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diff --git a/37451-h/37451-h.htm b/37451-h/37451-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8838147 --- /dev/null +++ b/37451-h/37451-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20970 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rough-hewn, by Dorothy Canfield. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +h1 { + margin-bottom: 2em; +} + +small { + font-size: 60%; +} + +big { + font-size: 140%; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +p.title { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; + font-weight: bold; + font-variant: small-caps; + line-height: 1.4; + margin-bottom: 2.5em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: 75%; text-indent: 0em; + border-top: solid gray 1px; border-bottom: solid gray 1px; + background-color: inherit; font-weight: normal; + font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; + text-decoration: none; +} /* page numbers */ + + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.left {text-align: left;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + + + +.tdl { + text-align: left +} + +.tdr { + text-align: right; + padding-right: 2em; +} + +.notes { + background-color: #eeeeee; + color: #000; + padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 2em; + padding-left: 2em; padding-right: 1em; + margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i6 { + display: block; + margin-left: 5em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + + + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rough-Hewn, by Dorothy Canfield + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: Rough-Hewn + +Author: Dorothy Canfield + +Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37451] +[Last updated: August 22, 2012] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUGH-HEWN *** + + + + +Produced by Cathy Maxam, Suzanne Shell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div> +<div class="figcenter"/> +<img src="images/cover01.jpg" alt="cover01"/> +</div> + + +<h1>ROUGH-HEWN</h1> + + +<p><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i></p> + +<p> +THE SQUIRREL-CAGE<br /> +A MONTESSORI MOTHER<br /> +MOTHERS AND CHILDREN<br /> +THE BENT TWIG<br /> +THE REAL MOTIVE<br /> +FELLOW CAPTAINS<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(With <span class="smcap">Sarah N. Cleghorn</span>)</span><br /> +UNDERSTOOD BETSY<br /> +HOME FIRES IN FRANCE<br /> +THE DAY OF GLORY<br /> +THE BRIMMING CUP<br /> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h1>ROUGH-HEWN</h1> + + +<p class="title"> +BY<br /> +<big>DOROTHY CANFIELD</big> +</p> + + +<div> +<div class="figcenter"/> +<img src="images/img004.jpg" alt="img004"/> +</div> + +<p class="title"> +NEW YORK<br /> +<big>HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY</big> +</p> + + + +<p class="center"> +<small>COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY</small><br /> +<small>HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.</small> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +<small>PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.</small> +</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table + border="0" + cellpadding="4" + cellspacing="10" + width="90%" + summary=""> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> </td> +<td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#ANY_LITTLE_BOY"><span class="smcap">Any Little Boy</span></a></td> +<td class="tdr">1</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#CULTURE_IN_THE_AIR"><span class="smcap">Culture in the Air</span></a></td> +<td class="tdr">29</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#NEALE_BEGINS_TO_BE_NEALE"><span class="smcap">Neale Begins to Be Neale</span></a></td> +<td class="tdr">85</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#TO-DAY_SHALL_BE_THE_SAME_AS_YESTERDAY">"<span class="smcap">To-day Shall Be the Same as Yesterday</span>"</a></td> +<td class="tdr">129</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#AN_EDUCATION_IN_THE_HUMANITIES_AND_THE_LIBERAL_ARTS"><span class="smcap">An Education in the Humanities and the Liberal Arts</span></a></td> +<td class="tdr">209</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#BIRTHDAYS_IN_SEVERAL_LANGUAGES"><span class="smcap">Birthdays in Several Languages</span></a></td> +<td class="tdr">317</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_END_OF_ALL_ROADS"><span class="smcap">The End of All Roads</span></a></td> +<td class="tdr">379</td> +</tr> + + +</table> + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ANY_LITTLE_BOY" id="ANY_LITTLE_BOY"></a><i>ANY LITTLE BOY</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + + +<p>In the spring of 1893 Strindberg had just published "A +Fool's Confession," D'Annunzio was employing all the multicolored +glory of his style to prove "The Triumph of Death"; +Hardy was somberly mixing on his palette the twilight grays +and blacks and mourning purples of "Jude the Obscure"; Nordau, +gnashing his teeth, was bellowing "Decadent" at his contemporaries +who smirked a complacent acceptance of the epithet ... +and, all unconscious of the futility and sordidness of +the world, Neale Crittenden swaggered along Central Avenue, +brandishing his shinny stick.