an exacting profession, and so had he. When -they were together, they would talk about her work, -and, as he was interested in it and intelligent about -it and she docile and receptive, he was content. -While she was of no direct use to him, he found -that she was of great indirect use. He worked more -steadily, more ambitiously. The ideal woman, which -had always been distracting and time-wasting, ceased -to have any part in his life.</p> - -<p>He turned his attention to play-writing and play-carpentry. -He became a connoisseur of food and -drink, a dabbler in old furniture and tapestries. -He did not regret the event of his first venture in -marriage and only venture in love. “As it is, it’s -a perfect gem,” he finally came to sum the matter -up, “a completed work of art. If I’d had my way, -still it must have ended some time, and not so -artistically or so comfortably.” When he reflected -thus, his waist-line was slowly going.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIX.<br /> - - -<small>EMILY REFUSES CONSOLATION.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THE Waylands took a small house at -Neuilly for the summer, and Emily -spent a great deal of time there. She -found Theresa less lively but also less jarring -than in their boarding-house days. -Neither ever spoke of those days, or of Demorest -and Marlowe—Theresa, because she had no wish to -recall that she had been other than the fashionable -and preeminently respectable personage she had -rapidly developed into; Emily, because her heart -was still sore, and the place where Marlowe had been -was still an uncomfortable and at times an aching -void.</p> - -<p>In midsummer came the third member of the Wayland -family—Edgar. Like his father, he had changed, -had developed into a type of the respectable -radically different from anything of which she -had thought him capable. A cleaner mind now -looked from his commonplace face, and he watched -with approving interest the pleasing, if monotonous, -spectacle of his father’s domestic solidity. On the -very day on which Emily received her copy of the -decree of the Petersville court, he took her out to -dinner.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>She had sat in her little salon with the three -documents in the case before her—the two tangible -documents, the marriage certificate and the decree -of divorce; and the intangible but most powerful -document, her memory of Marlowe from first scene -to last. When it was time for her to dress, she -went to her bedroom window, tore the two papers -into bits and sent them fluttering away over the -housetops on the breeze. “The incident is closed,” -she said, with a queer short laugh that was also a -sob. She had Wayland take her to a little restaurant -in the Rue Marivaux, her and Marlowe’s favourite -dining place—a small room, with tasteful dark -furnishings and rose-coloured lights that made it -somewhat brighter than clear twilight.</p> - -<p>As they sat there, with the orchestra sending -down from a plant-screened alcove high in the wall -the softest and gentlest intimations of melody, -Emily deliberately gave herself up to the mood that -had been growing all the afternoon.</p> - -<p>Edgar knew her well enough to leave her to her -thoughts through the long wait and into the second -course. Then he remonstrated. “You’re not drinking. -You’re not eating. You’re not listening—I’ve -asked you a question twice.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I was listening,” replied Emily—“listening -to a voice I don’t like to hear, yet wouldn’t silence -if I could—the voice of experience.”</p> - -<p>“Well—you look as if you’d had a lot of experience—I -was going to say, you look sadder, but it -isn’t that. And—you’re more beautiful than ever,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -Emily. You always did have remarkable eyes, and -now they’re—simply wonderful and mysterious.”</p> - -<p>Emily laughed. “Oh, they’re hiding such secrets—such -secrets!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose you have been through a lot. -You talk more like a married woman than a young -girl. But of course you don’t know life as a man -knows it. No nice woman can.”</p> - -<p>“Can a nice man?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there aren’t any nice men. At least you’d -hate a nice man. I think a fellow ought to be experienced, -ought to go around and learn what’s what, -and then he ought to settle down. Don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure. I’m afraid a good many of that -kind of fellows are no more attractive than the ‘nice’ -men. Still, it’s surprising how little of you men’s -badness gets beyond the surface. You come in and -hold up your dirty hands and faces for us women to -wash. And we wash them, and you are shiny and -clean and all ready to be husbands and fathers. I -think I’ve seen signs of late that little Edgar Wayland -wishes to have <i>his</i> hands and face washed.”</p> - -<p>The red wine at this restaurant in the Rue Marivaux -is mild and smooth, but full of sentiment and -courage. Edgar had made up for Emily’s neglect -of it, and it enabled him to advance boldly to the -settlement of a matter which he had long had in -mind, as Emily would have seen, had she not been -so intent upon her own affairs.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I do want my hands and face washed,” he -said nervously, turning his glass by its stem round<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -and round upon the table. “And I want you to do -it, Emmy.”</p> - -<p>Emily was grateful to him for proposing to her -just then. And her courage was so impaired by -her depression that she could not summarily reject -a chance to settle herself for life in the way that is -usually called “well.” “Haven’t I been making a -mistake?” she had been saying to herself all that -day—and in vaguer form on many preceding days. -“Is the game worth the struggle? Freedom and -independence haven’t brought me happiness. -Wasn’t George right, after all? Why should I expect -so much in a man, expect so much from life?” -It seemed to her at the moment that she had better -have stopped thinking, had better have cast aside -her ideals of self-respect and pride, and have sunk -with Marlowe. “And Edgar would let me alone. -Why not marry him?”</p> - -<p>She evaded his proposal by teasing him about his -flight from her two years before—“Only two -years,” she thought. “How full and swift life is, if -one keeps in midstream.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk about that, Emmy, please,” begged -Edgar humbly. “I don’t need any reminder that -I once had a chance and threw it away.”</p> - -<p>“But you didn’t have a chance,” replied Emily.</p> - -<p>“No, I suppose not. I suppose you wouldn’t -have had me, if it had come to the point.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean that. I’d have had <i>you</i>, but you -wouldn’t, couldn’t, have had <i>me</i>. The I of those -days and the I of to-day aren’t at all the same person.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -If I’d married you then, there would have -been one kind of a me. As it is, there is a different -kind of a me, as different as—as the limits of life -permit.”</p> - -<p>“What has done it—love?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Chiefly freedom. Freedom!” Her sensitive -face was suddenly all in a glow.</p> - -<p>“I know I’m not up to you, Emily,” he said. -“But——”</p> - -<p>“Let’s not talk about it, Edgar. Why spoil our -evening?”</p> - -<p>Theresa came the next afternoon and took her -for a drive. “Has Edgar been proposing to you?” -she asked.</p> - -<p>“I think he’s feeling more or less sentimental,” -Emily replied, not liking the intimate question.</p> - -<p>“Now, don’t think I’m meddling. Edgar told -me, and has been talking about you all morning. -He wished me to help him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what do you think?”</p> - -<p>“Marry him, Emily. He’d make a model husband. -He’s not very mean about money, and he’s -fond of home and children. I’d like it on my own -account, of course. It would be just the thing in -every way.”</p> - -<p>“But then there’s my work, my independence, my -freedom.”</p> - -<p>“Do be sensible. You can work as hard as ever -you like, even if you are married. And you’d be -freer than now and would have a lots better time, -no matter what your idea of a good time is.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>“But I don’t love him. I’m not sure that I even -like him.”</p> - -<p>“So much the better. Then you’ll be agreeably -disappointed. If you expect nothing or worse, you -get the right kind of a surprise; whereas, when a -woman loves a man, she idealises him and is sure to -get the wrong kind of a surprise.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t possibly know how wise what you’ve -just said is, Theresa Dunham,” said Emily. “But -there is one thing wiser—and that is, not to marry, -not to risk. I’m able to make my living. My extravagant -tastes are under control. And I’m content—except -in ways in which nothing he can give -me could help.”</p> - -<p>Theresa was irritated that Emily’s “queer ideas” -were a force in her life, not a mere mask for disappointment -at not having been able to marry well. -And Emily could not discuss the situation with her. -Theresa might admit that it was barely possible for -a woman to refuse to marry except for love. But -a woman disputing the necessity of marriage for -any and all women, if they were not to make a disgraceful -failure of life—Emily could see Theresa -pooh-poohing the idea that such a creature really -existed among the sane. Further, if Emily -explained her point of view, she would be by implication -assailing Theresa for her marriage.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure,” Theresa went on, “that Edgar’s -father would be satisfied. If he didn’t know you he -wouldn’t like it. He has such strict ideas on the -subject of women. He thinks a woman’s mission<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> -is to be a wife and mother. He says nature plainly -intended woman to have motherhood as her mission.”</p> - -<p>“Not any more, I should say, than she intended -man to have fatherhood as his mission.”</p> - -<p>“Well, at any rate, he thinks so, and it gives -him something to talk about. He thinks a woman -who is not at least a wife ought to be ashamed of -herself.”</p> - -<p>“But if no man will have her?”</p> - -<p>“Then she ought to sit out of sight, where she will -offend as little as possible.”</p> - -<p>“But if she has to make a living?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, she can do something quiet and respectable, -like sewing or housework.”</p> - -<p>“But why shouldn’t she work at whatever will -produce the best living?”</p> - -<p>“She ought to be careful not to be unwomanly.”</p> - -<p>“Womanliness, as you call it, won’t bring in bread -or clothes or pay rent,” said Emily. “And I can’t -quite see why it should be womanly to make a poor -living at drudgery and unwomanly to make a good -living at agreeable work.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, you know, Emmy, that nature never -intended women to work.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t know what nature intended. -Sometimes I’ve an idea she’s like a painter who, -when they asked him what his canvas was going to -be, said, ‘Oh, as it may happen.’ But whatever -nature’s intentions, women do work. I’m not -thinking about an unimportant little class of women<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -who spend their time in dressing and simpering at -one another. I’m thinking of women—the race of -women. They work as the men work. They bear -more than half the burden. They work side by -side with the men—in the shops and offices and -schoolrooms, on the farms and in the homes. They -toil as hard and as intelligently and as usefully as -the men; and, if they’re married, they usually make -a bare living. The average husband thinks he’s -doing his wife a favour by letting her live with him. -And he is furious if she asks what he’s doing with -their joint earnings.”</p> - -<p>“You put it well,” said Theresa. “You ought -to say that to Percival. I suppose he could answer -you.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt I’m boring you,” said Emily. “But -it makes me indignant for women to accept men’s -absurd ideas on the subject of themselves—to think -that they’ve got to submit and play the hypocrite -in order to fit men’s silly so-called ideals of them. -And the worst of it is——”</p> - -<p>Emily stopped and when she began again, talked -of the faces and clothes in the passing carriages. -She had intended to go on to denounce herself for -weakness in being unable to follow reason and altogether -shake off ideas which she regarded as false -and foolish and discreditable. “As if,” she thought -“any toil in making my own living could possibly -equal the misery of being tied to a commonplace -fellow like Edgar, with my life one long denial of -all that I believe honest and true. I his wife, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -mother of his children, and listening to his narrow -prosings day in and day out—it’s impossible!”</p> - -<p>She straightened herself and drew in a long breath -of the bright air of the Bois.</p> - -<p>“Listen to me, Theresa,” she said. “Suppose -you were walking along a road alone—not an -especially pleasant road—a little dusty and, at -times rough—but still on the whole not a bad -road. And suppose you saw a clumsy, heavy manikin, -dropped by some showman and lying by the -wayside. Would you say, ‘I am tired. The road -is rough. I’ll pick up this manikin and strap it on -my back to make the journey lighter?’”</p> - -<p>“Whatever do you mean?” asked Theresa.</p> - -<p>“Why, I mean that I’m not going to marry—not -just yet—I think.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XX.<br /> - - -<small>BACHELOR GIRLS.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">IN September Emily, convinced that she could -not afford to stay away from her own country -longer, got herself transferred to the New -York staff and crossed with the Waylands. -In the crowd on the White Star pier she -saw Joan, now a successful playright or “plagiarist” -as she called herself, because the most of her work -was translating and adapting. And presently Joan -and she were journeying in a four-wheeler piled -high with trunks, toward the San Remo where Joan -was living.</p> - -<p>“Made in Paris,” said Joan, her arm about Emily -and her eyes delighting in Emily’s stylish French -travelling costume. “You even speak with a Paris -accent. How you have changed!”</p> - -<p>“But not so much as you. You are not so thin. -And you’ve lost that stern, anxious expression. -And you have the air—what is it?—the air that -comes to people when their merits have been publicly -admitted.”</p> - -<p>Joan did indeed look a person who is in the -habit of being taken into account. She had always -been good-looking, if somewhat severe and business-like. -Now she was handsome. She was not of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> -type of woman with whom a man falls ardently in -love—she showed too plainly that she dealt with -all the facts of life on a purely intellectual basis.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been expecting news that you were marrying,” -said Emily.</p> - -<p>“I?” Joan smiled cynically. “I feel as you do -about marriage—except——”</p> - -<p>She paused and reddened as Emily began to -laugh. “No—not that,” she went on. “I’m not -the least in love. But I’ve made up my mind to -marry the first intelligent, endurable, self-supporting -man that asks me. I’m thirty-two years old and—I -want children.”</p> - -<p>“Children! You—children?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I. I’ve changed my mind now that I can -afford to think of such things. I like them for -themselves and—they’re the only hope one has of -getting a real object in life. Working for oneself is -hollow. I once thought I’d be happy if I got -where I am now—mistress of my time and sure of -an income. But I find that I can’t hope to be -contented going on alone. And that means children.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t know how you surprise me.” Emily -looked thoughtful rather than surprised. “You -set me to thinking along a new line. I wonder if I -shall ever feel that way?”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course. Old age without ties in the -new generation is a dismal farce for woman or man. -We human beings live looking to the future if we -live at all. And unless we have children, we are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -certain to be alone and facing the past in old age. -You’ll change your mind, as I have. Some day -you’ll begin to feel the longing for children. It -may be irrational, but it’ll be irresistible.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I think I’ll wait on your experiment. -How I love the trolley cars and the tall buildings—they -make one feel what a strong, bold race we are, -don’t they? And I’m simply wild to get to the -office.”</p> - -<p>Emily was assigned to the staff of the Sunday -supplements—to read papers and magazines, foreign -and domestic, and suggest and occasionally execute -features. She liked the work and it left her -evenings free; but it was sedentary. This she corrected -by walking the three miles from the office -to her flat and by swimming at a school in Forty-fourth -street three times a week.</p> - -<p>She gave much time and thought to her appearance -because she was proud of her looks, because -they were part of her capital, and because she knew -that only by the greatest care could she keep her -youth. Joan’s interest in personal appearance, so -far as she herself was concerned, ended with seeing -to cleanliness and to clothing near enough to the -fashion to make her a well-dressed woman. It did -not disturb her that her hair was slightly thinner -than it used to be, or that there were a few small -wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. But she was -not contemptuous of Emily’s far-sighted precautions. -On the contrary, she looked upon them as -sensible and would have been worried by any sign<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> -of relaxing vigilance. She delighted in Emily’s -gowns and in the multitude of trifles—collarettes, -pins of different styles, stockings of striking and even -startling patterns, shoes and boots of many kinds, -ribbons, gloves, etc. etc.—wherewith she made her -studied simplicity of dress perfect.</p> - -<p>“It’s wonderful,” she said, as she watched Emily -unpack. “I don’t see how you ever accumulated -so much.”</p> - -<p>“Instinct probably,” replied Emily. “I make -it a rule never to buy anything I don’t need, -and never to need anything I don’t have money to -buy.”</p> - -<p>They took a flat in Central Park West, near -Sixty-sixth street, and Joan insisted upon paying -two-thirds of the expenses. Emily yielded, because -Joan’s arguments were unanswerable—she did use -the flat more, as she not only worked there and received -business callers, but also did much entertaining; -and she could well afford to bear the larger -part of the expense, as her income was about eight -thousand a year, and Emily had only three thousand. -Joan wished to draw Emily into play-writing, -but soon gave it up. She had to admit to -herself that Emily was right in thinking she had -not the necessary imagination—that her mind was -appreciative rather than constructive.</p> - -<p>“Don’t think I’m so dreadfully depressed over -it,” Emily went on. “It is painful to have limitations -as narrow as mine, when one appreciates as -keenly as I do. But we can’t all have genius<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -or great talent. Besides, the highest pleasures -don’t come through great achievement or great -ability.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, they do not.”</p> - -<p>Emily’s eyes danced, and Joan grew red and -smiled foolishly. The meaning back of it was Professor -Reed of Columbia. He had been calling on -Joan of late frequently, and with significant regularity. -He was short and sallow, with a narrow, -student’s face, and brown eyes, that seemed large -and dreamy through his glasses, as eyes behind -glasses usually do. He was stiff in manner, because -he had had little acquaintance with women. He -was in love with Joan in a solemn, old-fashioned -way. He was so shy and respectful that if Emily -had not been most considerate of other people’s -privacy, she would have teased Joan by asking her -when she was going to propose to him that he propose -to her.</p> - -<p>He was rigid in his ideas of what constituted -propriety for himself, but not in the least disposed -to insist upon his standards in others. He felt that -in wandering so near to Bohemia as Joan and -Emily he was trenching upon the extreme of permissible -self-indulgence. If he had been able to -suspect Joan of “a past,” he would probably have -been secretly delighted. He did not believe that -she had, when he got beyond the surface of her life—the -atmosphere of the playhouse and the newspaper -office—and saw how matter-of-fact everything -was. But he still clung to vague imaginings of unconventionality,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -so alluring to those who are conventional -in thought and action.</p> - -<p>Emily’s one objection to him was that he sometimes -tried to be witty or humorous. Then he -became hysterical and not far from silly. But as -she knew him better she forgave this. Had she -disliked him she would have been able to see nothing -else.</p> - -<p>“Do you admire strength in a man?” she once -asked Joan.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I suppose so. I like him to be—well, a -man.”</p> - -<p>“I like a man to be distinctly masculine—strong, -mentally and physically. I don’t like him to domineer, -but I like to feel that he would domineer me -if he dared—and could domineer every one except -me.”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t like that. I have my own ideas of -what I wish to do. And I wish the man who is -anything to me to be willing to help me to do -them.”</p> - -<p>“You want a man-servant, then?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed. But I don’t want a master.” Joan -shut her lips together, and a stern, pained expression -came into her face. Emily saw that her -book of memory had flung open at an unpleasant -page. “No,” she continued in a resolute tone, “I -want no master. My centre of gravity must remain -within myself.”</p> - -<p>After that conversation Emily understood why -Joan liked her intelligent, adoring, timid professor.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> -“Joan will make him make her happy,” she said to -herself, amused at, yet admiring, Joan’s practical, -sensible planning.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Soon after her return, the Sunday editor called -her into his office—her desk was across the room, -immediately opposite his door.</p> - -<p>“We want a series of articles on what is doing -in New York for the poor—especially the foreign -poor of the slums. Now, here’s the address of a -man who can tell you about his own work and also -what others are doing—where to send in order to -see how it’s done, whom it’s done for, and so on.”</p> - -<p>Emily took the slip. It read “Dr. Stanhope,—Grand -Street.” She set out at once, left the Bowery -car at Grand street and walked east through its -crowded dinginess. She passed the great towering -Church of the Redeemer at the corner of —— -street. The next house was the one she was seeking. -A maid answered the door. A sickly looking -curate, his shovel-hat standing out ludicrously over -a pair of thin, projecting ears, passed her with a -“professional” smile that made his tiny, dimpled -chin look its weakest. The maid took her card -and presently returned to conduct her through several -handsome rooms, up heavily carpeted stairs, -under an arch, into a connecting house that was -furnished with cold and cheap simplicity. The -maid pushed open a door and Emily entered a -large, high-ceilinged library, that looked as if were -the workshop of a toiler of ascetic tastes. At the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -farther end at a table-desk sat a man, writing. His -back was toward her—a big back, a long, broad, -powerful back. He was seated upon a strong, revolving -office-chair, yet it seemed too small and too -feeble for him.</p> - -<p>“Well, my good girl, what can I do for you?” -he called over his shoulder, without ceasing to -write.</p> - -<p>Emily started. She recognised the voice, then -the head, neck, shoulders, back. It was the man -she had “confessed” in Paris. She was so astonished -that she could make no reply, and hardly -noted the abstracted patronising tone, the supercilious -words and the uncourteous manner. He -dropped his pen, laid his great hands on the arms -of his chair and swung himself round. His expression -changed so swiftly and so tragically that -Emily forgot her own surprise and with difficulty -restrained her amusement.</p> - -<p>He leaped from his chair and strode toward her—bore -down upon her. His brilliant, dark eyes expressed -amazement, doubt of his sanity. There -was a deep flush in his pallid skin just beneath the -surface.</p> - -<p>“I have come to ask”—began Emily.</p> - -<p>“Is it you?” he said, eagerly. “Is it <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon.” Emily’s face showed no -recognition and she stood before him, formal and -business-like.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you remember me?” He made an impatient -gesture, as if to sweep aside a barrier some one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> -had thrust in front of him. “Did I not meet -you in Paris?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think—I’m sure—that I have not had -the pleasure of meeting you. The <i>Democrat</i> sent -me here to see Doctor Stanhope—”</p> - -<p>Again he made the sweeping gesture with his -powerful arm. “I am Doctor Stanhope,” he said -impatiently. Then with earnest directness: “Your -manner is an evasion. It is useless, unlike—unexpected -in the sort of woman you—you look.”</p> - -<p>“You cannot ask me to be bound by your conclusions -or wishes when they do not agree with my -own,” said Emily, her tone and look taking the edge -from her words, as she did not wish to offend him.</p> - -<p>“As you will.” He made a gesture of resignation -and bowed toward a chair at the corner of his -desk. When they were seated, he said, “I am at -your service, Miss Bromfield.”</p> - -<p>He gave her the information she was seeking, -suggested the phases of poverty and relief of poverty -that would be best for description and illustration. -He called in his secretary and dictated notes -of instruction to several men who could help her. -He requested them to “give Miss Bromfield all -possible facilities, as an especial favour to me. I am -deeply interested in the articles she is preparing for -the <i>Democrat</i>.”</p> - -<p>When the secretary withdrew to write out the -letters, he leaned back in his chair and looked at -her appealingly. “Shall we be friends?” he -asked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>While Emily had been sitting there, so near him, -hearing his clear, resolute voice, noting his fascinating -mannerisms of strength, gentleness and simplicity, -she felt again the charm of power and persuasion -that had conquered her when first she saw -him. “He makes me feel that he is important, and -at the same time that I am important in his eyes,” -she thought, analysing her vanity as she yielded to -it.</p> - -<p>“Friends?” she said aloud with a smile. “That -means better opportunities for petty treachery, and -the chance to assassinate in a crisis. It’s a serious -matter—friendship, don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he replied, humour in his eyes. “And -again it may mean an offensive and defensive alliance -against the world.”</p> - -<p>“In dreams,” she answered, “but not in women’s -dreams of men or in men’s dreams of women.”</p> - -<p>Just then a voice called from the hall, “Arthur!”