</p> + +<p>It was a new yellow shinny stick, broad and heavy and almost +as long as the boy who carried it. Ever since he had seen +it in the window of Schwartz's Bazar, his soul had yearned +for it. For days he had hoarded his pennies, foregoing ice-cream +sodas, shutting his ears to the seductive ding-dong +of the waffle-man's cart, and this very afternoon the immense +sum of twenty-five cents had been completed and now he +owned a genuine boughten stick, varnished and shiny. What +couldn't he do with such a club! He beat it on the sidewalk +till the flag-stones rang; he swung it around his head. What +stupendous long-distance goals he was going to make! How +he would dribble the ball through the enemy!</p> + +<p>Spring had turned the vacant lots into sticky red mud, but +Central Avenue was hard if somewhat undulating macadam. +It had stone curbs too, that bounced the ball back as if +specially designed for side-boundaries by a philanthropic +Board of Supervisors. Somewhere along it he was sure to find +a game in progress. Yes, there they were in front of Number +Two School. Neale broke into a run and coming up breathless +plunged into the scrimmage.</p> + +<p>Shinny as played on Union Hill in the nineties had none +of the refinements of its dignified cousin, field-hockey. Roughly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +divided into two sides, an indeterminate number of players +tried with their sticks to knock a hard rubber ball to opposite +ends of a block. Team work was elementary: the slowest +runner on each side lay back to "tend gool"; the rest, following +the fortunes of the ball, pelted to and fro in a seething +mêlée of scuffling feet and clashing sticks. After each goal the +ball was brought to the middle of the block, the two captains +took their stand with sticks on either side of it. "One," they +rapped their sticks on the pavement; "two," they rapped them +together; "one, two, one, two." Then pandemonium broke +out shrilly, sticks rapping against each other or against opposing +shins, yells of "shinny on your own side," a welter of little boys +battling around the ball as it shot up and down, sometimes +advancing rapidly, sometimes stationary among a vortex of +locked sticks until finally a lucky knock drove it past one +or the other side street.</p> + +<p>Once as they were walking back after a goal, Fatty Schmidt +noticed Neale's new weapon. "Oh, you gotta new shinny. +Where'd you get it? Schwartz? Huh, them kind ain't no +good; they split." Neale was silent as an Iroquois, but he +had already begun to doubt. The heavy new stick didn't +seem to be turning out what he had expected. It tripped +him up occasionally and he never got it on the ball as quickly +as he had his old home-made locust-shoot with the knob of +root at the end. But he kept his doubts to himself, let out +another notch of speed, and tried harder. It began to go +better. He stopped a dangerous rush by hooking Franz +Uhler's stick just as he was about to shoot for goal. Another +time unaided he took the ball away from Don Roberts, lost +it, but Marty Ryan retrieved it, and Neale and Marty raced +down almost on top of the opposing goal keeper. Marty +hit the ball a terrific crack. "Gool!" they cried exultingly, +then on another note, indignantly, "Hi there, drop that!" +For as the ball bounded along the street, a ragged little boy +who had sprung up from nowhere grabbed it and made off. +The pack gave chase. The little gamin had a good start but +the bigger boys ahead of Neale were gaining on him. He +turned off eastward. As Neale tore along he saw Marty and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +Franz catch up with the little kid, and then ... what was +this? Where did all those other boys come from?</p> + +<p>With a whoop of joyous exultation he recognized the familiar +ambush, the welcome invitation to battle. "Come on, +fellers!" he yelled back to his own crowd. "Hoboken micks!" +And with the rest of the Union Hill crowd charged through +a fire of stones at the invaders.</p> + +<p>Then it was that the new shinny stick vindicated itself. +Swinging it like a crusader's two-handed sword, Neale hacked +and hewed. He landed on the funny-bone of a boy struggling +with Marty for the ball. He landed on another mick's ribs. +He heaved the stick up and was going to smash a hostile head +when the enemy broke and ran. Triumphant, the Union Hill +boys chased them to the edge of the hill, and sent a volley +of stones after them as they scrambled down the steep path +among the rocks, but pursued them no further. Below was +the enemy's country. The Union Hill crowd never ventured +down the rocks to the level cinder-filled flats beside the railroad +tracks. That was Hoboken and a foreign land.</p> + +<p>It was supper time now. The victors said "So long" to each +other and dispersed. Neale, somewhat lame but elated, went up +the wooden steps of the porch. He stood his stick up in +the umbrella-stand, went to the bathroom, washed his hands, +brushed his hair, at least the top layer of it, and went quietly +down to the dining-room. There he ate his buttered toast and +creamed potatoes and drank his cocoa silently, while his father +and mother talked. He paid no attention to what they said. +He was living over again the fight of the afternoon, and +forecasting fresh conquests for the future. His mother passed +him a sauce-dish of preserved cherries and a piece of cake. +After he had eaten this, he got up silently and went back to +his room. His mother looked after him tenderly. "Neale is +a <i>good</i> boy," she said. Although he was no longer there, she +still saw his honest round face, clear eyes, fresh color. She +smiled to herself lovingly.</p> + +<p>Her husband nodded, "Yes, he's a good boy." After a +thoughtful pause, he added, "Seems an awfully <i>quiet</i> kid, +though. I mean he keeps things to himself. You haven't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +any idea whether he's having a real boy's fun or not. He +makes so little noise about it."</p> + +<p>As he passed through the hall Neale lingered a moment to +handle the shinny stick again. He looked at it carefully to +see if perhaps there was not a little blood on it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + + +<p>Union Hill had been created by two very different classes +of home-makers, a fact which was obvious from its aspect. +Its undistinguished frame buildings for the most part sheltered +families who, having to live somewhere, had settled there +where inadequate communication with the rest of the world +kept rents down. Side by side with this drab majority, but +mingling with it little, a few well-to-do business men had +built comfortable, roomy homes in an uninspired compromise +between their business connections in the city and their preference +for open-air life for their families. This narrow ridge +of trap rock continuing the Palisades southward between the +partly reclaimed back lots of Hoboken and the immense, irreclaimable +salt marshes of the Hackensack Valley, had a certain +picturesqueness, had seemed to promise freedom from +malaria (supposed at that time to result from the breathing the +"miasma" hanging low about swamp land), and certainly offered +fresher air than a flat on a New York street or a town beside +a New Jersey marsh. It was a one-sided sort of compromise +in which the families came out rather badly. Whatever +natural beauty might be inherent in the site was largely +nullified by the tawdry imaginings of small architects and +building contractors, and despite popular medical theories, the +malaria was about the same on the hill as on the flats. But +though the advance of the suburban idea was already developing +more attractive sites at no very great distance, few +families moved away. With the massive immobility characteristic +of humanity, the scattered well-to-do families of Union +Hill stuck it out, grim and disillusioned, taking the consequences +of their error of judgment rather than lose the sensation +of stability, which means home.</p> + +<p>Little Neale was quite unconscious of all this. To his ten-year-old +thoughts "the Hill" was home, and where could you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +live except at home? It never occurred to him that there might +be other or better homes—the Hill was where he lived. +He accepted it as uncritically as he accepted life, school, his +parents. Being, for that region where every one took quinine +as a matter of course, rather a healthy boy, he accepted the +initial facts of nature without criticism or much interest, working +off the surplus of his young energy in baseball, shinny +and guerilla skirmishes with the boys from other localities.