—a -shrill, shrewish voice with a note of habitual -ill-temper in it, yet a ladylike voice.</p> - -<p>There was a rustling of skirts and into the room -hurried a small, fair woman, thin, and nervous in -face, thin and nervous in body, with a sudden bulge -of breadth and stoutness at the hips. She was in a -tailor gown, expensive and unbecoming. Her hair -was light brown, tightly drawn up, with a small -knot at the crown of her head. There was a wide, -bald expanse behind each ear. She had cold-blue, -sensual eyes, the iris looking as if it were a thin -button pasted to the ball. Yet she was not unattractive,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -making up in fire what she lacked in -beauty.</p> - -<p>“As you see, I am engaged,” Stanhope said, -tranquilly.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me for interrupting.” There was a -covert sting of sarcasm in her voice. “But I must -see you.”</p> - -<p>He rose. “You’ll excuse me a moment?” he -said to Emily.</p> - -<p>He followed his wife into the hall and soon returned -to his desk. “Everything begins badly -with me,” he resumed abruptly. “Since I was a -boy at school, the butt of the other boys because I -was clumsy and supersensitive, it has been one long -fight.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but something -it suggested rather than uttered made Emily feel -as if tears were welling up toward her eyes. “But,” -he continued, “I go straight on. I sometimes -stumble, sometimes crawl, but always straight on.”</p> - -<p>“What a simple, direct man he is,” she thought, -“and how strong! In another that would have -seemed a boast. From him it seems the literal -truth.”</p> - -<p>“What are you thinking?” he interrupted.</p> - -<p>“Just then? I was beginning to think how peculiar -you are, and how—how—” her eyes danced—“indiscreet.”</p> - -<p>“Because of what I did and said in Paris? Because -of what I am saying to you now?” He -looked at her friendlily. “Oh, no—there you mistake -me. I cannot tell why I feel as I do toward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> -you. But I know that I must be truthful and -honest with you, that you have a right to demand -it of me, as had no one else I ever knew. I must -let you know me as I am.”</p> - -<p>“You seem delightfully sure that I wish to know.”</p> - -<p>“I do not think of that at all. Much as I have -thought of you, I have never thought ‘what does -she think of me?’ Probably you dismissed me -from your mind when you turned away from me in -Paris. Probably you will again forget me when you -have written your article and passed to other work. -But I cannot resist the instinct that impels me on -to look upon you as the most important human -being in the world for me.”</p> - -<p>“I believe that you are honest. I don’t wish to -misunderstand your frankness. I’m too impatient -of conventions myself to insist upon them in others—that -is, in those who respect the real barriers that -hedge every human being until he or she chooses to -let them down. But”—Emily hesitated and -looked apologetically at this “giant with the heart -of a boy,” as he seemed to her—“you ought not to -forget that everything in your circumstances makes -it wrong for you to talk to me thus.”</p> - -<p>“It seems so, doesn’t it?” He looked at her -gravely. “It looks as if I were a scoundrel. Yet -I don’t feel in the least as if I were trying to wrong -you in any way. You seem to me far stronger than -I. I feel that I am appealing to you for strength.”</p> - -<p>The secretary entered, laid the letters before him -and went away. He signed them mechanically,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -folded them and put them in the addressed envelopes. -As she rose he rose also and handed them to -her.</p> - -<p>“After I saw you in Paris,” he said, looking down -at her as she stood before him, “I thought it all over. -I asked myself whether I had been deceived by your -beauty, or whether it was the peculiar circumstances -of our meeting, of each of us yielding to an impulse; -or whether it was my weariness of all that I am -familiar with, my desire for the unfamiliar, the new, -the adventurous. And it may be all of these, but -there is more beyond them all.”</p> - -<p>He paused, then went on in a voice which so -thrilled her that she hardly heard his words: “Yes, -a great deal more. I wish something, some one, -some <i>person</i> to believe in. It is vital to me. I -doubt everything and everybody—God, His creatures, -myself most of all. And when my eyes fell -upon you in Paris, there was that in your face which -made me believe in you. I said, ‘She is brave, she -is honest, she is strong. She could not be petty or -false, or cruel.’ And—I do believe in you. That is -all.”</p> - -<p>“If you knew,” she said, trying to shake off the -spell of his voice and his personality, “you would -find me a very ordinary kind of sinner. And then, -you would of course proceed to denounce me as if -I were a fraud, instead of the innocent cause of your -deliberate self-deception.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you have done—what particular -courses you have taken at life’s university.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -But I am not so—so deceived in you that I do not -note and understand the signs of experience, of—yes, -of suffering. I know there must be a cause -when at your age a woman can look a man through -and through, when she can talk to him sexlessly, -when she laughs rarely and smiles reluctantly.”</p> - -<p>“I am hardly a tragedy,” interrupted Emily. -“Please don’t make me out one of those comical -creatures who go through life fancying themselves -heroines of melodrama.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t. You are supremely natural and sensible. -But—I neither know nor try to guess nor -care how you came to be the woman you are. But -I do know that you are one of those to whom all -experience is a help toward becoming wiser and -stronger and better.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to her as if, in spite of her struggles, -she was being drawn toward him irresistibly, toward -a fate which at once fascinated and frightened her. -“You are dangerously interesting,” she said. “But -I am staying too long.” And with a few words of -thanks for his assistance to her work, she went away.</p> - -<p>In the street she rapidly recovered herself and -her point of view. “A minister!” she thought. -“And a married man! And sentimental and mystical!” -But in defiance of self-mockery and self-warnings -her mind persisted in coming back to him, persisted -in revolving ideas about him which her judgment -condemned.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXI.<br /> - - -<small>A “MARRIED MAN.”</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">EMILY spent a week in studying “the -work” of the Redeemer parish—the -activities of its large staff of “workers” -of different grades, from ministers -down through deacons, deaconesses, -teachers, nurses, to unskilled helpers. She attended -its schools—day and night; its lectures; its kindergartens -and day nurseries; its clubs for grown people, -for youths and for children. She examined its -pawn-shops, its employment-bureaus, its bath-houses. -She was surprised by the many ways in -which it touched intimately the lives of that quarter -of a million people of various races, languages and -religions, having nothing in common except human -nature, poverty, and ignorance. She was astonished -at the amount of good accomplished—at the actual, -visible results.</p> - -<p>She had no particular interest in religion or belief -in the value of speculations about the matters on -which religion dogmatises. Her father’s casual but -effective teachings, the books she had read, the talk -of the men and of many of the women she had associated -with, the results of her own observations and -reflections, had strongly entrenched this disposition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -in prejudice. Her adventure into the parish was -therefore the more a revelation. And she found -also that while everything was done there in the -name of religion, little, almost nothing, was said -about religion. “The work,” except in the church -and the chapels at distinctly religious meetings, was -wholly secular. Here was simply a great plant for -enlightening and cheering on those who grope or -sit dumb and blind.</p> - -<p>At first she was rather contemptuous of “the -workers” and was repelled by certain cheap affectations -of speech, thought and manner, common to -them all. They were, the most of them, it seemed -to her, poorly equipped in brains and narrow in -their views of life. But when she got beneath the -surface, she disregarded externals in her admiration -for their unconscious self-sacrifice, their keen pleasure -in helping others—and such “others!”—their -limitless patience with dirt, stupidity, shiftlessness, -and mendacity. She was profoundly moved by the -spectacle of these homely labourers, sowing and reaping -unweariedly the arid sands of the slums for no -other reward than an occasional blade of sickly grass.</p> - -<p>She was standing at the window of one of the -women’s clubs—the one in Allen street near Grand. -It was late in the afternoon and the crowd was -homeward-bound from labour. To her it was a forbidding-looking -crowd. The blight of ignorance—centuries, -innumerable centuries of ignorance—was -upon it. Grossness, dulness, craft, mental and -physical deformity, streamed monotonously by.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>“Depressing, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>She started and glanced around. Beside her, -reading her thoughts in her face, was Dr. Stanhope. -Instead of his baggy, unclerical tweed suit, he was -wearing the uniform of his order. It sat strangely -upon him, like a livery; and, she thought, he hasn’t -in the least the look of the liveried, of one who is -part of any sort of organisation. “He looks as lone, -as ‘unorganised,’ as self-sufficient, as a mountain.”</p> - -<p>“Depressing?” she said, shaking her head with -an expression of distaste. “It’s worse—it’s hopeless.”</p> - -<p>“No,—not hopeless. And you ought not to look -at it with disgust. It’s the soil—the rotten loam -from which the grain and the fruit and the flowers -spring.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so. To me it’s simply a part of -the great stagnant, disease-breeding marsh which -receives the sewage of society.”</p> - -<p>“I sha’n’t go on with the analogy. But your -theory and mine are in the end the same. We all -sprang from this; and the top is always flowering -and dropping back into it to spring up again.”</p> - -<p>“I see nothing but ignorance that cannot learn. -It seems to me nearly all the effort spent upon it -is wasted. If nature were left alone, she would -drain, drain, drain, until at last she might drain it -away.”</p> - -<p>“Yours is an unjust view, I think. I won’t say -anything,” this with a faint smile, “about the souls -that are worth saving. But if we by working here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -open the way for a few, maybe a very few, to rise -who would otherwise not have risen, we have not -worked in vain. My chief interest is the children.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she admitted, her face lighting up, “there -<i>is</i> hope for the children. You don’t know how it -has affected me to see what you and your people are -doing for them. It’s bound to tell. It <i>is</i> telling.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her as if she were his queen and had -bestowed some honour upon him which he had toiled -long to win. “Thank you,” he said. “It means a -great deal to me to have you say that.”</p> - -<p>She gave him a careless glance of derisive incredulity.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“You are amusing,” she replied. “Your expression -of gratitude was overacted. It was—was—grotesque.”</p> - -<p>He drew back as if he had received a blow. “You -are cruel,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Because I warn you that you are overestimating -my vanity? It seems to me, that is friendly kindness. -I’m helping you on.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know anything about your vanity. But -I do know how I feel toward you—what every word -from you means to me.”</p> - -<p>There was wonder and some haughtiness in her -steady gaze, as she said: “I do not understand you -at all. Your words are the words of an extravagant -but not very adroit flatterer. Your looks are the -looks of a man without knowledge of the world and -without a sense of proportion.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>“Why?”</p> - -<p>She thought a moment, then turned toward him -with her frank, direct expression. “I have been -going about in your parish for several days now. -And everywhere I have heard of you. Your helpers -and those that are helped all talk of you as if you -were a sort of god. You <i>are</i> their god. They draw -their inspiration, their courage, their motive-power -from you. They work, they strive, because they -wish to win your praise.”</p> - -<p>“I have been here fifteen years,” he explained -with unaffected modesty, “and as I am at the head, -naturally everything seems to come from me. In -reality I do little.”</p> - -<p>“That is not to my point. I wasn’t trying to -compliment you. What I mean is that I find you -are a man of influence and power in this community. -And you must be conscious of this power. And -since you evidently wield it well, you have it by -right of merit. Yet you wish me to believe that -you bow down in this humble fashion before a -woman of whom you know nothing.” She laughed.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he said, looking impassively out of the -window.</p> - -<p>“It is ridiculous, impossible. And if it were true, -it would be disgraceful—something for you to be -ashamed of.”</p> - -<p>He turned his head slowly until his eyes met hers. -She felt as if she were being caught up by some -mighty force, perilous but intoxicating. She tried -to look away but could not.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>“What a voice you have!” he said. “It makes -me think of an evening long ago in England. I was -walking alone in the moonlight through one of those -beautiful hedged roads when suddenly I heard a -nightingale. It foretold your voice—you.”</p> - -<p>She turned her eyes away and looked upon the -darkening street. The sense of his nearness thrilled -through her in waves that made her giddy.</p> - -<p>“Now, do you understand?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered in a low voice, “I understand—and, -for the first time in my life, I’m afraid.”</p> - -<p>“Then you know why I, too, am afraid?”</p> - -<p>“You must not speak of it again.”</p> - -<p>They stood there silently for a moment or two, -then she said: “I must be going.” And she was -saying to herself in a panic, “I am mad. Where is -my honour—my self-respect? Where is my common sense?”</p> - -<p>“I will go with you to the car,” he said. “I feel -that I ought to be ashamed. And it frightens me -that I am not. Perhaps I am ashamed, but proud -of it.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night.” She held out her hand. “Good-bye. -I am used to going about alone. I prefer it. -Good-bye.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Those were days of restless waiting, of advance -and retreat, of strong resolves suddenly and weakly -crumbling into shifting mists. She said to herself -many times each day, “I shall not, I cannot see him -again.” She assured herself that she had herself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -under proper control. But there was a voice that -called mockingly from a subcellar of her mind: “I -am a prisoner, but I am <i>here</i>.”</p> - -<p>One morning at breakfast, after what she thought -a very adroit “leading up,” she ventured to say to -Joan: “What do you think of a woman who falls -in love with a married man?”</p> - -<p>Joan kept her expression steady. To herself she -said: “I thought so. It isn’t in a woman’s nature -to be thoroughly interested in life unless there is -some one man.” Aloud she said: “Why, I think -she ought to bestir herself to fall out again.”</p> - -<p>“But suppose that she didn’t wish to.”</p> - -<p>“Then I think she is—imbecile.”</p> - -<p>“You are so uncompromising, Joan,” protested -Emily.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t think much of women who intrigue, -or of men either. It’s a sneaky, lying, muddy -business.”</p> - -<p>“But suppose you accidentally fell in love with a -married man?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t suppose it. I don’t believe people fall -in love accidentally. They’re simply in love with -love, and they have morbid, unhealthy tastes. Besides, -married men are drearily unromantic. They -always look so—so married.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, what do you think of a married man -who falls in love with a girl?”</p> - -<p>“Very poorly, indeed. And if he tells her of it, -he ought to be pilloried.”</p> - -<p>“You are becoming—conventional.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>“Not at all. But to fall in love honestly a man -and a woman must both be free. If either has ties, -each is bound from the other by them. And if it’s -the man that is tied, there’s simply no excuse for -him if he doesn’t heed the first sign of danger.”</p> - -<p>“But it might be a terrible temptation to both of -them. Love is very—very compelling, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“There’s a great deal of nonsense talked about -love, as you must know by this time. Of course, -love is alluring, and when indulged in by sensible -people, not to excess, it’s stimulating, like alcohol -in moderation. But because cocaine could make -me temporarily happier than anything else in the -world, does that make it sensible for me to form the -cocaine habit?”</p> - -<p>Joan paused, then added with emphasis: “And -there is a great deal that is called love that is no -more love than the wolf was Little Red Ridinghood’s -grandmother.”</p> - -<p>Emily felt that Joan was talking obvious common -sense and that she herself agreed with her entirely—so -far as her reason was concerned. “But,” -she thought, “the trouble is that reason doesn’t -rule.” A few days later she went to dinner at -Theresa’s. As she entered the dining-room the first -person upon whom her eyes fell was a tall, slender -girl, fair, handsome through health and high color, -and with Stanhope’s peculiarly courageous yet -gentle dark eyes— “It must be his sister.” She -asked Theresa.</p> - -<p>“It’s Evelyn Stanhope,” she replied, “the daughter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -of our clergyman. He’s a tremendously handsome -man. All the woman are crazy about him.” -Theresa looked at her peculiarly.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” asked Emily, instantly taking -fright, though she did not show it.</p> - -<p>“I thought perhaps you’d heard.”</p> - -<p>“Heard what?”</p> - -<p>“All about Miss Stanhope and—and Edgar.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean that Edgar has recovered from -<i>me</i>? How unflattering!” Emily’s smile was -delightfully natural—and relieved.</p> - -<p>“He’s got love and marriage on the brain, and he’s -broken-hearted, you know. And in those cases -if it can’t be <i>the</i> woman it’s bound to be <i>a</i> woman.”</p> - -<p>Emily was in the mood to be completely resigned -to giving up to another that which she did -not want herself. She studied Miss Stanhope without -prejudice against her and found her sweet but -as yet colourless, a proper young person for Edgar -to marry, one toward whom she could not possibly -have felt the usual dog-in-the-manger jealousy. -After dinner she sat near her and encouraged her -in the bird-like chatter of the school girl. She was -listened to with patience and tolerance; because -she was young and fresh and delighted with everything -including herself, amusingly, not offensively. -She fell in love with Emily and timidly asked if -she might come to see her.</p> - -<p>“That would be delightful,” said Emily with -enthusiasm, falling through infection into a mode -of speech and thought long outgrown. “I’m sure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> -we shall be great friends. Theresa will bring you -on Saturday afternoon. That is my free day. You -see, I’m a working-woman. I work every day except -Saturday.”</p> - -<p>“Sundays too?” asked Evelyn.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I prefer”—she stopped short. “Sunday -is a busy day with us,” she said instead.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that dreadful?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—it is distressing.” Without intention -Emily put enough irony into her voice to make -Evelyn look at her sharply. “It keeps me from -church.”</p> - -<p>“Well, sometimes I think I’d like to be kept -from church.” Evelyn said this in a consolatory -tone. “I’m a clergyman’s daughter and I have to -go often—to set a good example.” She laughed. -“Mamma is so nervous that she can only go occasionally -and my brother Sam is a perfect heathen. -But I often copy papa’s sermons. He says he likes -my large round hand as a change from the typewriting. -Then I like to listen and see how many -changes he makes. You’d be surprised how much -better it all sounds when it’s spoken—really quite -new.”</p> - -<p>Papa! Papa’s Sermons! And a Sam, probably -as big as this great girl!</p> - -<p>“Is your brother younger or older than you?”</p> - -<p>“A year older. He’s at college now—or at least, -he’s supposed to be. It’s surprising how little he -has to stay there. He’s very gay—a little too wild, -perhaps.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>She was proud of Sam’s wildness, full as proud -as she was of her father’s sermons. She rattled -cheerfully on until it was time for her to go and, -as Emily and she were putting on their wraps at -the same time, she kissed her impulsively, blushing -a little, saying “You’re so beautiful. You don’t -mind, do you?”</p> - -<p>“Mind?” Emily laughed and kissed her. -Evelyn wondered why there were tears in the eyes -of this fascinating woman with the musical voice and -the expression like a goddess of liberty’s.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The next morning Dr. Stanhope, at breakfast -and gloomy, brightened as his daughter came in -and sat opposite him.</p> - -<p>“I had such a glorious time at the Waylands’!” -she said. “The dinner was lovely.”</p> - -<p>“Did Edgar take you in?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no.” She blushed. “He wasn’t there. -He’s in Stoughton, you know. But I met the most -beautiful woman. She seemed so young, and yet -she had such a wise, experienced look. And she -was so unconscious how beautiful she was. You -never saw such a sweet, pretty mouth! And her -teeth were like—like——”</p> - -<p>“Pearls,” suggested her father. “They’re always -spoken of as pearls—when they’re spoken of at all.”</p> - -<p>“No—because pearls are blue-white, whereas hers -were <i>white</i>-white.”</p> - -<p>“But who was this lady with the teeth?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t have a chance to ask—only her name.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -She said she was a working-woman. She’s a Miss -Bromfield.”</p> - -<p>Stanhope dropped his knife and fork and looked -at his daughter with an expression of horror.</p> - -<p>“Why, what is it, father? Is there something -wrong about her? It can’t be. And I—I arranged -to call on her!”</p> - -<p>“No—no,” he said hastily. “I was startled by a -coincidence. She’s a nice woman, nice in every -way. But—did she ask you to call?”</p> - -<p>“No—I asked her. But she was very friendly, -and when I kissed her in the dressing-room she -kissed me, and—she had such a queer, sad expression. -I thought perhaps she had a sister like -me who had died.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps she had.” Stanhope looked pensively -at his daughter. To himself he said: “Yes, probably -a twin sister—the herself of a few years ago.”</p> - -<p>“And I’m going to see her next Saturday,” -continued his daughter. “I’m sure Mrs. Wayland -will take me.”</p> - -<p>“To see whom?” said Mrs. Stanhope, coming -into the room.</p> - -<p>Stanhope rose and drew out a chair for her. -“We were talking of a Miss Bromfield whom -Evelyn met at the Waylands’ last night. You may -remember—she came here one afternoon for the -<i>Democrat</i>—about the church’s work.”</p> - -<p>“I remember; she looked at me quite insolently, -exactly as if I were an intruding servant. What -was she doing at Wayland’s? I’m surprised at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -them. But why is Evelyn talking of going to -see her? I’m astonished at you, Evelyn.”</p> - -<p>Evelyn and her father looked steadily at the -table. Finally Evelyn spoke: “Oh, but you are -quite mistaken, mother dear. She was a lady, -really she was.”</p> - -<p>“Impossible,” said Mrs. Stanhope. “She is -a working-girl. No doubt she’s a poor relation -of the Waylands.”</p> - -<p>Stanhope rose, walked to the window, and stood -staring into the gardens. The veins in his forehead -were swollen. And he seemed less the minister -than ever, and more the incarnation of some vast, -inchoate force, just now a force of dark fury. -Gradually he whipped his temper down until he was -standing over it, pale but in control.</p> - -<p>“I wish to speak to your mother, Evelyn,” he -said in an even voice.</p> - -<p>Evelyn left the room, closing the door behind -her. Stanhope resumed his seat at the table. His -wife looked at him, then into her plate, her lips -nervous.</p> - -<p>“Only this,” he said. “You will let Evelyn -go to see Miss Bromfield.” His voice was polite, -gentle. “And I must again beg of you not to -express before our children those—those ideas -of disrespect for labour and respect for idleness -which, as you know, are more offensive to me than -any others of the falsehoods which it is my life work -to fight.”</p> - -<p>She was trembling with anger and fear. Yet in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -her sullen eyes there was cringing adoration. One -sees the same look in the eyes of a dog that is being -beaten by its master, as it shows its teeth yet dares -not utter a whine of its rage and pain lest it offend -further.</p> - -<p>“You know we never do agree about social -distinctions, Arthur,” she said, in a soothing tone.</p> - -<p>“I know we agreed long ago not to discuss the -matter,” he replied, kindly but wearily. “And I -know that we agreed that our children were not to -hear a suggestion that their father was teaching -false views.”</p> - -<p>“We can’t all be as broad as you are, Arthur.”</p> - -<p>“If I were to speak what is on the tip of my -tongue,” he said good-humouredly, “we should -re-open the sealed subject. I must go. They are -waiting for me.”</p> - -<p>That afternoon Mrs. Stanhope wrote asking -Theresa to go with Evelyn to Miss Bromfield’s. -And on Saturday Evelyn went, taking her mother’s -card.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXII.<br /> - - -<small>A PRECIPICE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">A WEEK after Evelyn’s call, the hall boy -brought Edgar Wayland’s card to -Emily. She was alone in the apartment, -Joan having gone to the theatre -with “her professor.” She hesitated, -looked an apology to her writing spread upon the -table, then told the boy to show him up. He was -dressed with unusual care even for him, and his -face expressed the intensity of tragic determination -of which the human countenance is capable only at -or before twenty-eight.</p> - -<p>“I’ve never seen your apartment.” His glance -was inspecting the room and the partly visible two -rooms opening out of it. “It is so like you. How -few people have any taste in getting together -furniture and—and stuff.”</p> - -<p>“When one has little to spend, one is more careful -and thoughtful perhaps.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the reason tenement flats are so tasteful.” -Edgar’s face relaxed at his own humour, then with a -self-rebuking frown resumed its former mournful -inflexibility. “But I did not come here to talk -about furniture. I came to talk about you and me. -Emmy, was it final? Are you sure you won’t—won’t -have me?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>Emily looked at him with indignant contempt, -forgetting that Theresa had not said he was actually -engaged to Evelyn. “I had begun to think you -incapable of such—such baseness—now.”</p> - -<p>“Baseness? Don’t, please. It isn’t as bad as all -that—only persistence. I simply can’t give you up, -it seems to me. And—I had to try one last time—because—the -fact is, I’m about to ask another girl -to marry me.”</p> - -<p>Emily showed her surprise, then remembered and -looked relieved. “Why—I thought you had asked -her. I must warn you that I know her, and far -too good she is for you.”</p> - -<p>“You know her?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—so let’s talk no more about it. I’ll forget -what you said.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what of it?” Edgar rose and faced her. -“You are thinking it dishonourable of me to come to -you this way. But you wrong me. If she never -saw me again, she’d forget me in a year—or less. -So I tell you straight out that I’m marrying her -because I can’t get you. I’m desperate and lonesome -and I want to have a home to go to.”</p> - -<p>“You couldn’t possibly do better than marry -Evelyn. I know her, Edgar. And I know, as only -a woman can know another woman, how genuine -she is.”</p> - -<p>“But”—Edgar’s eyes had a look of pain that -touched her. “I want you, Emmy. I always -shall. A man wants the best. And you’re the -best—in looks, in brains, in every way. You’d<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> -have everything and I’d never bother you. And -you can stop this grind and be like other women—that -is—I mean—you know—I don’t mean anything -against your work—only it is unnatural for a -woman like you to have to work for a living.”</p> - -<p>Emily felt that she need not and must not take -him seriously. She laughed at his embarrassment.</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand—and I can’t make you -understand. It isn’t that I love work. I like to sit -in the sunshine and be waited upon as well as -any one. But——”</p> - -<p>“And you <i>could</i> sit in the sunshine—or in the -shade, Emmy.”</p> - -<p>“But—let me finish please. Whatever one gets -that’s worth while in this life one has to pay for. -The price of freedom—to a woman just the same as a -man—is work, hard work. And if it’s natural for a -woman to be a helpless for-sale, then it’s the -naturalness of so much else that’s nature. And -what are we here for except to improve upon -nature?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know much about these theories. -I hate them—they stand between you and me. -And I want you so, Emmy! You’ll be free. You -know father and I both will do everything—anything -for you and——”</p> - -<p>Emily’s cheeks flushed and there was impatience -and scorn in her eyes and in the curve of her -lips.</p> - -<p>“You mean well, Edgar, but you must not talk<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -to me in that way. It makes me feel as if you -thought I could be bought—as if you were bidding -for me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care what you call it,” he said sullenly. -“I’d rather have you as just a friend, but always -near me than—there isn’t any comparison.”</p> - -<p>“And I shall always be your friend, Edgar. You -will get over this. Honestly now, isn’t it more -than half, nearly all, your hatred of being baffled? -If I were throwing myself at you, as I once was, -you’d fly from me. Six months after you’ve -married Evelyn, you’ll be thankful you did it. -You’d not like a woman so full of caprices and surprises -as I am. But I will not argue it.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if you’ll ever fall in love?” he said -wistfully.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, I’m sure. Probably I expect too -much in a man. Again, I might care only for a -man who was out of reach.”</p> - -<p>“You’re too romantic, Emily, for this life. You -forget that you’re more or less human after all, and -have to deal with human beings.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I could forget that I’m human.” Emily -sighed. Edgar looked at her suspiciously. “No,” -she went on. “I’m not happy either, Edgar. Oh, it -takes so much courage to stand up for one’s principles, -one’s ideas.”</p> - -<p>“But why do it? Why not accept what -everybody says is so, and go along comfortably?”</p> - -<p>“Why not? I often ask myself. But—well, I -can’t.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>“Emmy, do you think it’s right for me to marry -Evelyn, feeling as I do?”</p> - -<p>“Do <i>you</i>?” She answered this difficult question -in morals by turning it on him, because she wished -to escape the dilemma. How could she decide for -another? Why should she judge what was right -for Edgar, what best for Evelyn?</p> - -<p>“Well—not unless I told her. Not too much, -you know. But enough to——”</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t talk to me about Evelyn,” Emily -interrupted. “It’s not fair to her. You compel me -to seem to play the traitor to her. I must not know -anything about your and her affairs.”</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s silence, then she went on: -“She is my friend, and, I hope, always shall be. It -would pain me terribly if she should suspect; and -it would be an unnecessary pain to her. A man -ought never to tell a woman, or a woman a man, -anything, no matter how true it is, if it’s going to -rankle on and on, long after it’s ceased to be true. -And your feeling for me isn’t important even now. -If you marry her, resolve to make her happy. And -if you never create any clouds, there’ll never be -any for her—and soon won’t be any for you.”</p> - -<p>He left her after a few minutes, and his last look—all -around the room, then at her—was so genuinely -unhappy that it saddened her for the evening. -“Fate is preparing a revenge upon me,” she thought -dejectedly. “I can feel it coming. Why can’t I, -why won’t I, put Arthur out of my mind?” And -then she scoffed at herself unconvincingly for calling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -Stanhope, Arthur, for permitting herself to be -swept off her feet by the middle-aged husband of a -middle-aged wife, the father of grown children. -“How Evelyn would shrink from me if she knew—and -yet——”</p> - -<p>What kind of honour, justice, is it, she thought, -that binds him to his wife, that holds us apart? -With one brief life—with only a little part of that -for intense enjoyment—and to sacrifice happiness, -heaven, for a mere notion. “What does God care -about us wretched little worms?” she said to herself. -“Everywhere the law of the survival of the -fittest—the best law after all, in spite of its cruelty. -And <i>I</i> am the fittest for him. He belongs to me. -He is mine. Why not?—Why can’t I convince -myself?”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Evelyn asked Emily to go with her to the opera -the following Saturday afternoon. They met in -the Broadway lobby of the Metropolitan, and -Emily at once saw that Evelyn was “engaged.” -She was radiant with triumph and modest importance. -“You’re the first one I’ve told outside the -family. I haven’t even written to Catherine Folsom—she’s -to be my maid of honour, you know. -We promised each other at school.”</p> - -<p>“He will make you happy, I’m sure.” Emily was -amused at Evelyn’s child-like excitement, yet there -were tears near her eyes too. “What an infant she -is,” she was thinking, “and how unjust it is, how -dangerous that she should have to get her experience<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -of man after she has pledged herself not to -profit by it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m sure I shall be,” said Evelyn. “We’ll -have everything to make us happy. And I shall be -free. I do <i>hate</i> being watched all the time and -having to do just what mamma says.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you will be very free,” agreed Emily, commenting -to herself: “What do these birds bred in -captivity ever know about freedom? She has no -idea that she’s only being transferred to a larger -cage where she’ll find a companion whom she may -or may not like. But—they’re often happy, these -caged birds. And I wonder if we wild birds ever -are?”</p> - -<p>Evelyn was prattling on. “He asked me in such -a nice way and didn’t frighten me. I’d been afraid -he’d seize me—or—or something, when the time -came. And he had such a sad, solemn look. He’s -so experienced! He hinted something about the -past, but I hurried him away from that. Sam says -men all have knowledge of the world, if they’re any -good. But I’m sure Edgar has always been a nice -man.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t bother about the past,” said Emily. -“The future will be quite enough to occupy you if -you look after it properly.”</p> - -<p>The opera was La Bohème and Evelyn, busy with -her great event, gave that lady and her sorrows -little attention. “It’s dreadfully unreal, isn’t it?” -she chattered. “Of course a man never could -really care for a woman who had so little self-respect<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> -as that, could he? I’m sure a real man, like Edgar, -would never act in that way with a woman who -wasn’t married to him, could he?”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure he’d despise all such women from the -bottom of his heart,” said Emily, looking amusedly -at the “canary, discoursing from its cage-world of -the great world outside which it probably will never -see.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve had a lot of experience with that side of -life,” continued the “canary.”</p> - -<p>“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Emily in mock -horror. “Do they lead double lives in the nursery -nowadays?”</p> - -<p>“Mamma kept us close, you know. We live in -such a dreadful neighbourhood—down in Grand -Street. I was usually at grandfather’s up at Tarrytown -when I wasn’t in school. But I had to come -home sometimes. And I used to peep into the -streets from the windows, and then I’d see the -most <i>awful</i> women going by. It made me really -sick. It must be dreadful for a woman ever to -forget herself.”</p> - -<p>“Dreadful,” assented Emily, resisting with no -difficulty the feeble temptation to try to broaden -this narrow young mind. “It would take years,” -she thought, “to educate her. And then she -probably wouldn’t really understand, would only -be tempted to lower herself.”</p> - -<p>The distinction between license and broad-mindedness -was abysmal, Emily felt; but she also -admitted—with reluctance—that the abyss was so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -narrow that one might inadvertently step across it, -if she were not an Emily Bromfield, and, even then, -very, very watchful.</p> - -<p>She was turning into the Park at Fifth Avenue -and Fifty-ninth Street a few evenings later, on her -way home from the office, when Stanhope, driving -rapidly downtown, saw her, stopped his cab, got out -and dismissed it. She had been revolving a plan -for resuming her self-respect and her peace of mind, -how she would talk with him when she saw him, -would compel him to aid her in—then she saw him -coming; and her face, coloured high by the sharp -wind, flushed a hotter crimson; and her resolve fled.</p> - -<p>“May I walk through the Park with you?” he -said abruptly; and without waiting for her to assent, -he set out with her in the direction in which -she had been going. In a huge, dark overcoat, that -came to within a few inches of the ground, he -looked more tremendous than ever. And as Emily -walked beside him, the blood surged deliriously -through her veins. “This is the man of all men,” -she thought. “And he loves me, loves <i>me</i>. And I -was thinking that I must give him up. As if I -could or would!”</p> - -<p>“A man might have all the wealth in the world, -and all the power, and all the adulation,” his voice -acted upon her nerves like the low notes of a violin, -“and if he were a man—if he were a real human -being—and did not have love——” He paused and -looked at her. “Without it life is lonelier than -the grave.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>Emily was silent. She could see the grave, -could hear the earth rattling down upon the coffin. -Was he not stating the truth—a truth to shrink -from?</p> - -<p>He said: “I was born on a farm out West—the -son of a man who was ruined in the East and went -West to hide himself and to fancy he was trying to -rebuild. He was sad and silent. And in that sad -silence I grew up with books and nature for my -companions. I longed to be a leader of men. I -admired the great moral teachers of the past. I -<i>felt</i> rather than understood religion—God, a world -of woe, man working for his salvation through helping -others to work out theirs. I cared nothing for -theology—only for religion. I could feel—I never -could reason; I cannot learn to reason. It isn’t -important how I worked my way upward. It isn’t -important how long the way or how painful. I -went straight on, caring for nothing except the -widest chances to help the march upward. You -know what the parish downtown is—what the work -is, how it has been built. But——” He paused, -and when he spoke it was with an effort. “One by -one I have lost my inspirations. And when I saw -you there in Paris I saw as in a flash—it was like a -miracle—what was the cause, why I was beaten in -the very hour of victory.”</p> - -<p>Emily had ceased to fight against the emotions -which surged higher and higher under the invocation -of his presence and his voice.</p> - -<p>“A man of my temperament may not work<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -alone,” he went on. “He must have some one—a -woman—beside him. And they together must -keep the faith—the faith in the here and the now, -the faith in mankind and in the journey upward -through the darkness, the fog, the cold, up the -precipices, with many a fall and many a fright, but -always upward and onward.”</p> - -<p>He drew a long breath, and, looking down at her, -saw her looking up at him, her eyes reflecting the -glow of his enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “by myself I am nothing. But -with another I could do much, for I, too, love the -journey upward.”</p> - -<p>He stopped and caught both her hands in his. -“I need you—need you,” he said. They were -standing at the turn of the path near the Mall, -facing the broad, snow-draped lawns. “And I -feel that you need me. I am no longer alone. Life -has a meaning, a purpose.”</p> - -<p>“A purpose?” She drew her hands away and -suddenly felt the cold and the sharp wind, and saw -the tangled lines of the bare boughs, black and forbidding -against the sunset sky. “What purpose? -You forget.”</p> - -<p>“No, I remember!” He spoke defiantly. “I -have been permitting that which is dead to cling to -me and shut out sunlight and air and growth. But -I shall permit it no longer. I <i>dare</i> not.”</p> - -<p>“No, <i>we</i> dare not,” she said, dreamily. “You -are right. The ghosts that wave us back are waving -us not from, but to destruction. But—even if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -it were not so, I’m afraid I’d say, ‘Evil, be thou my -good’.”</p> - -<p>“It is true—true of me also.”</p> - -<p>At the entrance to her house they parted, their -eyes bright with visions of the future. As she -went up in the elevator, her head began to ache as -if she were coming from the delirium of an opium -dream.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIII.<br /> - - -<small>A “BETTER SELF.”</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">EMILY went directly to her room. “Tell -Miss Gresham not to wait,” she said to -the maid, “and please save only a very -little for me.” She slept two hours and -awoke free from the headache, but low-spirited. -Joan came into the dining-room to keep -her company while she tried to eat, then they sat in -the library-drawing-room before the fire. For the -first time in years Emily felt that she needed advice, -or, at least, needed to state her case aloud in hope -of seeing it more clearly.</p> - -<p>“You are not well this evening,” Joan said presently. -“Shall I read to you?”</p> - -<p>“No, let us talk. Or, rather, please encourage -me to talk about myself. I want to tell you something, -and I don’t know how to begin.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t begin. I’m sure you’ll regret it. Whenever -I feel the confidential mood coming, I always -put it off till to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but—there are times——”</p> - -<p>“Do you wish me to approve something you’ve -decided to do, or to dissuade you from doing something -you would not do anyhow? It’s always one -or the other.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>“I’m not sure which it is.”</p> - -<p>Joan lit a cigarette and stretched herself among -the cushions of the divan. “Well, what is it? -Money?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Then it’s not serious. Money troubles and poor -health are about the only serious calamities.”</p> - -<p>“No—it’s—Joan, I’ve been making an idiot of -myself. I’ve lost my head over a married man.” -The words came with a rush.</p> - -<p>“But you practically confessed all that the other -day. And I told you then what I thought. Either -get rid of him straight off, or steady your head and -let him hang about until you are sick of him.”</p> - -<p>“But—you don’t understand. Of course you -couldn’t. No one ever did understand another’s -case.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it’s that, my dear. When one is -in love, he or she thinks it’s a peculiar case. And -the stronger his or her imagination, the more peculiar -seems the case. But when it’s submitted to an -outsider, then it is looked at in the clear air, not in -the fog of self-delusion. And how it does shrink!”</p> - -<p>“I want him and he wants me,” said Emily -doggedly. “It may be commonplace and ridiculous, -but it’s the fact.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think it would last long enough to -enable him to get a divorce? If so, he can do that. -There’s nothing easier nowadays than divorce. -And what a dreadful blow to intrigue that has been! -It doesn’t leave either party a leg to stand on.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -Just say to him: ‘Yes, I love you. You say you -love me. Go and get a divorce and then perhaps -I’ll marry you. But if not, you’ll at least be free -from daily contact with the wife you say or intimate -that you loathe.’ It’s perfectly simple. The chances -are you’ll never see him again, and you can have a -laugh at yourself, and can congratulate yourself on -a narrow escape.”</p> - -<p>“Good advice, but it doesn’t fit the case.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you don’t wish to marry him?”</p> - -<p>“I never thought of it. But I’d rather not discuss -the sentiment-side, please. Just the practical side.”</p> - -<p>“But there isn’t any practical side. Why doesn’t -he get a divorce?”</p> - -<p>“Because he’s too conspicuous. There’d be an -outcry against him. I don’t believe he could get -the divorce.”</p> - -<p>Emily was gazing miserably into the fire. Joan -looked at her pityingly. “Oh,” she said gently, -dropping the tone of banter. “Yes—that might -be.”</p> - -<p>“And it seems to me that I can’t give him up.”</p> - -<p>“But why do you debate it? Why not follow -where your instinct leads?”</p> - -<p>“That’s just it—where <i>does</i> my instinct lead? -If—the—the circumstances—I can’t explain them -to you—were different with him about—about his -family, I’d probably reason that I was not robbing -any one and would try to—to be happy. But——”</p> - -<p>She halted altogether and, when she continued, -her voice was low and she was looking at her friend,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> -pleadingly yet proudly: “You may be right. We -may be deceiving ourselves. But I do not think so, -Joan. I believe—and you do too, don’t you?—that -there can be high thoughts in common between -a man and a woman. I’m sure they can care in -such a way that passion becomes like the fire, fusing -two metals into one stronger and better than either -by itself. And I think—I feel—yes, it seems to -me I <i>know</i>, that it is so with us. Oh, Joan, he and -I need each the other.”</p> - -<p>Joan threw away her cigarette and rested her -head upon her arms, so that her face was concealed -from Emily. She murmured something.</p> - -<p>“What do you say, Joan?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing—only—I see the same old, the eternal -illusion. And what a fascinating tenacious illusion -it is, Emmy dear. We no sooner banish it in one -form than it reappears in another.”</p> - -<p>“But—tell me, Joan—what shall I do?”</p> - -<p>“I, advise you? No, my dear. I cannot. I’d -have to know you better than you know yourself to -give you advice. You have grown into a certain -sort of woman, with certain ideas of what you may -and what you may not do. In this crisis you’ll -follow the path into which your whole past compels -you. And while I don’t know you well enough to -give you advice, I do know you well enough to feel -sure that you’ll do what is just and honourable. If -that means renunciation, you will renounce him. -If it means defiance, you will defy. If it means a -compromise, why—I don’t think you’ll make it,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -Emily, unless you can carry your secret and still -feel that the look of no human being could make -you flinch.”</p> - -<p>“Will I?” Emily’s voice was dreary and doubtful. -“But, when one is starving, he doesn’t look at -the Ten Commandments before seizing the bread -that offers.”</p> - -<p>“Not at the Ten Commandments—no. But at -the one—‘Thou shalt not kill thy self-respect.’ -And don’t forget, dear, that if you aren’t valuable -to the world <i>without</i> love, you’ll be worth very -little to it <i>with</i> love.”</p> - -<p>“Joan’s Professor” came, and Emily went away -to bed.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>On her “lazy day” she went into the Park and -seated herself under an elm high among the rocks. -Several squirrels were playing about her and a fat -robin was hopping round and round in a wide circle, -pretending to be interested only in the food supply -but really watching her. The path leading to her -retreat turned abruptly just before reaching it, then -turned again for the descent. She did not hear a -footstep but, looking up as she was shifting her -glance from one page of her novel to the next, she -saw a child before her—a tall child with slim legs -and arms, and a body that looked thin but strong -under a white dress. She had a pink ribbon at her -throat. Her hair was almost golden and waved -defiantly around and away from a large pink bow. -Her eyes were large and gray and solemn. But at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -each corner of her small mouth there was a fun-loving -line which betrayed possibilities of mischief and -appreciation of mischief. This suggestion was -confirmed by her tilted nose.</p> - -<p>Emily smiled at this vision criss-crossed with -patches of sun and shadow. But the vision did not -smile in return.</p> - -<p>“Good morning, Princess Pink-and-white,” said -Emily. “Did you come down out of the sky?”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered the child, drawing a little nearer. -“And my name is not—not that, but Mary. Do -you live here?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—this is my home,” answered Emily. “I’m -the big sister of the squirrels and a cousin to the -robins.”</p> - -<p>The child looked at her carefully, then at the -squirrels and then at the robin. “You are not -truthful,” she said, her large eyes gazing straight -into Emily’s. “My uncle says that it is dishon’able -not to tell the truth.”</p> - -<p>“Even in fun, while you are trying to make -friends with Mary, Princess Pink-and-white?” Emily -said this with the appearance of anxiety.</p> - -<p>“It’s bad not to always tell the truth to young -people.” She came still nearer and stood straight -and serious, her hands behind her. “My uncle says -they ought to hear and say only what is true.”</p> - -<p>“Well then—what does he tell you about -fairies?”</p> - -<p>“He doesn’t tell me about them. Mamma says -there are fairies, but he says he has never seen any.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -He says when I am older I can find out for myself.”</p> - -<p>“And what do the other children say?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. There aren’t any other children. -There’s just uncle and mamma and nurse. And -when mamma is ill, I go to stay with nurse. And -I only go out with uncle or mamma.”</p> - -<p>“That is very nice,” said Emily, taking one of -the small, slender hands and kissing it. But in -reality she thought it was the reverse of nice, and -very lonely and sad.</p> - -<p>“I was going away across the ocean where there -are lots of children waiting to play with me. But -mamma—she hadn’t been sick for a long, long -time—most two years, I think—and then she -was sick again and I’m not to go. But I’m not -sorry.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“I’m a great comfort to uncle, and he wasn’t -going along. And I’m glad to stay with him. He -says I’m a great comfort to him. I sing to him -when he is feeling bad. Would you like for me to -sing to you? You look as if you felt bad.”</p> - -<p>Emily did feel like tears. It was not what the -child said, but her air of aloneness, of ignorance of -the pleasures of childhood and its companionships. -She seemed never to have been a child and at the -same time to be far too much a child for her years—apparently -the result of an attempt by grown -persons to bring her up in a dignified way without -destroying the innocence of infancy.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>“Yes, I should like to hear you sing,” said -Emily.</p> - -<p>The child sat, folded her hands in her lap and began -to sing in French—a slow, religious chant, low -and with an intonation of ironic humour. As Emily -heard the words, she looked at “Princess Pink-and-White” -in amazement. It was a concert-hall song, -such as is rarely heard outside the cafés chantants -of the boulevards—a piece of subtle mockery with a -double meaning. The child sang it through, then -looked at her for approval.</p> - -<p>“It’s in French,” was all Emily could say, and -the child with quick intuition saw that something -was wrong.</p> - -<p>“You don’t like it,” she said, offended.</p> - -<p>“You sing beautifully,” replied Emily. She -wished to ask her where she had got the song, but -felt that it would be prying.</p> - -<p>“Mamma taught it me the last time she was being -taken ill. It was hard to learn because I do not -speak French. I had to go over it three times. -She said I wasn’t to sing it to uncle. But I thought -<i>you</i> might like it.”</p> - -<p>“No, I shouldn’t sing it to uncle, if I were you,” -said Emily.</p> - -<p>Just then the child rose and her face lighted up. -Emily followed her glance and saw Stilson at the -turn of the path, standing like a statue. He was -looking not at the child, but at her. The child ran -toward him and he put his hand at her neck and -drew her close to him.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>“Why, how d’ye do, Mr. Stilson,” said Emily, -cordially. “This is the first time I’ve seen you since -I was leaving for Paris. As soon as I came back I -asked for you, but you were on vacation. And I -thought you were still away.”</p> - -<p>Stilson advanced reluctantly, a queer light in -his keen, dark-gray eyes. He shook hands and -seated himself. Mary occupied the vacant space -on the bench between him and Emily, spreading -out her skirts carefully so that they should not be -mussed. “I am still idling,” said Stilson. “I hate -hotels and I loathe mosquitoes. Besides, I think if -I ever got beyond the walls of this prison I’d run -away and never return.”