</p> + +<p>His unconcern with the world around him, except for the +details of boy-life, was complete. Home was warm and +secure; he did not inquire whether other homes might be less +warm or more elegant. Food was good to eat, though meals +with adult conversation between his father and mother were +tedious and occupied far too much time that might have been +spent in play. His father was kind and remote. Neale +thought very little about his father. He went away in the +morning after breakfast and came in just before supper. He +was in the lumber business, and when he went away, it was +to the "office." Neale never went to the office; but once in a +while, on Saturdays, Father took him walking down the long +flight of wooden steps, down to the enemy's country where, +thanks to the size of his father's protecting figure, never a +Hoboken mick dared to throw a mudball; across the railroad +track and a long, long way on paved sidewalks till they +came out on a wide, noisy, muddy street filled with trucks +drawn by horses with gleaming round haunches. And on +the other side of the street there wasn't any more land, +but long sheds that stuck out into the oily, green Hudson +River. These sheds had huge doors through which the big, +dappled horses kept hauling trucks, in and out. Some of +the wharves had ships tied beside them. Occasionally +these were sailing ships with bow-sprits slanting forward +over the street, but more often steamers, black except for +a band of red down near the water. As Neale walked along, +although he never ventured to ask his busy father to stop +and let him stare his fill, he could catch glimpses through +the doorways of what went on inside the sheds. There were +steep gang-ways, sloping from the plank floor of the pier to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +the ships, and up and down these, big men in blue jumpers +wheeled hand-carts, always moving at a dog-trot. Through +other openings, bundles of boxes tied together with rope slid +down sloping boards, and other men with sharp hooks were +always loading them on trucks or unloading them from trucks; +or huge bales descended from the air, dangling at the end +of a clinking chain. This bustle and noise, the strange tarry +smells and the clatter of steam winches exhilarated Neale, +excited him, made something quiver and glow within him. He +longed to go in and be part of it.</p> + +<p>But Father never went inside, and it never occurred to +Neale to explain how he felt, and to ask Father please to take +him in. Silent as an Iroquois, he walked beside his father, +who often glanced down, baffled, at the healthy, personable +little boy beside him, looking so exactly like any other well-dressed, +middle-class little boy.</p> + +<p>And yet, often before he fell asleep at night, Neale heard +again the clanking clatter of the great unloading cranes, smelled +again the intoxicating tarry salty ocean smells and felt again +something quiver and glow within him.</p> + +<p>There was neither quiver nor glow about the place where +Father finally stopped of his own accord. In a wide part of +the street, huge piles of lumber were stacked. Father would +walk slowly along these, looking at them very hard, and then +he would go into a tiny, stuffy little wooden clap-boarded house—just +one room, with men in shirt sleeves writing at desks—and +there he would talk incomprehensible grown-up talk +with one of the men, and the man would write at his desk, +and Father standing up, would write in a note-book with a +fountain pen ... and that was all the fun there was to the +lumber business!</p> + +<p>Left to himself, Neale sat on the door-step and watched +the fascinating life on the docks. Once he slipped across +the street and tried to follow a truck in, but a big man +with a red face yelled at him so loudly to "get out of there" +that Neale ran back again, furiously angry but not knowing +how to get around the big watchman. All he could do was +to sit just inside the door, hating the watchman, and stare<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +at the tantalizing activity so far away, and wish with all his +heart that Father's business were more romantic.</p> + +<p>Mother meant more to Neale than Father did. He knew +her better ... a little better. He had even some abstract +ideas about her, that she was beautiful when she dressed +up to go out in the afternoon. Mother fussed about his clothes +more than was convenient, and insisted on baths, and washing +hands before meals, but when he was sick, Mother read him +stories, and let him leave the gas turned on in his room when +he went to bed. Mother gave him pennies, too, and when +Father was away on a business trip, he and Mother would eat +alone together, and she would talk to him and ask him questions +about school and play, and his boy friends. Neale didn't +mind telling her things ... he liked Mother ... but he +couldn't seem to manage to think of a great deal to tell +her. It sounded foolish to talk about games to grown-ups.