</p> - -<p>“So you too grow tired of your work?” said -Emily. “Yet you are editor-in-chief now, and— Oh, -I should think it would be fascinating.”</p> - -<p>“It would have been a few years ago. But -everything comes late. One has worked so hard -for it that one is too exhausted to enjoy it. And -it means work and care—always more and more -work and care. But, pardon me. I’m in one of my -depressed moods. And I didn’t expect any one—you—to -surprise me in it.”</p> - -<p>Emily looked at him, her eyes giving, and demanding, -sympathy. “I often wish that life would offer -something worth having, not as a free gift—I -shouldn’t ask that, and not at a bargain even, but -just at a fair price.”</p> - -<p>“I’m surprised to find such parsimony in one so -young—it’s unnatural.” Stilson’s expression and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -tone were good-humoured cynicism. “Why, at your -age, with your wealth—youth is always rich—you -ought never to look at or think of price marks.”</p> - -<p>“But I can’t help it. I come from New England.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Then it’s stranger still. With the aid of -a New England conscience you ought to cheat life -out of the price.”</p> - -<p>“I do try, but—” Emily sighed—“I’m always -caught and made pay the more heavily.”</p> - -<p>Stilson studied her curiously. He was smiling -with some mockery as he said. “You must be -cursed with a sense of duty. That sticks to one -closer than his shadow. The shadow leaves with -the sunshine. But duty is there, daylight or dark.”</p> - -<p>“Especially dark,” said Emily. “What a slavery -it is! To tramp the dusty, stony highway close -beside gardens that are open and inviting; and not -to be able to enter.”</p> - -<p>His strong, handsome face became almost stern. -“I don’t agree with you. Suppose that you entered -the gardens, would they seem good if you looked -back and saw your better self lying dead in the -dust?” He seemed to be talking to himself not to -her.</p> - -<p>“But don’t you ever wish to be free?” she -asked.</p> - -<p>“I <i>am</i> free—absolutely free,” he said proudly. -“One does not become free by license, by cringing -before the stupidest, the most foolish impulses there -are in him. I think he becomes free by refusing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -to degrade himself and violate the law of his own -nature.”</p> - -<p>“But—What is stupid and what isn’t?”</p> - -<p>“No one could answer that in a general way. All -I can say is—” Stilson seemed to her to be looking -her through and through. “Did you ever have -any doubt in any particular case?”</p> - -<p>Emily hesitated, her eyes shifting, a faint flush -rising to her cheeks. “Yes,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Then that very doubt told you what was foolish -and what intelligent. Didn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Stilson was not looking at her now and she -studied his face—mature yet young, haughty yet -kind. Strong passions, good and bad, had evidently -contended, were still contending, behind that interesting -mask.</p> - -<p>“No,” he went on, “if ever you make up your -mind to do wrong,”—His voice was very gentle and -seemed to her to have an undercurrent of personal -appeal in it—“don’t lie to yourself. Just look at -the temptation frankly, and at the price. And, if -you will or must, why, pay and make off with your -paste diamonds or gold brick or whatever little -luxury of that kind you’ve gone into Mr. License’s -shop to buy. What is the use of lying to one’s self? -We are poor creatures indeed, it seems to me, if -there isn’t at least one person whom we dare face -with the honest truth.”</p> - -<p>Emily had always had a profound respect for -Stilson. She knew his abilities; and, while Marlowe -had usually praised his friend with discreet reservations,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span> -she had come to know that Marlowe regarded -him as little, if at all, short of a genius in his power -of leading and directing men. As he talked to her, -restating the familiar fundamentals of practical -morals, she felt a strong force at work upon her. -Like Stanhope he impressed her with his great personal -power; but wholly unlike him, Stilson seemed -to be using that power to an end which attracted -her without setting the alarm bells of reason and -prudence to ringing.</p> - -<p>“I’m rather surprised to find you so conventional,” -said Emily, by way of resenting the effect -he and his “sermon” were having upon her.</p> - -<p>“Conventional?” Stilson lifted his eyebrows -and gave her an amused, satirical look. “Am I? -Then the world must have changed suddenly. No, -I wasn’t pleading for any particular code of conduct. -Make up your code to suit yourself. All I venture -to insist is that you must live up to your own code, -whatever it is. Be a law unto yourself; but, when -you have been, don’t become a law breaker.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think mamma will be well enough for -me to go home to-morrow?” It was the little girl, -weary of being unnoticed and bursting into the conversation.</p> - -<p>Stilson started as if he had forgotten that she -was there. “Perhaps—yes—dear,” he said and rose -at once. “We must be going.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” said Mary. Emily took her hand -and kissed it. But the child, with a quaint mingling -of shyness and determination, put up her face<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -to be kissed, and adjusted her lips to show where -she wished the kiss to be placed. “Good-bye,” she -repeated. “I know who you are now. You are the -Violet Lady Uncle Robert puts in the stories he -tells me.”</p> - -<p>“Come, Mary,” said Stilson severely. And he -lifted his hat, but not his eyes, and bowed very -formally.</p> - -<p>Emily sat staring absently at the point at which -they had disappeared.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIV.<br /> - - -<small>TO THE TEST.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">STANHOPE plodded dully through his -routine—listening to reports, directing his -assistants, arranging services in the -church and chapels, dictating letters. A -score of annoying details were thrust at him -for discussion and settlement—details with which -helpers with a spark of initiative would never have -bothered him. His wife, out of temper, came to -nag him about expenditures. His son wrote from -college for an extra allowance, alleging a necessity -which his father at once knew was mythical. -Another letter was from a rich parishioner, taking -him to task for last Sunday’s sermon as “socialistic, -anarchistic in its tendency, and of the sort which -makes it increasingly difficult for conservative men -of property to support your church.” At luncheon -there were two women friends of his wife and they -sickened him with silly compliments, shot poisoned -arrows at the reputations of their friends, and talked -patronisingly of their “worthy poor.” After -luncheon—more of the morning’s routine, made -detestable by the self-complacent vanity of one of -his stupidest curates and by the attempts of the -homeliest deaconess to flirt with him under the mask<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> -of seeking “spiritual counsel.” And finally, when -his nerves were unstrung, a demand from a tedious -old woman that he come to her bedside immediately -as she was dying—demands of that kind -his sense of duty forbade him to deny.</p> - -<p>“This is the third time within the month,” he -said peevishly. “Before, she was simply hysterical.” -And he scowled at Schaffer, the helper to -the delicatessen merchant in the basement of the -tenement where the old woman lived.</p> - -<p>“I think maybe there’s a little something in it -this time,” ventured Schaffer, his tone expressing -far less doubt than his words.</p> - -<p>“I’ll follow you in a few minutes,” said Stanhope, -adding to himself, “and I’ll soon be out of all this.”</p> - -<p>He did not know how or when—“after Evelyn is -married,” he thought vaguely—but he felt that he -was practically gone. He would leave his wife all -the property; and he and Emily would go away -somehow and somewhere and begin life—not anew, -but actually begin. “I shall be myself at last,” he -thought, “speaking the truth, earning my living in -the sweat of my face, instead of in the sweat of my -soul.” As he came out of the house he looked up -at the church—the enormous steepled mass of -masonry, tapering heavenward. “Pointing to -empty space,” he thought, “tricking the thoughts -of men away from the street and the soil where -their brothers are. Yes, I shall no longer court the -rich to get money for the poor. I shall no longer -fling the dust of dead beliefs into the eyes of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -poor to blind them to injustice.” He strode along, -chin up, eyes only for his dreams. He did not note -the eager and respectful bows of the people in the -doorways, block after block. He did not note that -between the curtains of the dives, where painted -women lay in wait for a chance to leer and lure, -forms shrank back and faces softened as he passed.</p> - -<p>Into the miserable Orchard street tenement; -through the darkness of the passageway; into a -mouldy court, damp and foul even in that winter -weather; up four ill-smelling stairways with wall -paper and plastering impatient for summer that -they might begin to sweat and rot and fall again; in -at a low door—the entrance to a filthy, unaired den -where only the human animal of all the animal -kingdom could long exist.</p> - -<p>The stove was red-hot and two women in tattered, -grease-bedaubed calico were sitting at it. They -were young in years, but their abused and neglected -bodies were already worn out. One held a child -with mattered eyes and sores hideously revealed -through its thin hair. The other was about to -bring into the world a being to fight its way up with -the rats and the swarming roaches.</p> - -<p>In the corner was a bed which had begun its -career well up in the social scale and had slowly -descended until it was now more than ready for the -kindling-box. Upon it lay a heap of rags swathing -the skeleton of what had once been a woman. Her -head was almost bald. Its few silver-white hairs -were tied tightly into a nut-like knot by a rusty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -black string. Her skin, pale yellow and speckled -with dull red blotches, was drawn directly over the -bones and cartilages of her skull and face, and was -cracked into a network of seams and wrinkles. -The shapeless infoldings of her mouth were sunk -deep in the hollow between nose and chin. Her -hands, laid upon the covers at which her fingers -picked feebly, had withered to bones and bunches -of cords thrust into two ill-fitting gloves of worn-out -parchment.</p> - -<p>As Stanhope entered, the women at the stove -rose, showed their worse than toothless gums in a -momentary smile, then resumed the doleful look -which is humanity’s universal counterfeit for use at -death-beds. They awkwardly withdrew and the -old woman opened her eyes—large eyes, faded and -dim but, with the well-shaped ears close against her -head, the sole reminders of the comeliness that had -been.</p> - -<p>She turned her eyes toward the broken-backed -chair at the head of her bed. He sat and leaning -over put his hand—big and strong and vital—upon -one of her hands.</p> - -<p>“What can I do, Aunt Albertina?” he said.</p> - -<p>“I’m leaving, Doctor Stanhope.” There was a -trace of a German accent in that hardly human -croak.</p> - -<p>“Well, Aunt Albertina, you are ready to go or -ready to stay. There is nothing to fear either way.”</p> - -<p>“Look in that box behind you—there. The letters. -Yes.” He sat again, holding in his hand a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -package of letters, yellow where they were not -black. “Destroy them.” The old woman was -looking at them longingly. Then she closed her -eyes and tried to lift her head. “Under the pillow,” -she muttered. “Take it out.” He reached -under the slimy pillow and drew forth a battered -embossed-leather case. “Look,” she said.</p> - -<p>He opened it. On the one side was the picture -of a man in an officer’s uniform with decorations -across his breast—a handsome man, haughty-looking, -cruel-looking. On the other side was the picture -of a woman—a round, weak, pretty face, a -mouth longing for kisses, sentimental eyes, a great -deal of fair hair, graceful, rounded shoulders.</p> - -<p>“That was I,” croaked the old woman. He -looked at that head in the bed, that face, that neck -with the tendons and bones outstanding and making -darker-brown gullies between.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I,” she said, “and not thirty years ago.”</p> - -<p>She closed her eyes and her fingers picked at the -covers. “Do you remember,” she began again—“the -day you first saw me?”</p> - -<p>He recalled it. She was wandering along the -gutter of Essex Street, mumbling to herself, stooping -now and then to pick up a cigar butt, a bit of -paper, a rag, and slip it into a sack.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Aunt Albertina—I remember.”</p> - -<p>“You stopped and shook hands with me and -asked me to come to a meeting, and gave me a -card. I never came. I was too busy—too busy -drinking myself to death.” She paused and muttered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -in German, “Ach, Gott, I thought I would -never accomplish it. But at last—” Then she -went on in English, “But I remembered you. I -asked about you. They all knew you. ‘The giant’ -they call you. You are so strong. They lean on -you—all these people. You do not know them or -see them or feel them, but they lean on you.”</p> - -<p>“But I am weak, Aunt Albertina. I am a giant -with a pigmy soul—a little soul.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know what pigmy means.” The wrinkles -swirled and crackled in what was meant to be a -smile. “I had a ‘von’ in my name in Germany, -and perhaps something before it—but no matter. -Yes, you are weak. So was he—the man in the -picture—and I also. We tempted each other. He -left his post, his wife, all. We came to America. -He died. I was outcast. I danced in a music-hall—what -did I care what became of me when he was -gone? Then I sat at the little tables with the men, -and learned what a good friend drink is. And so—down, -down, down——” she paused to shut her eyes -and pick at the covers.</p> - -<p>“But,” she went on, “drink always with me as -my friend to make me forget, to make me content -wherever I was—the gutter, the station-house, the -dance-hall. If <i>he</i> could have seen me among the -sailors, tossing me round, tearing at my clothes, -putting quarters in my stockings—for drinks afterwards—drinks!”</p> - -<p>There was a squirming among the rags where her -old bones were hidden. Stanhope shuddered and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -the sweat stood in beads on his white face. “But -that is over, and you’ve repented long ago,” he said -hurriedly, eager to get away.</p> - -<p>“Repent?” The old woman looked at him with -jeering smile. “Not I! Why? With drink one -thing’s as good as another, one bed as another, one -man as another. The idealissmus soon passes. -Ach, how we used to talk of our souls—Gunther -and I. Souls! Yes, we were made for each other. -But—he died, and life must be lived. Yes, I know -what pigmy means. I had a von in my name over -there and something in front. But no soul—just a -body.”</p> - -<p>“What else can I do for you, Aunt Albertina?” -He spoke loudly as her mind was evidently wandering.</p> - -<p>“Be strong. They lean on you. No, I mean I -lean on you. The letters and the pictures—destroy -them. Yes, Gunther and I had von in our names—but -no soul—just youth and love——”</p> - -<p>He went to the stove, lifted the lid, and tossed -in the letters and the old case. As he was putting -the lid on again he could see the case shrivelling, -and the flame with its black base crawling over -sheets closely written in a clear, beautiful foreign -handwriting.</p> - -<p>“They are destroyed, Aunt Albertina. Is that -all?”</p> - -<p>“All. No religion—not to-day, I thank you. -Yes, you are strong—but no soul, only a body.”</p> - -<p>He went out and sent the two women. He expanded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -his lungs to the tainted air of Orchard -Street. It seemed fresh and pure to him. “Horrible!” -he thought, “I shall soon be out of all -this——”</p> - -<p>Out of it? He stopped short in the street and -looked wildly around. Out of <i>it</i>? Out of what?—out -of life? If not, how could he escape responsibility, -and consequences? Consequences! He -strode along, the children toddling or crawling -swiftly aside to escape his tread. And as he strode -the word “Consequences!” clanged and banged -against the walls of his brain like the clapper of -a mighty bell.</p> - -<p>At the steps of his house a woman and a man -tried to halt him. He brushed them aside, went -up the steps two at a time, let himself in, and shut -himself in his study.</p> - -<p>Why had he not seen it before? To shiver with -the lightning of lust the great tree of the church, -the shelter and hope of these people; to tempt fate -to vengeance not upon himself, but upon Emily; to -cover his children with shame; to come to her, a -wreck, a ruin; to hang a millstone about her neck -and bid her swim!—“And I called this—love!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>At eight o’clock that evening Emily sat waiting -for him. “Shall I hate him as soon as I see him? -Or shall I love him so that I’ll not care for shame -or sin?” The bell rang and she started up, trembling. -The maid was already at the front door.</p> - -<p>“Nancy!” she called; then stood rigid and cold,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> -holding the portière with one hand and averting -her face.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mum.”</p> - -<p>“If it is any one for me——”</p> - -<p>She hesitated again. She could see herself in the -long mirror between the windows. She drew herself -up and sent a smile, half-triumphant, half-derisive, -at her image, “Say I’m not at home,” she ended.</p> - -<p>The door opened, there was a pause, then it -closed. Nancy entered, “Only a note, mum.” -She held it out and Emily took it—Stanhope’s -writing. She tore it open and read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I have a presentiment that you, too, have seen the truth. -We may not go the journey together, I have come to my -senses. If it was love that we offered each the other, then we do -well to strangle the monster before it strangles us, and tramples -into the mire all that each of us has done for good thus far.</p> - -<p>I—and you, too—feel like one who dreams that he is about -to seize delight and awakens to find that he was leaping from a -window to destruction.</p> - -<p>This is not renunciation. It is salvation.</p> - -<p>Evelyn tells me she is to see you to-morrow. I am glad that -you and my daughter are friends.”</p> -</div> - -<p>She read the note again, and, after a long interval, -a third time. Then she bent slowly and laid it -upon the coals. She sat in a low chair, watched -the paper curl into a tremulous ash, which presently -drifted up the chimney. She was not conscious -that there was any thought in her mind. She was -conscious only of an enormous physical and mental -relief.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>“I must go to bed,” she said aloud. She hardly -touched the pillow before she was sound asleep—the -sleep of exhaustion, of content, of the battle -won. After several hours she awakened. “I’m so -glad my ‘better self’ told Nancy to say I wasn’t -at home,” she thought. “That makes me know -that I was—what was I?” But before she could -answer she was again asleep.</p> - -<p>The next morning Joan at breakfast suddenly -lifted her eyes from her newspaper and her coffee, -listened and smiled. Emily was singing at her bath.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXV.<br /> - - -<small>MR. GAMMELL PRESUMES.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">MR. WAKEMAN, under whom she had -been working comfortably, was now -displaced by a Mr. Gammell, whom -she had barely seen and of whom -she had heard alarming tales. He -had been made City Editor when Stilson was promoted. -Tireless and far-sighted and insatiable as a -news-gatherer, he drove those under him “as if -eating and sleeping had been abolished,” one of -them complained. But he made the <i>Democrat’s</i> -local news the best in New York, and this gradually -impressed the public and raised the circulation. -Gammell was a sensationalist—“the yellowest yet,” -the reporters called him—and Stilson despised him. -But Stilson was too capable a journalist not to -appreciate his value. He encouraged him and -watched him closely, taking care to keep from -print the daily examples of his reckless “overzeal.”</p> - -<p>As the Sunday edition ought to be the most -profitable issue of a big newspaper, the proprietors -decided to transfer Gammell to it, after cautioning -him to remember Stilson’s training and do nothing -to destroy the “character” of the paper. Gammell -began with a “shake-up” of his assistants. Emily, -just returned from a midsummer vacation, was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -opening her desk, when another woman of the -Sunday staff, Miss Venable, whom she had never -seen at the office this early before, began to tell -her the dire news. “He’s good-looking and polite,” -she said, “but he has no respect for feelings and no -consideration about the quantity of work. He -treats us as if we were so many machines.”</p> - -<p>“That isn’t strange or startling, is it?” said -Emily indifferently. “He’s like most successful -men. I always feared Mr. Wakeman was too easy-going, -too good to last. I’m surprised that there -hasn’t been a change before.”</p> - -<p>“Just wait till you’ve had an experience with -him. He told me—he called me in this morning -and said with a polite grin—what a horrid grin he -has!—that he was pained that I did not like my -position on the Sunday staff. And when I protested -that I did, he said, ‘It’s good of you to say -so, Miss Venable, but your work tells a truth which -you are too considerate of me to speak.’ And then -he went on to show that he has been sneaking and -spying on me about reading novels in office hours -and staying out too long at lunch time. Think of -that!”</p> - -<p>“He may be watching you now,” suggested -Emily.</p> - -<p>“No—he’s—good gracious, there he is!” and she -fled to her desk.</p> - -<p>Emily looked round and saw a notably slender, -pale man of middle height with the stoop of a -student and restless, light-brown eyes. He was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> -walking rapidly, glancing from side to side and -nervously swinging his keys by their chain. He -stopped at her desk and smiled—agreeably Emily -thought.</p> - -<p>“Miss Bromfield?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes. And you are Mr. Gammell?”</p> - -<p>“I am that brute—that ogre—that Simon Legree,” -he replied, with a satirical smile which barely -altered the line of his thin, pale lips under his -small moustache. “Will you come into my office, -please—at your leisure?” Emily thought she had -never heard a polite phrase sound so cynically -hollow.</p> - -<p>She rose and followed him. He began at once -and talked swiftly, now cutting up sheets of blank -paper with a huge pair of shears, now snapping the -fingers of one hand against the knuckles of the -other, now twitching his eyes, now ruffling and -smoothing his hair. He showed that he had gone -through her work for several months past and that -he knew both her strong points and her defects. He -gave her a clear conception first of what he did not -want, then of what he did want.</p> - -<p>As they talked she became uncomfortable. She -admired his ability, but she began to dislike his -personality. And she soon understood why. He -was showing more and more interest in her personal -appearance and less and less interest in her work. -Like all good-looking women, Emily was too used -to the sort of glances he was giving her to feel or -pretend to feel deep resentment. But it made her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -uneasy to reflect on what those glances from a man -in his position and of his audacity portended. “I -shall have trouble with him,” she was thinking, before -they had been together half an hour. And she -became formal and studied in her courtesy. But -this seemed to have not this slightest effect upon -him.</p> - -<p>“However,” he said in conclusion, “don’t take -what I’ve been saying too seriously. You may do -as you please. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you do. -And if you feel that you have too much work, just -tell me and I’ll turn it over to some one who was -made to drudge.”</p> - -<p>He was at her desk several times during the day. -The last time he brought a bundle of German and -French illustrated papers and pointed out to her in -one of them a doubtful picture and the still more -doubtful jest printed underneath. He watched her -closely. She looked and read without a change of -colour or expression. “I don’t think we would -reprint it,” she said indifferently, turning the page.</p> - -<p>As he walked away she had an internal shudder -of repulsion. “How crude he is!” she thought. -“He has evidently been well educated and well -bred. Yet he can’t distinguish among people. He -thinks they’re all cut from the same pattern, each -for some special use of his. Yes, I shall have -trouble with him—and that soon.”</p> - -<p>He hung about her desk, passing and repassing, -often pausing and getting as near as possible to her, -compelling her pointedly to move. She soon had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> -his character from his own lips. She was discussing -with him a “human interest” story from a Colorado -paper—about love and self-sacrifice in a lone -miner’s hut faraway among the mountains. “That -will catch the crowd,” he said. “We’ll spread it -for a page with a big, strong picture.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s a beautiful story,” said she. “No one -could fail to be touched by it.”</p> - -<p>“It’s easy to make the mob weep,” he answered -with a sneer. “What fools they are! As if there -was anything in that sort of slush.”</p> - -<p>Emily was simply listening, was not even looking -comment.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose that anybody ever unselfishly -cared for anybody else since the world began,” he -went on. “It’s always vanity and self-interest. -The difference between the mob and the intelligent -few is that the mob is hypocritical and timid, while -intelligent people frankly reach out for what they -want.”</p> - -<p>“Your scheme of life has at least the merit of -directness,” said Emily, turning away to go to her -desk.</p> - -<p>On the plea that he wished to discuss work with -her he practically compelled her to dine with him -two or three times a week. While his lips were -busy with adroit praises of her ability his eyes -were appealing to her vanity as a woman—and he -was not so unskilful at that mode of attack as he -had seemed at first. He exploited her articles in -the Sunday magazine, touching them up himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> -and—as she could not but see—greatly improving -them. He asked Stilson to raise her salary, and it -was done.</p> - -<p>She did not discourage him. She was passive, -maintaining her business-like manner. But after -leaving him she always had a feeling of depression -and self-disapproval. She liked the display of her -work, she liked the sense of professional importance -which he gave her, she did not dislike his flatteries. -She tried to force herself to look at the truth, to -see that all he said and did arose from the basest of -motives, unredeemed by a single trace of an adornment -of sentiment. But, though she pretended to -herself that she understood him perfectly, her -vanity was insidiously aiding her strong sense of the -politic to draw her on. “What can I do?” she -pleaded to herself. “I must earn my living. I -must assume, as long as I possibly can, that everything -is all right.”