</p> + +<p>And games were really all that Neale cared about, almost +all that he ever thought about. As to telling Mother other +things, the few other things he did occasionally think about, +why, there didn't seem to be anywhere to start. He'd have +to begin "way back at the beginning" and now that Neale +was ten years old, the beginning was too far back for him +to lay hold of.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, she did not often ask about any of +it, even in her distant careful way of asking. She just took +good care of him, and had what he liked for supper, and put +the kind of books he liked up in his room, and kept his buttons +sewed on, and every night, till he was a big, big boy +came into his room to kiss him good-night in his bed. She +didn't say anything much then; just, "Have you enough +covers?" maybe; or, "I believe I'd better open that window +wider," and then, with the kiss, "Good-night, Neale."</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Mother."</p> + +<p>Then he turned over and nearly always went instantly to +sleep.</p> + +<p>When Father was at home, mostly Father and Mother +talked together at table, and read together after supper in +the sitting-room, while Neale "did" his lessons upstairs. Or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +else Mother would dress up in one of her pretty dresses and +Father would put on a clean shirt and his dark suit and they +would go across the river to a theater in New York, leaving +Neale to Katie, the good-natured, middle-aged Irish cook +who had been with them since before Neale's birth. Or sometimes +they had "company"; other ladies in pretty dresses and +other husbands in clean shirts and dark suits. Then they had +a specially good supper, the sort of expensive things that were +usually reserved for Sunday dinner, planked shad and roast +chicken and ice-cream, and coffee in the little gold-lined cups +that Mother always washed herself. Neale didn't mind company +since nobody paid much attention to him, and he liked +the extra Sunday eatables on a week-day, but one of his +few impressions about his father and mother was that, although +they always talked and laughed a great deal more when there +was company, and seemed to have a lively time, they really +liked it better when there were only the two of them talking +over Neale's head at the table, and settling down afterwards +to read and talk to one another around the drop-light.</p> + +<p>Another of those impressions was the tone of his father's +voice when looking up from his book, he said, "Oh, Mary!" +Neale always knew just the look there would be in Mother's +eyes as she laid down her own book and asked, "Yes, what is +it, dear?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + + +<p>Among the many things which Neale never thought of questioning +was the fact that he did not go to a public school as +all his play-mates did. If he had asked, he would have found +that his father and mother had an answer all ready for him, +the completeness and thoroughness of which might have indicated +that they had perhaps silenced some questionings of +their own with it. He would have heard that of course they +approved of public schools, and that if they had continued to +live in Massachusetts, even if they had gone to live in a nice +part of New York City, they would certainly have sent their +son to a public school. But here at Union Hill, with the +public schools so thickly populated by foreign children, the +conditions were really different. What could a little American +boy learn in a class-room with forty foreign children, +whose constant study must needs be English?</p> + +<p>There was no flaw in the reasoning they were prepared to +present to their son when he should ask the natural question +about his schooling. But Neale never asked it. By the +time he was old enough to think of it, habit had made him +incapable of conceiving it. He no more wondered why he +went every morning to the Taylors' house on Bower Street, +instead of to Public School Number Two, than why he had two +eyes instead of one. That was the way things were. Neale +was slow to question the way things were.</p> + +<p>Dr. Taylor was another transplanted New Englander like +Neale's father, with another college-graduate wife (rarer in +those days than now), like Neale's mother. His ideas on +children and the public schools would have been exactly like +those of the Crittendens, even if they had not been fortified +by the lameness of his only son. Jimmy's crutches made +Public School definitely out of the question, and since Jimmy +must have instruction at home, why, his two sisters, Elsie and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +Myrtle, might as well profit by it. Dr. Taylor was glad enough +to have the expense of paying Miss Vanderwater shared by +Mr. Crittenden, and to let Neale share in the benefits of Miss +Vanderwater's instruction.