</p> - -<p>While she was thus drifting, helpless to act and -desperately trying to hope that a crisis was not -coming, she met Stilson one morning in the -entrance-hall of the <i>Democrat</i> Building. As always, -his sombre expression lighted and he stopped her.</p> - -<p>“How are you getting on with Gammell?” he -asked, in his voice that exactly suited the resolute -set of his jaw and the aggressive forward thrust of -his well-shaped head.</p> - -<p>At Gammell’s name she became embarrassed, -almost ashamed. No one knew better than she what -a powerful effect Stilson had upon sensitive people<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> -in making them guiltily self-conscious if there was -reason for it. She could not help dropping her -eyes, and her confusion was not decreased by the -fear that he would misconstrue her manner into a -confession worse than the truth. But she was -showing less of her mind than she thought.</p> - -<p>“Oh—splendidly,” she replied. “I like him much -better than at first. He makes us work and that -has been well for me.”</p> - -<p>“Um—yes.” He looked relieved. “And I think -it excellent work. Good morning.”</p> - -<p>Emily gazed after his tall strong figure with the -expression that is particularly good to see in eyes -that are looking unobserved at another’s back. “He -knows Gammell,” she thought, “and had an idea he -might be annoying me. He wished to give me a -chance to show that I needed aid, if I did. What -a strange man—and how much of a man!”</p> - -<p>When she saw Gammell half an hour later, she -unconsciously brought herself up sharply. She was -as distant as the circumstances of their business -relations permitted. But Gammell, deceived by her -former tolerance and by his vanity and his hopes, -thought she was practising another form of coquetry -upon him. As she retreated, he pursued. The -first time they were alone, he put his arm about her -and kissed her.</p> - -<p>Emily had heard that women working in offices -with men invariably have some such experience as -this sooner or later. And now, here she was, face -to face with the choice between self-respect and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -enmity of the man who could do her the most -harm in the most serious way—her living. And in -fairness she admitted, perhaps more generously -than Gammell deserved, that she was herself in part -responsible for his conduct.</p> - -<p>She straightened up—they were bending over -several drawings spread upon a table—and stiffened -herself. She looked at him with a cold and calm -dignity that made him feel as futile and foolish as -if he had found himself embracing a marble statue. -Anger he could have combated. Appeal he would -have disregarded. But this frozen tranquillity made -him drop his arm from her waist and begin confusedly -to handle the drawings. Emily’s heart beat -wildly, and she strove in vain to control herself so -that she could begin to talk of the work in hand as -if his attempt had not been. His nervousness -changed to anger. Instead of letting the matter -drop, he said sneeringly: “Oh, you needn’t pretend. -You understood perfectly all along. You were -willing to use me. And now——”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t!” Emily’s voice was choked. -She had an overpowering sense of degradation. -“It is my fault, I admit. I did understand in a -way. But I tried to make myself believe that we -were just friends, like two men.”</p> - -<p>“What trash!” said Gammell contemptuously. -“You never believed it for an instant. You knew -that there never was, and never will be, a friendship -between a young man and a young woman unless -each is thoroughly unattractive to the other.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>He was plucking up courage and Emily saw that -he was mentally arranging a future renewal of his -attempt. “I must settle it now, once for all, at any -cost,” she said to herself, with the resoluteness that -had never failed her in crises. Then aloud, to him: -“At any rate, we understand each the other now. -You know that I have not the faintest interest in -your plan for mixing sentiment and business.” Her -look and tone were convincing as they cut deep -into his vanity. She turned to the drawings and -resumed the discussion of them. In a very few -minutes he left her. “He hates me,” she thought, -“and I can’t blame him. I wonder what he’ll do to -revenge himself?”</p> - -<p>But he gave no sign. When they met again and -thereafter he treated her with exaggerated courtesy -and no longer annoyed her. “He’s self-absorbed,” -she concluded, “and too cool-headed to waste time -and energy in revenges.”</p> - -<p>But when her articles were no longer displayed, -were on the contrary “cut” or altogether “side-tracked,” -she began to think that probably the -pinched-in look of his mouth and nose and at the -back of his neck did not belie him. She felt an -ominous, elusive insecurity. She debated asking -Stilson to transfer her to some other department.</p> - -<p>But she hesitated to go to Stilson. For she now -knew the whole secret of his looks and actions, of -which she had been thinking curiously ever since -the morning of their chance meeting in the Park.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXVI.<br /> - - -<small>THE TRUTH ABOUT A ROMANCE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">ONE half of that mystery had been betrayed -by little Mary. The other -half she might have known long before -had she not held aloof from her fellow -workers, except the few who did not -gossip.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He was a Virginian. He had been brought up on -a farm—an only son, carefully sheltered, tutored -by his father and mother. He had gone up to -Princeton, religious and reverential of the most -rigid code of personal morals. His studies in science -and philosophy had taken away his creed. But -he the more firmly anchored himself to his moral -code—not because he was prim or feeble or timid, -but because to him his morality was his self-respect.</p> - -<p>He graduated from Princeton at twenty and became -a reporter on <i>The World</i>. He was released -to New York—young, hot-blooded, romantic, daring. -He rose rapidly and was not laughed at for -his idealism and his Puritanism, partly because he -was able, chiefly because he had that arrogant temperament -which enforces respect from the irresolute, -submissive majority.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>One night, a few weeks before he was twenty-one, -he went with Harry Penrose of the <i>Herald</i> to the -opening of the season at the Gold and Glory. It -was then in the beginning of its fame as the best -music-hall in the country if not in the world. As -they entered, the orchestra was playing one of -those dashing melodies that seem to make the -blood flow in their rhythm. The stage was thronged -with a typical Gold and Glory chorus—tall, handsome -young women with long, slender arms and -legs. They were dancing madly, their eyes sparkling, -their hair waving, the straps slipping from their -young shoulders, their slim legs in heliotrope silk -marking the time of the music with sinuous strokes -from the stage to high above their heads and down -again. Against this background of youth and joy -and colour two girls were leading the dance. One -of them was round and sensuous; the other thin with -the pleasing angularity of a girl not yet a woman -grown.</p> - -<p>Instantly Stilson’s eyes were for her. He felt -that he had never even imagined such grace. The -others were smiling gaily, boldly, into the audience -in teasing mock-invitation. Her lips were closed. -Her smile was dreamy, her soul apparently wrapped -in the delirium of the dance. Her whole body -was in constant motion. It seemed to Stilson that -at every movement of shoulders or hips, of small -round arms or tapering legs, at every swing of that -little head crowned with glittering waves of golden -light, a mysterious, thrilling energy was flung out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -from her like an electric current. He who had not -cared for women of the stage watched this girl as a -child at its first circus watches the lady in tights -and tarlatan. When the curtain went down, he felt -that the lights were being turned off instead of on.</p> - -<p>“Who is she?” he asked Penrose.</p> - -<p>“Who?” said Penrose, looking at the women -near by in the orchestra chairs. “Which one?”</p> - -<p>“The girl at the end—the right end—on the -stage, I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—Marguerite Feronia. Isn’t she a wonder? -I don’t see how any one can compare her with Jennie -Jessop, who danced opposite her.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know—Miss Feronia?” asked Stilson.</p> - -<p>“Marguerite? Yes. I’ve seen her a few times -in the cork-room. Ever been there?”</p> - -<p>“No.” Stilson had neither time nor inclination -for dissipation.</p> - -<p>“Would you like to go? It’s an odd sort of -place.”</p> - -<p>They went downstairs, through the public bar -and lounge and into a long passage. At the end -Penrose knocked on a door with a small shutter in -it. Up went the shutter and in its stead there was -a fierce face—low forehead, stubby, close cropped -hair, huge, sweeping moustache shading a bull-dog -jaw. The eyes were wicked yet not unkindly.</p> - -<p>“Hello, John. This is a friend of mine from -the <i>World</i>—Mr. Stilson.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Penrose.” The shutter replaced -the face and the door opened. They were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -under the stage, in a room walled and ceilinged -with champagne corks, and broken into many alcoves -and compartments. They sat at a table in -one of the alcoves and Penrose ordered a bottle of -champagne. When the waiter brought it he invited -“John” to have a glass. “John” took it standing—“Your -health, gents—best regards”—a gulp, the -glass was empty and the moustache had a deep, -damp fringe.</p> - -<p>“I have orders not to let nobody in till the end -of the performance,” said “John.” “But you -gents of the press is different.” He winked as if -his remark were a witticism.</p> - -<p>“May I see Marguerite for a minute?”</p> - -<p>“She’s got to change,” said “John” doubtfully, -“and she comes on about five minutes after the -curtain goes up. But I’ll see.”</p> - -<p>He went through a door at the far end of the -“cork-room” and soon reappeared with Marguerite -close behind him. She was in a yellow and red -costume—the skirt not to her knees, the waist -barely to the top of her low corset. She put out a -small hand white of itself, and smeared with rice-powder. -Her hair was natural golden and Stilson -thought her as beautiful and as spiritual as she had -seemed beyond the footlights. “Perhaps not quite -so young,” he said to himself, “possibly twenty.” In -fact she was almost thirty. Her voice was sweet -and childish, her manner confiding, as became so -young-looking a person.</p> - -<p>Stilson was unable to speak. He could only look<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -and long. And he felt guilty for looking—she was -very slightly clad. She and Penrose talked commonplaces -about the opening, Penrose flattering -her effectively—Stilson thought his compliments -crude and insulting, felt that she would resent them -if she really understood them. She soon rose, -touched the champagne glass to her lips, nodded -and was gone. The curtain was up—they could -hear the music and the scuffling of many feet on -the stage overhead.</p> - -<p>“You don’t want to miss this, Mr. Penrose,” said -“John.” “It’s out o’sight.”</p> - -<p>They took a second glass of the champagne and -left the rest for “John.” When they were a few -feet down the passage, Stilson went back to the -door of the “cork-room.” The shutter lifted at his -knock and he cast his friendliest look into the -wicked, good-humoured, bull-dog face. “My name -is Stilson,” he said. “You won’t forget me if I -should come again alone?”</p> - -<p>“I never forget a face,” said “John.” “That’s -why I keep my job.”</p> - -<p>Stilson’s infatuation increased with each of -Marguerite’s appearances. The longer he looked, -the stronger was the spell woven over his senses by -that innocent face, by those magnetic arms and -legs. But he would have knocked down any one -who had suggested that it was a sensuous spell.</p> - -<p>He devoted his account of the performance -for the <i>World</i> to Marguerite, the marvellous young -interpreter of the innermost meaning of music.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>The copy-reader “toned down” some of the superlatives, -but left his picture in the main untouched. -And the next day every one in the office was talking -about “Stilson’s story of that girl up at the Gold -and Glory.” It was the best possible advertisement -for the hall and for the girl. Penrose called -him on the telephone and laughed at him. “You -<i>are</i> a fox,” he said. “Old Barclay—he’s the -manager down there, you know—called me up a -while ago and asked if I knew who wrote the puff -of Feronia in the <i>World</i>. I told him it was you. -Follow it up, old man.”</p> - -<p>And Stilson did “follow it up.” That very -night, toward the end of the performance he -reappeared at the door of the “cork-room,” nervous -but determined, and with all he had left of last -week’s earnings in his pocket. “John” was most -gracious as he admitted him and escorted him to a -seat. The room was hazy with the smoke of cigars -and cigarettes. Many men and several young -women sat at the tables. A silver bucket containing -ice and a bottle was a part of each group. -There was a great pounding of feet on the floor -overhead, the shriek and crash of the orchestra, the -muffled roar of applause. All the young men were -in evening clothes except Stilson who had come -direct from the office. The young women were -dressed for the street. Stilson guessed that they -were “extras” as at that time the full force of the -company must be on the stage.</p> - -<p>The music ceased, the pounding of feet above<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> -became irregular instead of regular, and into the -room streamed a dozen of the chorus girls in tights, -with bare necks and arms and painted lips and -cheeks. Their eyes, surrounded by pigment, looked -strangely large and lustrous. “Just one glass, then -we must go up and change.” And there was much -“opening of wine” and laughter and holding of -hands and one covert kiss in the shadow of an alcove -where “John” could pretend not to see. -Then the chorus girls rushed away to remove part -of the powder, paint, and pigment and to put on -street clothing. After a few minutes, during which -Stilson watched the scene with a deepening sense -of how out of place he was in it, the stage-door -opened and Marguerite came in, dressed for the -street in a pretty gray summer-silk with a gray hat -to match. As she advanced through the smoke, -several men stood, eager to be recognised. She -smiled sweetly at each and hesitated. Stilson, his -courage roused, sprang up and advanced boldly. -“Good evening, Miss Feronia,” he said, his eyes -imploring yet commanding. She looked at him -vaguely, then remembered him.</p> - -<p>“You are Mr. Penrose’s friend?” she said, polite -but not at all cordial.</p> - -<p>“Yes—my name’s Stilson,” he answered. “I -was here last night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—Mr. Stilson of the <i>World</i>?”</p> - -<p>Stilson bowed. She was radiant now. “I wrote -you a note to-day,” she said. “It was <i>so</i> good of -you.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>“Would you sit and let me order something for -you?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly. I want to thank you——”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t,” he said, earnestly and with a hot -blush. “I’d—I’d rather you didn’t remember me -for that.”</p> - -<p>“Something” in the cork-room meant champagne -or a wine equally expensive—the management -forbade frugality under pain of exclusion. -Miss Feronia was thirsty and Stilson thought he -had never before seen any one who knew how to -raise a glass and drink.</p> - -<p>“You were good to me in the paper this morning,” -she said. “Why?”</p> - -<p>“Because I love you.”</p> - -<p>The smoke, the room, the flaunting reminders of -coarseness and sensuality and merchandising in -smiles and sentiment—all faded away for him. He -was worshipping at the shrine of his lady-love. -And he thought her as pure and poetical as the -temple of her soul seemed to his enchanted eyes. -She looked at him over the top of her glass, with -cynical, tolerant amusement. The rioting bubbles -were rushing upward through the pale gold liquid -to where her lips touched it. As she studied him, -the cynicism slowly gave place to that dreamy expression -which means much or little or nothing at -all, according to what lies behind. To him it was -entrancing; it meant mind, and heart, and soul.</p> - -<p>“What a nice, handsome boy you are,” she said, -in a voice so gentle that he was not offended by its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span> -hint that her experience was pitying his child-like -inexperience.</p> - -<p>And thus it began. At the end of the week they -were married—he would have it so, and she, purified -for the time by the fire of this boy’s romantic -love, thought it natural that the priest should be -called in.</p> - -<p>To him it was a dream of romance come true. -His strength, direct, insistent, inescapable, compelled -her. It pleased her thus to be whirled away -by an impassioned boy, enveloping her in this tempestuous -yet respectful love wholly new to her. -She found it toilsome to live up to his ideal of her; -but, with the aid of his blindness, she achieved it for -two months and deserved the title her former associates -gave her—“Sainte Marguerite.” Then——</p> - -<p>He came home one morning about two. As he -opened the door of their flat, he heard heavy snoring -from their little parlour. He struck a match -and held it high. As the light penetrated and his -eyes grew accustomed, he saw Marguerite—his wife—upon -the lounge. Her only covering was a nightgown -and she was half out of it. Her hair was -tumbled and tangled. There were deep lines in her -swollen, red face. Her mouth had fallen open and -her expression was gross, animal, repulsive. She -was sleeping a drunken sleep, in a room stuffy with -the fumes of whiskey and of the stale smoke and -stale stumps of cigarettes.</p> - -<p>The match burned his fingers before he dropped -it. He stumbled through the darkness to their bedroom,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> -and, falling upon the bed, buried his face in -the pillow and sobbed like a child that has received -a blow struck in brutal injustice. Out of -the corners came a hundred suspicious little circumstances -which no longer feared him or hid from him. -They leered and jeered and mocked, shooting -poisoned darts into that crushed and broken-hearted -boy.</p> - -<p>He rose and lit the gas. He went to a closet in -a back room and took down a bottle of whiskey and -a tumbler. In pyjamas and slippers he seated -himself at the dining-room table. He poured out a -brimming glass of the whiskey and drank it down. -A moment later he drank another, then a third. -His head reeled, his blood ran thick and hot -through his veins. He staggered into the parlour -and stood over his snoring wife. He shook her. -“Come, wake up!” he shouted.</p> - -<p>She groaned, murmured, tossed, suddenly sat up, -catching her hair together with one hand, her -night-dress with the other. “My God!” she exclaimed, -in terror at his wild face, “Don’t kill me! -I can’t help it—my father was that way!”</p> - -<p>“Yes—come on!” he shouted. “You don’t -need to sneak away to drink. We’ll drink together. -We’ll go to hell together.”</p> - -<p>And he kept his word. At the end of the year -he was dismissed from the <i>World</i> for drunkenness. -She went back to the stage and supported them -both—she was a periodic drunkard, while he kept -steadily at it. She left him, returned to him, loved<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -him, fled from him, divorced him, after an absence -of nearly a year returned to make another effort to -undo the crime she felt she had committed. As -she came into the squalid room in a wretched furnished-room -house in East Fifth Street where he had -found a momentary refuge, he glared at her with -bleared, bloodshot eyes and uttered a curse. She -had a bundle in her arms.</p> - -<p>“Look,” she said, in a low tone, stooping beside -the bed on which he lay in his rags.</p> - -<p>He was staring stupidly into the face of a baby, -copper-coloured, homely, with puffy cheeks and -watery, empty eyes. He fell back upon the bed -and covered his head.</p> - -<p>Soon he started up in a fury. “It ought to have -been strangled,” he said.</p> - -<p>“No! No!” she exclaimed, pressing the bundle -tightly against her bosom.</p> - -<p>He rose and went toward her. His expression -was reassuring. He looked long into the child’s face.</p> - -<p>“Where are you living?” he asked at last. -“Don’t be afraid to tell me. I’ll not come until”—He -paused, then went on: “The road ought to -lead upward from here.” His glance went round -the squalid room with roaches scuttling along its -baseboard. He looked down at his grimed tatters, -his gaping shoes, his dirty hands and black and -broken nails.</p> - -<p>“It certainly can’t lead downward,” he muttered. -For the first time in months he felt ashamed. -“Leave me alone,” he said.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>That night he wrote his mother for the loan of a -hundred dollars—the first money from home since, -at the end of his last long vacation, he left for New -York and a career. In a week he was a civilised -man again. Marlowe got him a place as reporter -on the <i>Democrat</i>. It was immediately apparent -that the road did indeed lead upward.</p> - -<p>In a month he was restored to his former appearance—except -that his hair was sprinkled with gray -at the temples and he had several deep lines in his -young yet sombre face.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXVII.<br /> - - -<small>“IN MANY MOODS.”</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">EMILY was lunching alone at the Astor -House in the innermost of the upstairs -dining-rooms. She had just ordered -when a woman entered—obviously a -woman of the stage, although she was -quietly dressed. She had a striking figure, small -but lithe, and her gown was fitted to its every curve. -As she passed Emily’s table, to the left of the door, -the air became odorous of one of those heavy, -sweet perfumes whose basis is musk. Her face was -round, almost fat, babyish at first glance. Her eyes -were unnaturally sleepy and had many fine wrinkles -at the corners. She seated herself at the far end of -the room, so that she was facing the door and -Emily.</p> - -<p>She called the waiter in a would-be imperious -way, but before she had finished ordering she was -laughing and talking with him as if he were a friend. -Emily noted that she spoke between her shut teeth, -like a morphine-eater. As the waiter left, her face -lighted with pleasure and greeting. Emily was -amazed as she saw the man toward whom this look -was directed—Stilson. He did not see Emily when -he came in, and, as he seated himself opposite the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> -woman who was awaiting him, could not see her. -Nor could Emily see his face, only his back and -now and then one of his hands. As she eagerly -noted every detail of him and of his companion, she -suddenly discovered that there was a pain at her -heart and that she was criticising the woman as if -they were bitter enemies. “I am jealous of her,” -she thought, startled as she grasped all that was -implied in jealousy such as she was now feeling.</p> - -<p>When had she come to care especially for Stilson? -And why? Above all, how had she fallen in love -without knowing what she was doing? By what -subtle chemistry had sympathy, admiration, trust, -been combined into this new element undoubtedly -love, yet wholly unlike any emotion she had felt before? -“Mary must have set me to thinking,” she -said to herself.</p> - -<p>The woman talked volubly, always with her teeth -together and her eyes half-closed. But Emily could -see that she was watching Stilson’s face closely, lovingly. -Stilson seemed to be saying nothing and -looking absently out of the window. As Emily -studied the woman, she was forced to confess that -she was fascinating and that she had the attractive -remnants of beauty. Her manner toward Stilson -made her manner toward the waiter a few minutes -before seem like a real self carefully and habitually -hidden from some one whom she knew would disapprove -it. “She tries to live up to him,” thought -Emily. “And how interesting she is to look at—what -a beautiful figure, what graceful gestures—and—I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> -wonder if I shall look as well at—at her -age?”</p> - -<p>She could not eat. “How I wish I hadn’t seen -her with him. Now I shall imagine—everything, -while before this I thought of that side of his life as -if it didn’t exist.” She went as quickly as she -could, for she felt like a spy and feared he would -turn his head. In the next room, which was filled, -she met Miss Furnival, the “fashion editor” of the -<i>Democrat’s</i> Sunday magazine. Miss Furnival asked -if there were any tables vacant in the next room and -hastened on to get the one which Emily had left.</p> - -<p>An hour later Miss Furnival stopped at her desk. -“Didn’t you see Stilson in that room over at the -Astor House?” she said, and Emily knew that -gossip was coming.</p> - -<p>“Was he there?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes—up at the far end of the room—with Marguerite -Feronia. She used to be his wife, you know—and -she divorced him when he went to pieces. -And now they live together—at least, in the same -house. Some say that he refused to re-marry her. -But Mr. Gammell told me it was the other way, -that she told a friend of his she wasn’t fit to be -Stilson’s wife. She said she’d ruined him once and -would never be a drag on him again.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he’s—tremendously in love with her?” -Emily tried in vain to prevent herself from stooping -to this question.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” replied Miss Furnival. “Mr. -Gammell told me he wasn’t. He says Stilson is a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> -sentimentalist. It seems there is a child—some say -a boy, some say a girl. She first told Stilson it was -his, and then that it wasn’t. Mr. Gammell says -Stilson stays on to protect the child from her. -She’s a terror when she goes on one of her sprees—and -she goes oftener and oftener as she grows older. -You can always tell when she’s on the rampage by -the way Stilson acts. He goes about, looking as if -somebody had insulted him and he’d been too big -a coward to resent it.”</p> - -<p>Instead of being saddened by this recital, Emily -was in sudden high spirits and her eyes were dancing. -“I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she -thought, “but I can’t help it. I wish to feel that -he loathes her.” Then she said aloud in a satirical -tone, to carry off her cheerful expression: “I had -no idea we had such a hero among us. And Mr. -Stilson, of all men! I’m afraid it’s a piece of Park -Row imagination. Probably the truth is—let us -say, less romantic.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t know Mr. Gammell,” Miss Furnival -sighed. “He’s the last man on earth to indulge in -romance. He thinks Stilson ridiculous. But <i>I</i> -think he’s fine. He’s the best of a few good men -I’ve known in New York who weren’t good only -because of not having sense enough to be otherwise.”</p> - -<p>“Good,” repeated Emily in a tone that expressed -strong aversion to the word.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mercy no! I don’t mean that kind of -good,” said Miss Furnival. “He’s not the kind of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -good that makes everybody else love and long for -wickedness.”</p> - -<p>After this Emily found herself making trips to -the news-department on extremely thin pretexts, -and returning cheerful or depressed according as -she had succeeded or failed in her real object. And -she began to think—to hope—that Stilson came to -the Sunday department oftener than formerly. -When he did come—and it certainly was oftener—he -merely bowed to her as he passed her desk. But -whenever she looked up suddenly, she found his -gaze upon her and she felt that her vanity was not -dictating her interpretation of it. She had an instinct -that if he knew or suspected her secret or -suspected that she was guessing his secret, she would -see him no more.</p> - -<p>As the months passed, there grew up between -them a mutual understanding about which she saw -that he was deceiving himself. She came to know -him so well that she read him at sight. Being large -and broad, he was simple, tricking himself when it -would have been impossible for him to have tricked -another. And it made her love him the more to -see how he thought he was hiding himself from her -and how unconscious he was of her love for him.</p> - -<p>She had no difficulty in gratifying her longing to -hear of him. He was naturally the most conspicuous -figure in the office and often a subject of conversation. -She was delighted by daily evidences of -the power of his personality and by tributes to it. -For Park Row liked to gossip about his eccentricities,—he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> -was called eccentric because he had the -courage of his individuality; or about his sagacity as -an editor, his sardonic wit, his cynicism concealing -but never hindering thoughtfulness for others. -Shrinking from prying eyes, he was always unintentionally -provoking curiosity. Hating flattery, -he was the idol and the pattern of a score of the -younger men of the profession. His epigrams were -quoted and his walk was copied, his dress, his way of -wearing his hair. Even his stenographer, a girl, -unconsciously and most amusingly imitated his mannerisms. -All the indistinct and inferior personalities -about him, in the hope of making themselves less indistinct -and inferior, copied as closely as they could -those characteristics which, to them, seemed the -cause of his standing up and out so vividly. One -day Emily was passing through an inside room -of the news-department on her way to the Day -Telegraph Editor. Stilson was at a desk which he -sometimes used. He had his back toward her and -was talking into the portable telephone. She glanced -at the surface of his desk. With eyes trained to -take in details swiftly, she saw before she could -look away an envelope addressed to Boughton and -Wall, the publishers, a galley proof projecting from -it, and on the proof in large type: “17 In Many -Moods.”</p> - -<p>“He has written a book,” she thought, “and that -is the title.” And she was filled with loving curiosity. -She speculated about it often in the next six -weeks; then she saw it on a table in Brentano’s.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span>“Yes, it’s been selling fairly well—for poetry,” -said the clerk. “There’s really no demand for new -poetry. Ninety-one cents. You’ll find the verses -very pretty.”</p> - -<p>Poetry—verses—Stilson a verse-maker! Emily -was surprised and somewhat amused. There was -no author’s name on the title-page and it was a -small volume, about twenty poems, the most of -them short, each with a mood as a title—Anger, -Parting, Doubt, Jealousy, Courage, Foreboding, -Passion, Hope, Renunciation—at Renunciation she -paused and read.</p> - -<p>It was a crowded street-car and she bent low over -the book to hide her face. She had the clue to the -book. Indeed she presently discovered that it was -to be found in every poem. Stilson had loved her -long—almost from her first appearance in the office. -And in these verses, breathing generosity and self-sacrifice, -and well-aimed for one heart at least, he -had poured out his love for her. It was sad, intense, -sincere, a love that made her proud and happy, -yet humble and melancholy, too.</p> - -<p>As she read she seemed to see him looking at her, -she felt his heart aching. Now he was holding her -tight in his arms, raining kisses on her face and -making her blood race like maddest joy through her -veins. Again, he was standing afar off, teaching -her the lesson that the love that can refrain and -renounce is the truest love. It was a revelation of -this strange man even to her who had studied him -long and penetratingly. So absorbed was she in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span> -reading and re-reading that when she glanced up the -car was at One hundred and fourteenth street—miles -past her house. She walked down to and -through the Park in an abandon of happiness over -these love letters so strangely sent, thus accidentally -received. “I must never let him see that I -know,” she thought—“yet how can I help showing -it?”</p> - -<p>She met him the very next day—almost ran into -him as she left the elevator at the news-department -floor where he was waiting to take it on its descent. -For the first time she betrayed herself, looking at -him with a burning blush and with eyes shining -with the emotion she could not instantly conceal. -She passed on swiftly, conscious that he was gazing -after her startled. “I acted like a child,” she said -to herself, “and here I am, trembling all over as if -I were seventeen.” And then she wrought herself -up with thinking what he might think of her. -“Where is my courage?” she reassured herself, -“What a poor love his would be if he misunderstood -me.” Nevertheless she was afraid that she -had shown too much. “I suppose it’s impossible -to be courageous and restrained when one loves.”</p> - -<p>But when she saw him again—two days later, in -the vestibule of the <i>Democrat</i> Building—it was her -turn to be self-possessed and his to betray himself. -He was swinging along with his head down and -gloom in his face. He must have recognised her -by her feet—distinctive in their slenderness and in -the sort of boots that covered them. For he suddenly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -gave her a flash-like glance which said to her -as plainly as words: “I am in the depths. If I -only dared to reach out my hand to you, dear!” -Then he recovered himself, reddened slightly, bowed -almost guiltily and passed on without speaking.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /> - - -<small>A FORCED ADVANCE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">IT was the talk of the Sunday office that Emily -was being “frozen out.” The women said it -was her own fault—her looks had at last -failed to give her a “pull.” The men said it -was some underhand scheme of Gammell’s—what -was more likely in the case of an attractive -but thoroughly business-like woman such as Emily -and such a man as Gammell, oriental in his ideas on -women and of infinite capacity for meanness. Both -the men and the women reached their conclusions -by ways of prejudice; the men came nearer to the -truth, which was that Gammell was bent upon punishing -Emily, and that Emily, discouraged and -suffering under a sense of injustice, was aiding him -to justify himself to his superiors. The mere sight -of her irritated him now. Success had developed -his natural instinct to tyranny, and she represented -rebellion intrenched and defiant within his very -gates. One day he found Stilson waiting in his -office to look over and revise his Sunday schedule. -He hated Stilson because Stilson was his superior -officer, and each week—in the interest of the reputation -of the paper—was compelled to veto the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> -too audacious, too “yellow” projects of the sensational -Gammell.</p> - -<p>That day at sight of Stilson he with difficulty -concealed his hate. He had just passed one of his -enemies—Emily in a new dress and new hat, in -every way a painful reminder of his discomfiture. -And now here was his other enemy lying in wait, as -he instinctively felt, to veto an article in which he -took especial pride.</p> - -<p>Stilson was not covert in his aversions. Diplomatic -with no one, he rasped upon Gammell’s highly-strung -nerves like a screech in the ear of a neurotic. -The wrangle began quietly enough in an exchange -of veiled sarcasms and angry looks—contemptuous -from Stilson, venomous from Gammell. But the -double strain of Emily and Stilson was too strong -for Gammell’s discretion. From stealthy sneers, -he passed to open thrusts. Stilson, as tyrannical -as Gammell, if that side of his nature was roused, -grew calm with rage and presently in an arrogant -tone ordered Gammell to “throw away that vicious -stuff, and let me hear no more about it.”</p> - -<p>“It is a pity, my dear sir,” he went on, “that you -should waste your talents. Why roll in the muck? -Why can’t you learn not to weary me with this -weekly inspection of insanity?”</p> - -<p>Gammell’s eyes became pale green, his cheeks an -unhealthy bluish gray. He cast about desperately -for a weapon with which to strike and strike home. -Emily was in his mind and, while he had not the -faintest notion that Stilson cared for her or she for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> -him, he remembered Stilson’s emphatic compliments -on her work. “Perhaps if I were supplied with a -more capable staff, we might get together articles -that would be intelligent as well as striking. But -what can I do, handicapped by such a staff, by such -useless ornamentals as—well, as your Miss Bromfield.”</p> - -<p>“That reminds me.” Stilson recovered his outward -self-control at once. “I notice she has little -in the magazine nowadays. Instead of exhausting -yourself on such character-destroying stuff as this,” -with a disdainful gesture toward the rejected article, -“you might be arranging for features such as she -used to do and do very well.”</p> - -<p>“She’s not of the slightest use here any longer.” -Gammell shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows. -“She’s of no use to the paper. And as the -present Sunday editor doesn’t happen to fancy her, -why, she’s of no use at all—now.”</p> - -<p>With a movement so swift that Gammell had no -time to resist or even to understand, Stilson whirled -him from his chair, and flung him upon the floor as -if he were some insect that had shown sudden venom -and must be crushed under the heel without delay.</p> - -<p>“Don’t kill me!” screamed Gammell, in a frenzy -of physical fear, as he looked up at Stilson’s face -ablaze with the homicidal mania. “For God’s -sake, Stilson, don’t murder me!”</p> - -<p>The door opened and several frightened faces -appeared there. Stilson, distracted from his purpose, -turned on the intruders. “Close that door!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span> -he commanded. “Back to your work!” and he -thrust the door into its frame. “Now, get up!” -he said to Gammell. “You are one of those vile -creatures that are brought into the world—I don’t -know how, but I’m sure without the interposition of -a mother. Get up and brush yourself. And hereafter -see that you keep your foul mind from your -lips and eyes.”</p> - -<p>He stalked away, his footsteps ringing through -the silent Sunday room where all were bending over -their work in the effort to obliterate themselves. -Within an hour the story of “the fight” was racing -up and down Park Row and in and out of every -newspaper office. But no one could explain it. And -to this day Emily does not know why Gammell -gave her late that afternoon the best assignment -she had had in three months.</p> - -<p>In the following week she received a letter from -Burnham, general manager of Trescott, Anderson -and Company, the publishers in Twenty-third -Street. It was an invitation to call “at your -earliest convenience in reference to a matter which -we hope will interest you.” She went in the morning -on her way downtown. Mr. Burnham was -most polite—a twitching little man, inclined to be -silly in his embarrassment, talking rapidly and -catching his breath between sentences.</p> - -<p>“We are making several changes in the conduct -of our magazines,” said he. “We wish to get some -young blood—newspaper blood, in fact, into them. -We wish to make them less—less prosy, more—more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -up-to-date. No—not ‘yellow’—by no means—nothing -like that. Still, we feel that we ought to be -a little—yes—livelier.”</p> - -<p>“Closer to the news—to current events and -subjects?” suggested Emily.</p> - -<p>“Yes,—precisely—you catch my meaning at -once.” Mr. Burnham was looking at her as if she -were a genius. He was of those men who are -dazzled when they discover a gleam of intelligence -in a beautiful woman. “Now, we wish to get you -to help us with our <i>World of Women</i>. Mrs. Parrott -is the editor, as you perhaps know. She’s been -with us—yes—twenty-three years, eighteen years in -her present position. And after making some -inquiries, we decided to invite you to join the staff -as assistant to Mrs. Parrott.”</p> - -<p>“I know the magazine,” said Emily, “and I -think I see the directions in which the improvements -you suggest could be made. But I’m not -dissatisfied with my present position. Of course—if—well—” -She looked at Mr. Burnham with an -ingenuous expression that hid the business guile -beneath—“Of course, I couldn’t refuse an opportunity -to better myself.”</p> - -<p>“We—that is—” Mr. Burnham looked miserable -and plucked wildly at his closely-trimmed gray and -black beard. “May I ask what—what financial -arrangement would be agreeable to you?”</p> - -<p>“The offer must come from you, mustn’t it?” -said Emily, who had not been earning her own living -without learning first principles.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>“Yes—of course—naturally.” Mr. Burnham -held himself rigid in his chair, as if it required sheer -force to restrain him from leaping forth and away. -“Might I ask—what you are—what—what—return -for your services the <i>Democrat</i> makes?”</p> - -<p>“Sixty-five dollars a week,” said Emily. “But -my position there is less exacting than it would be -here. I have practically no editorial responsibility. -And editorial responsibility means gray hair.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—certainly—you would expect compensation -for gray hair—dear me, no—I beg your pardon. -What <i>were</i> we saying? Yes—we could -hardly afford to pay so much as that—at the start, -you know. I should say sixty would be quite the -very best. But your hours would be shorter—and -you would have the utmost freedom about writing -articles, stories, and so forth. And of course you’d -be paid extra for what you wrote which proved acceptable -to us. Then too, it’s a higher class of work—the -magazines, you know—gives one character -and standing.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—work is work,” said Emily. “And I doubt -if a magazine could give me character. I fear I’d -have to continue to rely on myself for that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—I beg your pardon. I’m very stupid to-day—I -didn’t mean——”</p> - -<p>As he hesitated and looked imploringly at her, -she said good-humouredly, “To suggest that my -standing and not the standing of your magazine, -was what you were trying to help?”</p> - -<p>They laughed, they became friendly and he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> -difficulty in keeping his mind upon business. He -presently insisted upon sending for Mrs. Parrott—a -stout, motherly person with several chins that -descended through a white neck-cloth into a vast -bosom quivering behind the dam of a high, old-fashioned -corset. Emily noted that she was evidently -of those women who exaggerate their natural -sweetness into a pose of “womanly” sentiment -and benevolence. She spoke the precise English -of those who have heard a great deal of the other -kind and dread a lapse into it. She was amusingly -a “literary person,” full of the nasty-nice phrases -current among those literary folk who take themselves -seriously as custodians of An Art and A -Language. Emily’s manner and dress impressed -her deeply, and she soon brought in—not without -labour—the names of several fashionable New -Yorkers with whom she asserted acquaintance and -insinuated intimacy. Emily’s eyes twinkled at -this exhibition of insecurity in one who but the -moment before was preening herself as a high -priestess at the highest altar.</p> - -<p>In the hour she spent in the editorial offices of -Trescott, Anderson and Company, Emily was depressed -by what seemed to her an atmosphere of -dulness, of staleness, of conventionality, of remoteness -from the life of the day. “They live in a sort -of cellar,” she thought. “I don’t believe I could -endure being cut off from fresh air.” After pretending -to herself elaborately to argue the matter, -she decided that she would not make the change.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>But her real reason, as she was finally compelled -to admit to herself, was Stilson. Not to see him, -not to feel that he was near, not to be in daily contact -with his life—it was unthinkable. She knew -that she was so unbusiness-like in this respect that, -if the <i>Democrat</i> cut her salary in half, she would -still stay on. “I’m only a woman after all,” she -said to herself. “A man wouldn’t do as I’m -doing—perhaps.” She did not in the least care. -She was not ashamed of her weakness. She was -even admitting nowadays a liking for the idea that -Stilson could and would rule her. And she was -not at all sure that the reason for this revolutionary -liking was the reason she gave herself—that he -would not ask her to do anything until he was sure -she was willing to do it.</p> - -<p>Two days after she wrote her refusal, Stilson sent -for her. At first glance she saw that he was a -bearer of evil tidings. And in the next she saw -what the evil tidings were—that he had penetrated -her secret and his own self-deception, and -was remorseful, aroused, determined to put himself -out of her life.</p> - -<p>“You have refused your offer from Burnham?” -He drew down his brows and set his jaw, as if he -expected a struggle.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I prefer to stay here. I have reasons.” -She felt reckless. She was eager for an opportunity -to discuss these “reasons.”</p> - -<p>“You must accept.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I?—Must?</i>” She flushed and put her face up -haughtily.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span>“Yes—I ask it. The position will soon be an -advancement. And you cannot stay here.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know about this offer—so much -about it?”</p> - -<p>“I got it for you when—when I found that you -must go.”</p> - -<p>She looked defiance. She saw an answering look -of suffering and appeal.</p> - -<p>“Why?” she said, in a low voice. “Why?”</p> - -<p>“For two reasons,” he replied. “I may tell you -only one—Gammell. He will find a way to injure -you. I know it. It would be folly for you to stay.”</p> - -<p>“And the other reason?”</p> - -<p>He did not answer, but continued to look steadily -at her.</p> - -<p>“I—I—understand,” she murmured at last, her -look falling before his, and the colour coming into -her face, “I will go.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you.” He bowed with a courtesy that -suggested the South in the days before the war. -He walked beside her to the elevator. His -shoulders were drooped as if under a heavy burden. -His face was white and old, and its deep lines were -like scars.</p> - -<p>“Down, ten!” he called into the elevator-shaft -as the car shot past on the up-trip. Soon the -descending car stopped and the iron door swung -back with a bang.</p> - -<p>The door closed, she saw him gazing at her; and -that look through the bars of the elevator door, -haunted her. She had seen it in his face once before,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> -though not so strongly,—when she said good-bye to -him as she was going away to Paris. But where else -had she seen it? Weeks afterward, when she was -talking to Mrs. Parrott of something very different, -there suddenly leaped to the surface of her mind a -memory—the public square in a mountain town, a -man dead upon the stones, another near him, dying -and turning his face toward the shelter whence he -had come; and in his face the look of farewell to <i>the</i> -woman.</p> - -<p>“What is it, dear? Are you ill this morning?” -asked Mrs. Parrott.</p> - -<p>“Not—not very,” answered Emily brokenly, and -she vanished into her office and closed its door.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIX.<br /> - - -<small>A MAN AND A “PAST.”</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">HAD Emily and Stilson been idlers or of -those workers who look upon work -as a curse, they would have taken one -of two courses. Either Stilson would -have repudiated his obligations and -they would have rushed together to hurry on to -what would have been for them a moral catastrophe, -or they would have remained apart to sink -separately into mental and physical ruin. As it -was, they worked—steadily, earnestly, using their -daily routine of labour to give them strength for -the fight against depression and despair.</p> - -<p>Stilson, with the tenacity of purpose that made -life for him one long battle, fought hopelessly. -To him hope seemed always only the delusive foreshadow -of oncoming disappointment, a lying messenger -sent ahead by fate in cynical mockery of its -human prey. And whenever his routine relaxed its -compulsion, he laid himself on the rack and tortured -himself with memories and with dreams.</p> - -<p>Emily was aided by her temperament. She -loved life and passionately believed in it. She was -mentally incapable of long accepting an adverse decree<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -of destiny as final. But at best it was a wintry -light that hope shed—between storms—upon her -heart. Her chief source of courage was her ideal of -him—the strong, the brave, the inflexible. “Forgive -me!” she would say, humbling herself before -his image in her mind after her outbursts of -protest or her attacks of despondency. “I am not -worthy of you. But oh,—I want you—need you—<i>so</i>!”</p> - -<p>Within a short time it was apparent that from -the professional standpoint she had done well in -going to the <i>World of Women</i>. After the newspaper, -the magazine seemed play. In the <i>Democrat</i> -office she had not been looked upon as extraordinary. -Here they regarded her as a person of -amazing talent—for a woman. They marvelled at -her energy, at her quickness, at her flow of plans -for articles and illustrations. And without a hint -from her they raised her salary to what she -had been getting, besides accepting proposals -she made for several articles to be written by herself.</p> - -<p>They were especially delighted with her management -of “the old lady”—the only name ever given -Mrs. Parrott when she was out of hearing. She patronised -Emily in a motherly way, and Emily submitted -like a dutiful daughter. She accepted Emily’s -suggestions as her own. “My dear,” she said one -day, “I’m so glad I’ve got you here to help me put -my ideas through. I’ve been suggesting and suggesting -in vain for years.” And Emily looked grateful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> -and refused to respond to the sly smile from Mr. -Burnham who had overheard.</p> - -<p>Emily did not under-estimate Mrs. Parrott’s usefulness -to her. In thirty years of experience as a -writer and an editor, “the old lady” had accumulated -much that was of permanent value, as well as -a mass of antiquated or antiquating trash. Emily -belonged to the advance guard of a generation that -had small reverence for the “prim ideals of the past.” -Mrs. Parrott knew the “provincial mind,” the magazine-reading -mind, better than did Emily—or at -least was more respectful of its ideas, more cautious -of offending its notions of what it believed or -thought it ought to believe. And often when Emily -through ignorance or intolerance would have “gone -too far” for any but a New York constituency, Mrs. -Parrott interposed with a remonstrance or a suggestion -which Emily was acute enough to appreciate. -She laughed at these “hypocrisies” but—she always -had circulation in mind. She liked to startle, but she -knew that she must startle in ways that would attract, -not frighten away.</p> - -<p>But conscientious though she was in her work, -and careful to have her evenings occupied, she was -still forlorn. Life was purposeless to her. She -was working for self alone, and she who had -never cared to excess for self, now cared nothing at -all. In her own eyes her one value was her value -to Stilson. She reproached herself for what seemed -to her a low, a degrading view, traversing all she had -theretofore preached and tried to practice. But she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> -had only to pause to have her heart aching for him -and her thoughts wandering in speculations about -him or memories of him.</p> - -<p>Her friends—Joan, Evelyn, Theresa—wondered -at the radical changes in her, at her abstraction, -her nervousness, her outbursts of bitterness. She -shocked Joan and Evelyn, both now married, with -mockeries at marriage, at love, at every sentiment -of which they took a serious view. One day—at -Joan’s, after a tirade against the cruelty, selfishness, -and folly of bringing children into the world—she -startled her by snatching up the baby and burying -her face in its voluminous skirts and bursting into a -storm of sobs and tears.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Emmy?” asked Joan, taking away -the baby as he, recovering from his amazement, set -up a lusty-lunged protest against such conduct and -his enforced participation therein.</p> - -<p>Emily dried her eyes and fell to laughing as hysterically -as she had wept. “Poor baby,” she said. -“Let me take him again, Joan.” And she soon -had him quiet, and staring at a large heart-shaped -locket which she slowly swung to and fro just beyond -the point, or rather, the cap, of his little lump -of a nose. “I’m in a bad way, Joan,” she went on. -“I can’t tell you. Telling would do no good. But -my life is in a wretched tangle, and I don’t see anything -ahead but—but—tangles. And as I can’t get -what I want, I won’t take anything at all.”</p> - -<p>“You are old enough to know better. Your -good sense teaches you that if you did get what -you want, you’d probably wish you hadn’t.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>“That’s the trouble,” said Emily, shaking her -head sadly at the baby. “My good sense in this -case teaches me just the reverse. I’ve seen a man—a -real man this time—<i>my</i> man morally, mentally, -physically. He’s a man with a mind, and a heart, -and what I call a conscience. He’s been through—oh, -everything. And error and suffering have -made him what he is—a man. He’s a man to look -up to, a man to lean upon, a man to—to care for.” -Her expression impressed Joan’s skepticism. “Do -you wonder?” she said.</p> - -<p>“No.” Joan looked away. “But—forget—put -him out of your life. You are trying to—aren’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“To forget? No—I can’t even try. It would -be useless. Besides, who wants to forget? And -there’s always a <i>chance</i>.”</p> - -<p>“At least”—Joan spoke with conviction—“you’re -not likely to <i>do</i> anything—absurd.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true—unfortunately. <i>I</i> couldn’t be -trusted. I’m afraid. But—” Emily’s laugh was -short and cynical—“my man can.”</p> - -<p>“He must be a—a sort of prig.” Joan felt suspicious -of a masculine that could stand out against -the temptation of such a feminine as her adored -Emily.</p> - -<p>“See! Even you couldn’t be trusted. But no, -he’s not a prig—just plain honourable and decent, -in an old-fashioned way that exasperates me—and -thrills me. That’s why I say he’s a man to lean -upon and believe in.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>Emily felt better for having talked with some -one about him and went away almost cheerful. -But she was soon down again, and time seemed -only to aggravate her unhappiness. “I must be -brave,” she said. “But why? Why should I go -on? He has Mary—I have nothing.” And the -great dread formed in her mind—the dread that he -was forgetting her. If not, why did he not seek her -out, at least reassure himself with his own eyes that -she was still alive? And she had to look steadily -at her memory-pictures, at his eyes, and the set of -his jaw, to feel at all hopeful that he was remembering, -was living his real life for her.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Three weeks after Emily’s departure, on a Thursday -night, Stilson left his assistant in charge and -went home at eleven. As he entered his house—in -West Seventy-third street near the river—he saw -strange wraps on the table in the entrance-hall, -heard voices in the drawing-room. He went on -upstairs. As he was hurrying into evening dress he -suddenly paused, put on a dressing-gown, and went -along the hall. He gently turned the knob of a -door at the end and entered. There was a dim -light, as in the hall, and he could at once make out -all the objects in the room.</p> - -<p>He crossed to the little bed, and stood looking -down at Mary—her yellow hair in a coil on top of -her head, one small hand clinched and thrust between -the pillow and her cheek, the other lying -white and limp upon the coverlid. He stood there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span> -several minutes without motion. When he reappeared -in the bright light of his dressing-room, his -face was calm, a complete change from its dark and -drawn expression of a few minutes before.</p> - -<p>He was soon dressed, and descended to the drawing-room. -Like the hall, like the whole house, like -its mistress, this room was rather gaudy, but not -offensive or tasteless. The most conspicuous objects -in its decoration were two pictures. One was -a big photograph of a slim, ethereal-looking girl—the -dancer he had loved and married. She was -dressed to reveal all those charms of youth apparently -just emerging from childhood—a bouquet of -budding flowers fresh from the garden in the early -morning. The other was a portrait of her by a -distinguished artist—the face and form of the -famous dancer of the day. The face was older and -bolder, with the sleepy sensuousness and sadness -that characterised her now. The neck and arms -were bare; and the translucent and clinging gown, -aided by the pose, offered, yet refused, a view of -every line of her figure.</p> - -<p>Marguerite was sitting almost under the portrait; -on the same sofa was Victoria Fenton, looking much -as when Stilson first met her—on her trip to America -in the autumn in which Emily returned from Paris. -She still had to the unobservant that charm of “the -unawakened”—as if there were behind her surface-beauty -not good-natured animalism, but a soul -awaiting the right conjurer to rouse it to conscious -life.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>Marlowe was seated on the arm of a chair, smoking -a cigarette. He was dressed carefully as always, -and in the latest English fashion. He had an air -of prosperity and contented indifference. His once -keen face was somewhat fat and, taken with his -eyes and mouth, suggested that his wife’s cardinal -weakness had infected him. Stilson was late and -they went at once to supper—Marlowe and Miss -Fenton had been invited for supper because that -was the only time convenient for all these night-workers.</p> - -<p>“You are having a great success?” said Stilson -to Victoria. She was exhibiting at the Lyceum in -one of Joan’s plays which had been partly rewritten -by Marlowe.</p> - -<p>“Yes—the Americans are good to me—so generous -and friendly,” replied Victoria. “Of course -the play is poor. I couldn’t have done anything -with it if George hadn’t made it over so cleverly.”</p> - -<p>Stilson smiled. Banning, the dramatic critic, had -told him that her part was beyond Miss Fenton, and -that only her stage-presence and magnetic voice -saved her from failure. “You players must have -a mournful time of it with these stupid playwrights,” -he said with safe sarcasm.</p> - -<p>“You can’t imagine!” Victoria flung out her -long, narrow white hand in a stage-gesture of despair. -“And they are so ungrateful after we have -created their characters for them and have given -them reputation and fortune.”</p> - -<p>Stilson noted that Marlowe was listening with a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> -faint sneer. His manner towards his wife was a -surface-politeness that too carelessly concealed his -estimate of her mental limitations. Stilson’s manner -toward “Miss Feronia”—he called her that -more often than he called her Marguerite—was -almost distant courtesy, the manner of one who -tenaciously maintains an impenetrable wall between -himself and another whose relations to him would -naturally be of the closest intimacy. And while -Victoria was self-absorbed, obviously never questioning -that her husband was her admirer and -devoted lover, Marguerite was nervously attentive -to Stilson’s words and looks, at once delighted and -made ill-at-ease by his presence.</p> - -<p>Her eyes were by turns brilliant and stupidly -dull. Either a stream of words was issuing from -between her shut teeth or her lids were drooped -and she seemed to be falling asleep. Marlowe recognised -the morphine-eater and thought he understood -why Stilson was gloomy and white. Victoria -ate, Marguerite talked, and the two men listlessly -smoked. At the first opportunity they moved together -and Marlowe began asking about the <i>Democrat</i> -and his acquaintances there.</p> - -<p>“And what has become of Miss Bromfield?” he -asked, after many other questions.</p> - -<p>“She’s gone to a magazine,” replied Stilson, his -voice straining to be colourless. But Marlowe did -not note the tone and instantly his wife interrupted:</p> - -<p>“Yes, what has become of Miss Bromfield—didn’t -I hear George asking after her? You know,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> -Mr. Stilson, I took George away from her. Poor -thing, it must have broken her heart to lose him.” -And she vented her empty affected stage-laugh.</p> - -<p>Colour flared in the faces of both the men, and -Stilson went to the open fire and began stirring it -savagely.</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t think I encouraged my wife to that -idea,” Marlowe said, apparently to Marguerite. -“It’s one of her fixed delusions.”</p> - -<p>Victoria laughed again. “Oh, Kilboggan told -me all about you two—in Paris and down at Monte -Carlo. He hears everything. I forgot it until you -spoke her name. ‘Pasts’ don’t interest me.”</p> - -<p>Marlowe flushed angrily and his voice was tense -with convincing indignation as he said, “I beg you, -Victoria, not to put Miss Bromfield in this false -light. No one but a—a Kilboggan would have -concocted and spread such a story about such a -woman.”</p> - -<p>His tone forbade further discussion, and there -was a brief, embarrassed silence. Then Marguerite -went rattling on again. Stilson came back to the -table and lit a cigarette with elaborate and deliberate -care. Marlowe continued to stare to the -front, his face expressionless, but his eyes taking in -Stilson’s expression without seeming to do so. -They were talking again presently, but each was -constrained toward the other. Marlowe knew that -Stilson was suspecting him, but, beyond being -flattered by the tribute to his former “gallantry,” -he did not especially care—had he not said all that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> -he honourably could say? Emily, not he, had -insisted upon secrecy.</p> - -<p>As for Stilson, his brain seemed to be submerged -in a plunge of boiling blood. Circumstances of -Marlowe’s and Emily’s relations rose swiftly one -upon another, all linking into proof. “How can I -have been so blind?” he thought.</p> - -<p>The Marlowes did not linger after supper. Marguerite -went to bed and Stilson shut himself in his -own suite. He unlocked and opened a drawer in -the table in his study. He drew from under -several bundles of papers the sketch of Emily -which the <i>Democrat</i> had reproduced with her despatch -from the Furnaceville strike. He looked contempt -and hate at the dreamy, strong yet sweet, young -face. “So you are Marlowe’s cast-off?” he said -with a sneer. “And I was absurd enough—to -believe in you—in any one.”</p> - -<p>He flung the picture into the fire. Then he sat in -the big chair, his form gradually collapsing and his -face taking on that expression of misery which -seemed natural to its deep lines and strong features.</p> - -<p>“And when Mary grows up,” he said aloud, -“no doubt she too—” But he did not clearly finish -the thought. He shrank ashamed from the stain -with which he in his unreasoning anguish had -smirched that white innocence.</p> - -<p>After a while he reached into the fireplace and -took from the dead coals in the corner the cinder of -the picture. Very carefully he drew it out and -dropped it into an envelope. That he sealed and -put away in the drawer.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXX.<br /> - - -<small>TWO AND A TRIUMPH.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">BUT Stilson’s image of her was no longer -clear and fine; and in certain lights, or, -rather, shadows, it seemed to have a -sinister unloveliness. He assured himself -that he felt toward her as before. -But—he respected her with a reservation; he loved -her with a doubt; he believed in her—did he -believe in her at all? He was continually regilding -his idol, which persistently refused to retain the -gilt.</p> - -<p>After many days and many nights of storms he -went to the Park one morning, and for two hours,—or, -until there was no chance of her coming—he -walked up and down near the Seventy-second street -entrance. He returned the second morning and -the third. As he was pacing mechanically, like a -sentry, he saw her—her erect, graceful figure, her -red-brown hair that grew so beautifully about her -brow and her ears; then her face, small and delicate, -the skin very smooth and pale—circles under -her violet eyes. At sight of him there came a -sudden gleam from those eyes, like, an electric -spark, and then a look of intense anxiety.</p> - -<p>“You are ill?” she said, “Or there is some -trouble?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>“I’ve been very restless of late—sleeping badly,” -he replied, evasively. “And you?”</p> - -<p>They had turned into a side path to a bench -where they would not be disturbed. They looked -each at the other, only to look away instantly. -“Oh, I’ve worked too hard and—I fancy I’ve been -too much alone.” Emily spoke carelessly, as of -something in the past that no longer matters.</p> - -<p>“Alone,” he repeated. “Alone.” When his -eyes met hers, neither could turn away. And on a -sudden impulse he caught her in his arms. “My -dear, my dear love,” he exclaimed. And he held -her close against him and pressed her cheek against -his.</p> - -<p>“I thought you would never come,” she murmured. -“How I have reproached you!”</p> - -<p>He only held her the closer for answer. And -there was a long pause before he said: “I can’t -let you go. I can’t. Oh, Emily, my Emily—yes, -mine, mine—I’ve loved you so long—you know it, -do you not? You’ve been the light of the world to -me—the first light I’ve seen since I was old enough -to know light from darkness. And when you go, -the light goes. And in the dark the doubts come.”</p> - -<p>“Doubts?” she said, drawing away far enough -to look at him. “But how can you doubt? You -must <i>know</i>.”</p> - -<p>“And I <i>do</i> know when I see you. But when I’m -in the dark and breathing the poison of my own -mind—Forgive me. Don’t ask me to explain, but -forgive me. Even if I had the right to be here, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span> -right to say what I’ve been saying, still I’d be unfit. -How you would condemn me, if you knew.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t wish to know, dear, if you’d rather not -tell me,” she said gently. “And you have a right -to be here. And no matter what you have been or -are, I’d not condemn you.” Her voice sank very -low. “I’d still love you.”</p> - -<p>“You’d have had to live my life to know what -those last words mean to me,” he said, “how happy -they make me.”</p> - -<p>“But I know better than you think,” she answered. -“For my life has not been sheltered, as -are the lives of most women. It has had temptations -and defeats.”</p> - -<p>He turned his eyes quickly away, but not so -quickly that she failed to catch the look of fear in -them. “What are you thinking?” she asked -earnestly. “Dear, if there are doubts, may they -not come again? I saw in your eyes just then—what -was it?”</p> - -<p>“Do not ask me. I must fight that alone and -conquer it.”</p> - -<p>“No—you must tell me,” she said, resolutely. -“I feel that I have a right to know.”</p> - -<p>“It was nothing—a lie that I heard. I’d not -shame myself and insult you by repeating it.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her appealingly, saw that she was -trembling. “You know that I did not believe it?” -he said, catching her hand. But she drew away.</p> - -<p>“Was it about me and—Marlowe?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“But I knew that it was false,” he protested.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>She looked at him unflinchingly. “It was true,” -she said. “We were—everything—each to the -other.”</p> - -<p>He sat in a stupor. At last he muttered: “Why -didn’t you deceive me? Doubt was better than—than -this.”</p> - -<p>“But why should I? I don’t regret what I did. -It has helped to make me what I am.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t—don’t,” he implored. “I admit that -that is true. But—you are making me suffer—horribly. -You forget that I love you.”</p> - -<p>“Love!” There was a strange sparkle in her eyes -and she raised her head haughtily. “Is <i>that</i> what -you call <i>love</i>?” And she decided that she would -wait before telling him that she had been Marlowe’s -wife.</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered, “it is not what I call love. -But it is a part of love—the lesser part, no doubt, -but still a part. I love you in all the ways a man -can love a woman. And I love you because you -are a complete woman, capable of inspiring love in -every way in which a woman appeals to a man. -And it hurts me—this that you’ve told me.”</p> - -<p>“But you, your life, what you’ve been through—I -honour you for it, love you the more for it. It has -made me know how strong you are. I love you -best for the battles you’ve lost.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said. “I know that those who have -lived and learned and profited are higher and -stronger than the innocent, the ignorant. But I -wish—” He hesitated, then went on doggedly, “I’d<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span> -be lying to you if I did not say that I wish I did -not know this.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’d rather I had deceived you—evaded -or told a falsehood.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said with emphasis, and he looked at -her steadily and proudly. “I can’t imagine you -telling me a falsehood or making any pretense whatever. -At least I can honestly say that after the -first purely physical impulse of anger, I didn’t for -an instant suspect you of any baseness. And whenever -an ugly thought about you has shown itself in -my mind, it has been—choked to death before it -had a chance to speak.”</p> - -<p>“I know that,” she said, “I know it, dear.” And -she put her hand on his.</p> - -<p>“And—I wouldn’t have you different from what -you are. You are a certain kind of human being—<i>my</i> -kind—the kind I admire through and through—yes, -through and through. And—you are the only -one of the kind in all this world, so far as I have -seen. I don’t care by what processes you became -what you are. You say you love me for the battles -I’ve lost. Honestly, would you like to hear, even -like to have me tell you, in detail, all that I’ve been -through? Aren’t you better satisfied just to know -the results?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she admitted, and she remembered how -she had hated Marguerite Feronia that day at the -Astor House, how she never saw a lithograph of -her staring from a dead wall or a bill board or a -shop window that she did not have a pang.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span>“Then how can you blame me?” he urged.</p> - -<p>“I—I guess—I don’t,” she said with a little -smile.</p> - -<p>“But I blame myself,” he went on. “I—yes, I, -the immaculate, arraigned you at the bar for trial -and——”</p> - -<p>“Found me guilty and recommended me to the -mercy of the court?”</p> - -<p>“No—not quite so bad as that,” he replied. -“But don’t think I’m not conscious of the colossal -impudence of the performance—one human being -sitting in judgment on another!”</p> - -<p>“It’s done every minute,” she said cheerfully. -“And we make good judges of each other. All we -have to do is to look inside ourselves, and we -don’t need to listen to the evidence before saying -‘Guilty.’ But what was the verdict at my -trial?”</p> - -<p>“It hadn’t gone very far before we changed -places—you became the accuser and I went into the -prisoner’s pen. And I could only plead guilty to -the basest form of that base passion, jealousy. I -couldn’t deny that you were noble and good, that -it was unthinkable that you could be guilty of anything -low. I was compelled to admit that if you -had been—married—”</p> - -<p>“Was any evidence admitted on that point?” -she asked with a sly smile at the corners of her -mouth.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, then gave her a quick, eager -glance. At sight of the quizzical expression in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span> -her eyes, he blushed furiously but did not look -away.</p> - -<p>“You know,” he said, and he put his arm about -her shoulders, “that I love you in the way you -wish to be loved. I don’t deny that I’m not very -consistent. My theory is sound, but—I’m only a -human man, and I’d rather my theory were not put -to the test in your case.”</p> - -<p>“But it has been put to the test,” she replied, -“and it has stood the test.” And then she told -him the whole story.</p> - -<p>He called her brave. “No one but you, only -you, would have had the courage to end it when -you did—away off there, alone.”</p> - -<p>“I thought it was brave myself at the time,” she -said. “Then afterwards I noticed that it would -have taken more courage to keep on. Any woman -would have freed herself if she had been independent -as I was, and with no conventionalities to violate.”</p> - -<p>Stilson said thoughtfully after a pause: “It did -not enter my head that you had been married. -And even now, the fact only makes the whole -thing more vague and unreal.”</p> - -<p>“It took two minutes to be married,” replied -Emily, “and less to be divorced—my lawyer wrote -proudly that it was a record-breaking case for that -court, though I believe they’ve done better elsewhere -in Dakota.”</p> - -<p>“What a mockery!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think so. The marriage isn’t made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span> -by the contract and the divorce isn’t made by the -court. The mere formalities that recognise the -facts may be necessary, but they can’t be too -brief.”</p> - -<p>“But it sets a bad example, encourages people to -take flippant views of serious matters.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Emily doubtingly, “do the -divorced people set so bad an example as those who -live together hating each the other, degrading themselves, -and teaching their children to quarrel. And -haven’t flippant people always been flippant, and -won’t they always continue to be?”</p> - -<p>“It may be so, but men and women ought to -know what they are about before they—” Stilson -paused and suddenly remembered. “I shan’t finish -that sentence,” he said, with a short laugh. “I -don’t know what you know about me, and I don’t -want to. I can’t talk of my affairs where they concern -other people. But I feel that I must——”</p> - -<p>“You need not, dear,” said Emily. “I think I -understand how you are situated. And—I—I—Well, -if the time ever comes when things are different, -then—” She dropped her serious tone—“Meanwhile, -I’m ‘by the grace of God, free and -independent’ and——”</p> - -<p>“I love you,” he said, the hot tears standing in -his eyes as he kissed her hand. “Ever since the -day you came back from the mines, I’ve known that -I loved you. And ever since then, it’s been you, -always you. The first thought in the morning, the -last thought at night, and all day long whenever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span> -I looked up—you, shining up there where I never -hope to reach you. Not shining <i>for</i> me, but, thank -God, shining <i>on</i> me, my Emily.”</p> - -<p>“And now—I’ve come down.” She was laughing -at him in a loving way. “I’m no longer your star -but—only a woman.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Only</i> a woman!” He drew a long breath and -his look made her blood leap and filled her with a -sudden longing both to laugh and to cry.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXXI.<br /> - - -<small>WHERE PAIN IS PLEASURE.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THAT fall and winter Emily and Stilson -met often in the walk winding through -the Park from Seventy-second street to -the Plaza. Usually it was on Wednesday -morning—his “lazy day”; always -it was “by accident.” Each time they separated -they knew they were soon to meet again. But the -chance character of their meetings—once in a while -they did miss each the other—maintained a moral -fiction which seemed to them none the less vital to -real morals because it was absurd.</p> - -<p>What with their work and meetings to look forward -to and meetings to look back upon, time did -not linger with them. Often they were happy. -Rarely were they miserable, and then, instead of -yielding to despair and luxuriating in grief and woe, -they fought valiantly to recover the tranquillity -which would enable them to enjoy what they might -have and to be mutually helpful. They were not -sentimental egotists. They would have got little -sympathy from those who weep in theatres and -blister the pages of tragic fiction. Neither tried to -pose before the other or felt called upon to tickle -his own and the other’s vanity with mournful looks<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span> -and outbursts. They loved not themselves, but -each the other.</p> - -<p>They suffered much in a simple, human way—not -the worked-up anguish of the “strong situation,” -but just such lonely heartaches as visit most lives -and make faces sober and smiles infrequent and -laughter reluctant, as early youth is left behind. -And they carefully hid their suffering each from the -other with the natural considerateness of unselfish -love.</p> - -<p>Once several weeks passed in which she did not -“happen” to meet him. She grew rapidly melancholy -and resentful of the narrowness of the sources -and limits of her happiness. “He is probably ill—very -ill,” she thought, “And how outside of his -life I am! I could not go to him, no matter what -was happening.” She called up the <i>Democrat</i> office -on the telephone at an hour when he was never -there. The boy who answered said he was out. -“When will he be in?” “I cannot tell you. He -has been away for several days.” “Is he ill?” she -ventured. No, he was not ill—just away on business.</p> - -<p>She read in the <i>Evening Post</i> the next night that -Marguerite Feronia was still confined to the house, -suffering with nervous prostration. “She has been -ill frequently during the past year,” said the <i>Post</i> -“and it is reported that it will be long before she -returns to the stage, if ever.” Emily at once understood -and reproached herself for her selfishness. -What must Stilson be enduring, shut in with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span> -cause and centre of his wretchedness—that unfortunate -woman through whom he was expiating, not -his crimes but his follies. “How wicked life is,” -she thought bitterly. “How intelligent its malice -seems. To punish folly more severely than crime, -and ignorance more savagely than either—it is -infamous!” And as she brooded over his wrecked -life and her aloneness, her courage failed her. “It -isn’t worth while to go on,” she said. “And I ask -so little—such a very little!”</p> - -<p>When she met him in the Park again, his face -was as despondent as hers. They went to a bench -in one of the by-paths. It was spring, and the scene -was full of the joyous beginnings of grass and leaves -and flowers and nests.</p> - -<p>“Once there was a coward,” he began at last. -“A selfish coward he was. He had tumbled down -his life into ruins and was sitting among them. -And another human being came that way. She -was brave and strong and had a true woman’s true -soul—generosity, sympathy, a beautiful uncondescending -compassion. And this coward seized her -and tried to chain her among his ruins. He gave -nothing—he had nothing to give. He took everything—youth, -beauty, a splendid capacity for love -and happiness.” He paused. “Oh, it was base!” -he burst out. “But in the end he realised and—he -has come to his senses.”</p> - -<p>“But she would not go,” said Emily softly.</p> - -<p>“He drove her away,” he persisted. “He saw to -it that she went back to life and hope. And when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span> -she saw that he would have her go, she did not try -to prevent him from being true to his better self. -She went for his sake.”</p> - -<p>“But listen to <i>me</i>,” she said. “Once there was a -woman, young in years, but compelled to learn a -great deal very quickly. And fate gave her four -principal teachers. The first taught her to value -freedom and self-respect—taught it by almost costing -her both. The second taught her that love is -more than being in love with love—and that lesson -almost cost her her happiness for life. The third -teacher taught her that love is more than a blind, -reckless passion. And then, just when she could -understand it, perhaps just in time to prevent the -third lesson from costing her her all—then came,” -she gave him a swift, vivid glance “her fourth -teacher. He taught her love, what it really is—that -it is the heart of a life. The heart of her -life.”</p> - -<p>He was not looking at her, but his eyes were -shining.</p> - -<p>“Then,” she went on, “one day this man—unselfishly -but, oh, so blindly—told the woman that -because fate was niggard, he would no longer accept -what he might have, would no longer let her have -what meant life to her. He said: ‘Go—out into -the dark. Be alone again.’”</p> - -<p>She paused and turned toward him. “He -thought he was just and kind,” she said. “And he -<i>was</i> brave; but not just or kind. He was blind and—cruel; -yes, very cruel.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span>“It can’t be true,” he said. “No—it is impulse—pity—a -sacrifice.”</p> - -<p>She saw that his words were addressed to himself -in reproach for listening to her. “It was unworthy -of him,” she went on, “unworthy of his love for her. -How could he imagine that only he knew what -love is—the happiness of its pain, almost happier -than the happiness of its joy? Why should I have -sought freedom, independence, if not in order that -I may use my life as I please, use it to win—and -keep—the best?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what to think,” he said uncertainly. -“You’ve made it impossible for me to -do as I intended—at present.”</p> - -<p>Emily’s spirits rose—in those days the present -was her whole horizon. “Don’t be selfish,” she -said in a tone of raillery. “Think of me, once in -a while. And <i>please</i> try to think of me as capable -of knowing my own mind. I don’t need to be told -what I want.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said with mock humility. -“I shall never be so impertinent again.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXXII.<br /> - - -<small>THE HIGHWAY OF HAPPINESS.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">EMILY often rebelled. Her common sense -was always catching her at demanding, -with the irrational arrogance of human -vanity, that the course of the universe -be altered and adjusted to her personal -desires. But these moods came only after she and -Stilson had not been together for a longer time -than usual. When she saw him again, saw the -look in his eyes—love great enough to deny itself -the delight of expression and enjoyment—she forgot -her complaints in the happiness of loving such a man, -of being loved by him. “It might be so much worse, -unbearably worse,” she thought. “I might lose -what I have. And then how vast it would seem.”</p> - -<p>Stilson always felt the inrush of a dreary tide -when they separated. One day the tide seemed to -be sweeping away his courage. Unhappiness behind -him in the home that was no longer made -endurable by Mary’s presence, now that her -mother’s condition compelled him to keep her at -the convent; contention, the necessity of saying -and doing disagreeable things, ahead of him at the -office—“I have always been a fool,” he thought, -“a sentimental fool. No wonder life lays on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span> -lash.” But he gathered a bundle of newspapers -from the stand at Fifty-ninth Street and Madison -Avenue and, seating himself in the corner of the -car, strapped on his mental harness and began to -tug and strain at his daily task—“like a dumb ox,” -he muttered.</p> - -<p>He was outwardly in his worst mood—the very -errand boy knew that it was not a good day to ask -favours. A man to whom he had loaned money -came in to pay it and, leaving, said: “God will -bless you.” Stilson sat staring at a newspaper. -“God will bless me,” he repeated bitterly. “I -shall have some new misfortune before the day is -over.”</p> - -<p>And late that afternoon a boy brought him a note—he -recognised the handwriting of the address as -Marguerite’s. “The misfortune,” he thought, tearing -it open. He read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>This won’t be delivered to you until I’m out at sea. I’m going -abroad. You’ll not see me again. I’m only in the way—a -burden to you and a disgrace to Mary. You’ll find out soon -enough how I’ve gone, without my telling you. Perhaps I’m -crazy—I never did have much self-control. But I’m gone, -and gone for good, and you’re left free with your beloved -Mary.</p> - -<p>I know you hate me and I can’t stand feeling it any longer. -I couldn’t be any more miserable, no, nor you either. And we -may both be happier. I never loved anybody but you—I suppose -I still love you, but I must get away where I won’t feel that -I’m always being condemned.</p> - -<p>Don’t think I’m blaming you—I’m not so crazy as that.</p> - -<p>Try to think of me as gently as—no, don’t think of me—forget<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span> -me—teach Mary to forget me. I’m crying, Robert, as I -write this. But then I’ve done a lot of that since I realised -that not even for your sake could I shake off the curse my father -put on me before I was born.</p> - -<p>Good-bye, Robert. Good-bye, Mary. I put the ring—the one -you gave me when we were married—in the little box in the -top drawer of your chiffonière where you keep your scarf-pins. -I hope I shan’t live long. If I had been brave, I’d have killed -myself long ago.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">Good-bye,</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Marguerite</span>.</p> -</div> - -<p>One sentence in her letter blazed before his mind—“You’ll -find out soon enough how I’ve gone, -without my telling you.” What did she mean? In -her half-crazed condition had she done something -that would be notorious, would be remembered -against Mary? He pressed the electric button. -“Ask Mr. Vandewater to come here at once, -please,” he said to the boy. Vandewater, the dramatic -news reporter, hurried in. “I’m about to ask -a favour of you, Vandewater,” he said to him, “and -I hope you’ll not speak of it. Do you know any one -at the Gold and Glory—well, I mean?”</p> - -<p>“Mayer, the press agent, and I are pretty close.”</p> - -<p>“Will you call him up and ask him—tell him it’s -personal and private—what he knows about Miss -Feronia’s movements lately. Use this telephone -here.”</p> - -<p>At “Miss Feronia,” Vandewater looked conscious -and nervous. Like all the newspaper men, he knew -of the “romance” in Stilson’s life, and, like many -of the younger men, he admired and envied him because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span> -of the fascinating mystery of his relations -with the famous dancer.</p> - -<p>The Gold and Glory was soon connected with -Stilson’s branch-telephone and he was impatiently -listening to Vandewater’s part of the conversation. -Mayer seemed to be saying a great deal, and Vandewater’s -questions indicated that it was an account -of some unusual happening. After ten long minutes, -Vandewater hung up the receiver and turned -to Stilson.</p> - -<p>“I—I—it is hard to tell you, Mr. Stilson,” he -began with mock hesitation.</p> - -<p>“No nonsense, please.” Stilson shook his head -with angry impatience. “I must know every fact—<i>every</i> -fact—and quickly.”</p> - -<p>“Mayer says she sailed on the <i>Fürst Bismarck</i> -to-day—that she’s—she’s taken a man named Courtleigh, -an Englishman—a young fellow in the chorus. -Mayer says she sent a note to the manager, explaining -that she was going abroad for good, and that -Courtleigh came smirking in and told the other -part. He says Courtleigh is a cheap scoundrel, and -that her note read as if she were not quite right in -her head.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—and what’s Mayer doing? Is he telling -everybody? Is he going to use it as an advertisement -for the house?”</p> - -<p>Vandewater hesitated, then said: “He’s not giving -it to the afternoon papers. He’s writing it up -to send out to-night to the morning papers.”</p> - -<p>“Um!” Stilson looked grim, savage. “Go up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span> -there, please, and do your best to have it suppressed.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.” Vandewater was swelling with mystery -and importance. “You may rely on me, Mr. Stilson. -And I shall respect your confidence.”</p> - -<p>“I assume that you are a gentleman,” Stilson -said sarcastically. He had taken Vandewater into -his confidence because he had no choice, and he had -little hope of his being able to hold his tongue. -“Thank you. Good day.”</p> - -<p>As soon as he was alone he seated himself at the -telephone and began calling up his friends or acquaintances -in places of authority on the newspapers, -morning and evening. Of each he made the -same request—“If a story comes in about Marguerite -Feronia, will you see that it’s put as mildly -as possible, if you must print it?” And from each -he got an assurance that the story would be “taken -care of.” When he rose wearily after an hour of -telephoning, he had done all that could be done to -close the “avenues of publicity.” He locked the -door of his office and flung himself down at his desk, -and buried his face in his arms.</p> - -<p>In a series of mournful pictures the progress of -Marguerite to destruction flashed across his mind, -one tragedy fading into the next. Youth, beauty, -joyousness, sweetness, sensibility, fading, fading, -fading until at last he saw the wretched, broken, -half-insane woman fling herself headlong from the -precipice, with a last despairing glance backward at -all that her curse had stripped from her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span>And the tears tore themselves from his eyes. -The evil in her was blotted out. He could see only -the Marguerite who had loved him, had saved him, -who was even now flying because to her diseased -mind it seemed best for her to go. “Poor girl!” -he groaned. “Poor child that you are!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Emily, on her way downtown the next morning -in an “L” train, happened to glance at the newspaper -which the man in the next seat was reading. -It was the <i>Herald</i>, and she saw a two-column picture -of Marguerite. She read the bold headlines: -“Marguerite Feronia, ill. The Gold and Glory’s -great dancer goes abroad, never to return to the -stage or the country.”</p> - -<p>She left the train at the next station, bought a -<i>Herald</i> and read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Among the passengers on the Fürst Bismarck yesterday was -Marguerite Feronia, who for more years than it would be kind -to enumerate has fascinated the gilded youth that throng the -Gold and Glory nightly. Miss Feronia has been in failing -health for more than a year. Again and again she has been -compelled to disappoint her audiences. At last she realised -that she was making a hopeless fight against illness and suddenly -made up her mind to give up. She told no one of her -plans until the last moment. In a letter from the steamship to -the manager of the Gold and Glory she declared that she would -never return and that she did not expect to live long.</p> -</div> - -<p>The account was brief out of all proportion to -the headlines, and to the local importance of the -subject. Emily went at once to the newspaper -files when she reached her office. In no other paper<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span> -was there so much as in the <i>Herald</i>. She -could find no clue to the mystery.</p> - -<p>“At least he is free,” she thought. “And that -is the important point. At least he is free—<i>we</i> are -free.”</p> - -<p>Although she repeated this again and again and -tried to rouse herself to a sense of the joy it should -convey, she continued in a state of groping depression.</p> - -<p>Toward three o’clock came a telegram from Stilson—“Shall -you be at home this evening? Most -anxious to see you. Please answer, <i>Democrat</i> -office.” She telegraphed for him to come, and her -spirits began to rise. At last the dawn! At last -the day! And her eyes were sparkling and she -was so gay that her associates noted it, and “the -old lady” confided to Mr. Burnham that she “had -been wondering how much longer such a sweet, -beautiful girl would have to wait before some man -would have the sense to propose to her.” Nor was -she less gay at heart when Stilson was shown into -her little drawing-room, although she kept it out of -her face—Marguerite’s departure might have been -sad.</p> - -<p>“I saw it in the <i>Herald</i>,” she began.</p> - -<p>“Then I needn’t tell you.” He seemed old and -worn and gray—nearer fifty than thirty-five. “I’ve -come to say good-bye.”</p> - -<p>Emily looked at him, stupefied. They sat in silence -a long time. At last he spoke: “I may be -gone—who can say how long? Perhaps it will be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span> -best to keep her over there. I don’t know—I don’t -know,” he ended drearily.</p> - -<p>Again there was a long silence. She broke it: -“You—are—going—to—to join her?” She could -hardly force the words from her lips.</p> - -<p>He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. -What else can I do?”</p> - -<p>Emily sank back in her chair and covered her -face.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” he asked. “What did you—why, -you didn’t think I would desert her?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—I—” She put her face down into the -bend of her arm. “I didn’t—think—you’d desert -<i>me</i>,” she murmured. “I—I didn’t understand.” -She faced him with a swift movement. “How can -you go?” she exclaimed. “When fate clears the -way for you—when this woman who had been hanging -like a great weight about your neck suddenly -cuts herself loose—then—Oh, how can you? Am -I nothing in your life? Is my happiness nothing -to you? Have you been deceiving yourself about -her and—and me?” She turned away again. “I -don’t know what I’m saying,” she said brokenly. -“I don’t mean to reproach you—only—I had—I had -hoped—That’s all.”</p> - -<p>The French clock on the mantel raised its swift -little voice until the room seemed to be resounding -with a clamorous reminder of flying time and -flying youth and dying hope. When he spoke, his -voice came as if from a great distance and out of a -great silence and calm.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span>“It has been eleven years,” he said, “since in -folly and ignorance I threw myself into the depths—how -deep you will never know, you can never imagine. -And as I lay there, a thing so vile that all -who knew me shrank from me with loathing—<i>she</i> -came. And she not only came, but she staid. She -did her best to lift me. She staid until I drove her -away with curses and—and blows. But she came -again—and again. And at last she brought the—the -little girl——”</p> - -<p>He paused to steady his voice. “And I took -the hand of the child and she held its other hand, -and together we found the way back—for me. And -now—she has gone out among strangers—enemies—gone -with her mind all awry. She will be -robbed, abused, abandoned, she will suffer cold and -hunger, and she will die miserably—if I don’t go -to her.”</p> - -<p>He went over and stood beside her. “Look at -me!” he commanded, and she obeyed. “Low as -the depth was from which she brought me up, it -would be high as heaven in comparison with the -depth I’d lie in, if I did not go. And I say to you -that if you gave me the choice, told me you would -cut me off from you forever if I went—I say to -you that still I would go!”</p> - -<p>As she faced him, her breath came fast and her -eyes seemed to widen until all of her except them -was blotted out for him. “I understand,” she -said. “Yes—you would go—nothing could hold -you. And—that’s why I—love you.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span>He gave a long sigh of relief and joy. “I had -thought you would say that, when I knew what I -must do. And then—when you protested—I was -afraid. Everything crumbles in my hands. Even -my dreams die aborning.”</p> - -<p>“When do you sail?” she asked. “To-morrow?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I’ve arranged my affairs. I—I look to -you to take care of Mary. There is no one else to -do it.”</p> - -<p>“If there were, no one else should do it,” she -said, with a gentle smile.</p> - -<p>He gave her a slip of paper on which were the -necessary memoranda. “And now—I must be off.” -He tried to make his tone calm and business-like. -He put out his hand and, when she gave him hers, -he held it. For an instant each saw into the depths -of the other’s heart.</p> - -<p>“No matter how long you may be away,” she -said in a low voice, “remember, I shall be—” She -did not finish in words.</p> - -<p>He tried to speak, but could not. He turned and -was almost at the door before he stopped and came -back to her. He took her in his arms, and she -could feel his heart beating as if it were trying to -burst through his chest. “No matter how long,” -she murmured. “And I shall not be impatient, -my love.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>She expected a reaction but none came. Instead, -she continued to feel a puzzling tranquillity. She -had never loved him so intensely, yet she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span> -braving serenely this separation full of uncertainties. -She tried to explain it to herself, and finally there -came to her a phrase which she had often heard -years ago at church—“the peace that passeth all -understanding.”</p> - -<p>“This must be what they meant by it,” she said -to herself. “Our love is my religion.”</p> - -<p>The next time she was at Joan’s they were not -together long before Joan saw that there had been -a marvellous change in her. “What is it?” she -asked. “Has the tangle straightened?”</p> - -<p>“No,” replied Emily. “It is worse, if anything. -But I have made a new discovery, I have found -the secret of happiness.”</p> - -<p>“Love?”</p> - -<p>Emily shook her head. “That’s only part of it.”</p> - -<p>“Self-sacrifice?”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t call it sacrifice.” Emily’s face was -more beautiful than Joan had ever before seen it. -“I think the true name is—self forgotten for love’s -sake.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” assented Joan, looking with expanding -eyes at the baby-boy playing on the floor at her -feet.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXXIII.<br /> - - -<small>LIGHT.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">AFTER a long and baffling search up and -down through western Europe he -learned that Courtleigh had robbed -her and deserted her, and that she -was alone, under the name of Mrs. -Brandon, at a tiny house in Craven street near the -Strand. He lifted and dropped its knocker, and a -maid-of-all-work thrust through a crack in the door, -her huge be-frowzled head with its thin hair drawn -out at the back over a big wire-frame.</p> - -<p>“How is Mrs. Brandon?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Not so well, thank you, sir,” replied the maid, -looking at him as suspiciously as her respect for the -upper classes permitted.</p> - -<p>“I wish to see the landlady.”</p> - -<p>She instantly appeared, thrusting the maid aside -and releasing a rush of musty air as she opened the -door wide. She was fairly trembling with curiosity.</p> - -<p>“I am Mrs. Brandon’s—next friend,” he said, -remembering and using the phrase which in his -reporter days he had often seen on the hospital -entry-cards. “I am the guardian of her child. I’ve -come to see what can be done for her.”</p> - -<p>His determined, commanding tone and manner,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span> -and his appearance of prosperity, convinced Mrs. -Clocker. “We’ve done all we could, sir. But the -poor lady is in great straits, sir. She’s been most -unfortunate.”</p> - -<p>“Is there a physician?”</p> - -<p>“Doctor Wackle, just up the way, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Send for him at once. May I see her?”</p> - -<p>The maid set off up the street and Stilson -climbed a dingy first flight, a dingier second flight, -and came to a low door which sagged far from its -frame at the top. He entered softly—“She’s -asleep, sir,” whispered Mrs. Clocker.</p> - -<p>It was a miserable room where the last serious attempts -to fight decay had been made perhaps half -a century before. It now presented queer contrasts—ragged -and tottering furniture strewn with -handsome garments; silk and lace and chiffon -and embroidery, the latest Paris devisings, crumpled -and tossed about upon patch and stain and -ruin; several extravagant hats and many handsome -toilet-articles of silver and gold and cut glass -spread in a fantastic jumble upon the dirty coverings -of a dressing-table and a stand. Against the -pillow—its case was neither new nor clean—lay the -head of Marguerite. Her face was ugly with wrinkles -and hollows, that displayed in every light and -shade a skin shiny with sweat, and bluish yellow. -Her hair was a matted mass from which had rusted -the chemicals put on to hide the streaks of gray. -She was in a stupor and was breathing quickly -and heavily.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span>He had come, filled with pity and even eager to -see her. He was ashamed of the repulsion which -swept through him. Her face recalled all that was -horrible in the past, foreboded new and greater -horrors. He turned away and left the room. His -millstone was once more suspended from his neck.</p> - -<p>Dr. Wackle had come—a shabby, young-old man -with thin black whiskers and damp, weak lips. In -a manner that was a cringing apology for his own -existence, he explained that Marguerite had pneumonia—that -she was dangerously ill. He had -given her up, but the prospect of payment galvanised -hope. “There is a chance, sir,” he said. -“And with——”</p> - -<p>“What is the name and address of the best specialist -in lung diseases?” he interrupted.</p> - -<p>“There’s Doctor Farquhar in Half Moon Street, -sir. He ’as been called by the royal family, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Take a cab and bring him at once.”</p> - -<p>While Wackle was away, Stilson arranged Marguerite’s -account with the landlady and had some -of his belongings brought from the Carlton and put -into the vacant suite just under Marguerite’s. -After two hours Dr. Farquhar came; at his heels -Wackle, humble but triumphant. Stilson saw at -one sharp glance that here was a man who knew his -trade—and regarded it as a trade.</p> - -<p>“What is your consultation fee?”</p> - -<p>Dr. Farquhar’s suspicious face relaxed. “Five -guineas,” he said, looking the picture of an English -middle-class trader.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span>Stilson gave him the money. He carefully placed -the five-pound note in his pocket-book and the five -shillings in his change-purse. “Let me see the -patient,” he said, resuming the manner of the small -soul striving to play the part of “great man.” Stilson -led the way to the sagged, hand-grimed door. -Farquhar opened it and entered. “This foul air is -enough to cause death by itself,” he said with a -sneering glance at Wackle. “No—let the window -alone!”—this to Wackle in the tone a brutal master -would use to his dog.</p> - -<p>Wackle stood as if petrified and Farquhar went -to the head of the bed. Marguerite opened her -eyes and closed them without seeing anything. He -laid his hand upon her forehead, then flung away -the covers and listened at her chest. “Umph!” he -grunted and with powerful hands lifted her by the -shoulders. Grasping her still more firmly he shook -her roughly. Again he listened at her chest. -“Umph!” he growled. He looked into her face -which was now livid, then shook her savagely and -listened again. He let her drop back against the -pillows and tossed the covers over her. He took -up his hat which lay upon a silk-and-lace dressing -gown spread across the foot of the bed. He stalked -from the room.</p> - -<p>“Well?” said Stilson, when they were in the hall.</p> - -<p>The great specialist shrugged his shoulders. -“She may last ten hours—but I doubt it. I can do -nothing. Good day, sir.” And he jerked his head -and went away.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span>Stilson stood in the little hall—Wackle, the landlady -and the maid-of-all-work a respectful group a -few feet away. His glance wandered helplessly -round, and there was something in his expression -that made Wackle feel for his handkerchief and -Mrs. Clocker and the maid burst into tears. Stilson -went stolidly back to Marguerite’s room. He -paused at the door, turned and descended. “Can -you stay?” he said to Wackle. “I will pay you.”</p> - -<p>“Gladly, sir. I’ll wait here with Mrs. Clocker.”</p> - -<p>Stilson reascended, entered the room and again -stood beside Marguerite. With gentle hands he arranged -her pillow and the covers. Then he seated -himself. An hour—two hours passed—he was not -thinking or feeling; he was simply waiting. A stir -in the bed roused him. “Who is there?” came in -Marguerite’s voice, faintly. “Is it some one? or -am I left all alone?”</p> - -<p>“What can I do, Marguerite?” Stilson bent over -her.</p> - -<p>She opened her eyes, without surprise, almost -without interest. “You?” she said. “Now they -won’t dare neglect me.”</p> - -<p>Her eyelids fell wearily. Without lifting them -she went on: “How did you find me? Never -mind. Don’t tell me. I’m so tired—too tired to -listen.”</p> - -<p>“Are you in pain?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“No—the cough seems to be gone. I’m not going -to get well—am I?” She asked as if she did -not care to hear the answer.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[329]</span>He sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked -her forehead. She smiled and looked at him gratefully. -“I feel so—so safe,” she said. “It is good -to have you here. But—oh, I’m so, so tired. I -want to rest—and rest—and rest.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll sit here.” He took her hand. “You may -go to sleep. I’ll not leave you.”</p> - -<p>“I know you won’t. You always do what you -say you’ll do.” She ended sleepily and her breath -came in swift, heavy sighs with a rattling in the -throat. But she soon woke again. “I’m tired,” she -said. “Something—I guess it’s life—seems to -be oozing out of my veins. I’m so tired, but so -comfortable. I feel as if I were going to sleep and -nobody, nothing would ever, ever wake me.”</p> - -<p>He thought she was once more asleep, until she -said suddenly: “I was going to write it, but my -head whirled so—he stole everything but some notes -I had in my stocking. But I don’t care now. I -don’t forgive him—I just don’t care. What was I -saying—yes—about—about Mary. She’s yours as -well as mine, Robert—really, truly, yours. I -made you doubt—because—I don’t know—partly -because I thought you’d be better off without us—then, -afterward, I didn’t want you to care any -more for her than you did. You believe me, -Robert?”</p> - -<p>He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you.”</p> - -<p>“And you forgive me?”</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing to forgive—nothing.”</p> - -<p>“It doesn’t matter. I only want to rest and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[330]</span> -stop thinking—and—and—everything. Will it be -long?”</p> - -<p>“Not long,” he said in a choked undertone.</p> - -<p>Presently she coughed and a black fluid oozed -hideously from her lips and seemed to be threatening -to strangle her. He called the doctor who gave -her an opiate.</p> - -<p>“Come with me, sir,” said Wackle in a hoarse, -sick-room whisper, “Mrs. Clocker has spread a nice -cold lunch for you.”</p> - -<p>Stilson waved him away. Alone again, he swept -the finery from the sofa and stretched himself -there. Trivial thoughts raced through his burning -brain—the height and width of the candle flames, -the pattern of the wall paper, the tracery of cracks -in the ceiling, the number of yards of lace and of -goods in the dresses heaped on the floor. As his -thoughts flew from trifle to trifle, his head ached -fiercely and his skin felt as if it were baking and -cracking.</p> - -<p>Then came a long sigh and a rattling in the -throat from the woman in the bed. He started up. -“Marguerite!” he called. He looked down at -her. She sighed again, stretched herself at full -length, settled her head into the pillow. “Marguerite,” -he said. And he bent over her. “Are -you there?” he whispered. But he knew that she -was not.</p> - -<p>He took the candle from the night stand and -held it above his head. The dim flame made his -living face old and sorrow-seamed, while her dead<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[331]</span> -face looked smooth, almost young. Her expression -of rest, of peaceful dreams, of care forever fled, -brought back to him a far scene. He could hear -the crash of the orchestra, the stirring rhythm of a -Spanish dance; he could see the stage of the Gold -and Glory as he had first seen it—the bright background -of slender, girlish faces and forms; and in -the foreground, slenderest and most girlish of all, -Marguerite—the embodiment of the motion and -music of the dance, the epitome of the swift-pulsing -life of the senses.</p> - -<p>He knelt down beside the bed and took her dead -hand. “Good-bye, Rita,” he sobbed. “Good-bye, -good-bye!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Suddenly the day broke and the birds in the -eaves began to chirp, to twitter, to sing. He rose, -and with the sombre and clinging shadows of the -past and the present there was mingled a light—faint, -evasive, as yet itself a shadow. But it was -light—the forerunner of the dawn of a new day upon -a new land where his heart should sing as in the -days of his youth.</p> - - -<p class="center">THE END.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.</p> -</div></div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN VENTURES ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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