</p> + +<p>Hence it happened that every morning Neale rang at the +Taylors' front door, and when the maid let him in, went upstairs +to the big front room on the top floor and there did +whatever Miss Vanderwater told him to do. He was under +her command from nine in the morning till noon, when he +went home and had lunch with Mother, who always asked +how school had gone, to which question Neale always made the +same truthful answer that he guessed it was all right. At one +he returned for two more hours with Miss Vanderwater. In +this way he went through a series of Appleton's Readers, filled +copy-books with thin Spencerian script, copied maps in colored +ink with the coast-line shaded with scallops, did arithmetic +on a slate and made very fair progress in learning German. +German was much in the air in that locality.</p> + +<p>Of course he did not spend all those years of his life, side +by side with three other children without becoming intimately +acquainted with them. But one of the instinctive watertight +compartments in Neale's Anglo-Saxon mind was the one +in which he kept his school separate from his life. He studied +with the Taylor children, but he never dreamed of staying +after hours to play with them. And yet he knew them infinitely +better than any of the innumerable chance street-acquaintances +with whom he flew kites or played one-old-cat. +He knew instinctively, knew without thinking of it, knew to +the marrow of his brutally normal bones that Jimmy Taylor +was lame not only in his legs but in his character. Jimmy's +delicacy, the great care taken of him, the fact that he always +played in the house or back-yard with his sisters, made a sissy +of him. That was the plain fact, and Neale was not one to +refuse to admit plain facts. He was always kind to Jimmy, +at least not unkind, but he was always secretly relieved when +the front door shut behind him, hiding from him Jimmy's +too-white hands, thin neck and querulous invalid's voice.</p> + +<p>Of the two girls, Elsie was only a little kid, so much younger<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +than Jimmy and Neale that they were barely aware of her +existence. Myrtle, on the contrary, was very much there, a +little girl whose comments on things never failed to arouse +in Neale the profoundest astonishment. How could anybody +think of such dotty things to say? You never had the least +idea how anything was going to strike her, except that it was +likely to strike her so hard that she made an awful fuss about +it.</p> + +<p>Myrtle lived in mortal terror of any little dirt, it seemed +to Neale. One day in May, when they had had a picnic-lunch +out in the back-yard of the Taylors' house, Myrtle +carried on perfectly wild about a little flying white thing that +had fallen into her glass of lemonade. Holy smoke! thought +Neale, if she was afraid to get it out, <i>he</i> wasn't. So he fished +it out with a spoon, and handed her back the glass. And +what did she do? She made up an awful face and threw +the lemonade on the ground! Neale was horrified at the +waste.</p> + +<p>And the day when Miss Vanderwater in their "natural history +lesson" told them about angle-worms and how they keep +the ground light and open, didn't Myrtle go off in another +fit, with her eyes goggling and her fingers all stretched apart +as though she felt angle-worms everywhere. She insisted that +Miss Vanderwater must be wrong, that such an awful thing +could not be true.</p> + +<p>"Why, what do you mean?" asked Miss Vanderwater, for +once, Neale noticed with satisfaction, as much at a loss as he.</p> + +<p>"Ugh! <i>Nasty!</i>" cried Myrtle. "So all we eat has grown +out of what angle-worms have vomited up! And so they're +wriggling around, <i>every</i>where, touching everything that grows! +I never dreamed of such a nasty thing! I'll never eat a radish +again! It makes me sick to think of it—to put my mouth +where a horrible old angle-worm has been rubbing all its +slime off!"</p> + +<p>"Now what do you think of that?" Neale asked himself.</p> + +<p>Mostly, Myrtle was just the worst dead loss you ever saw; +but once in a while you got some good out of her foolishness, +like the time when she bit into a lovely-looking apple and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +laid it down, looking very white and sick at her stomach. +She had bitten into a rotten place, and although Neale pointed +out honestly to her that it was the only bad spot, and that +the rest of the apple was a corker, she refused to touch it, +or even to look at it. She said she never wanted to see another +apple again as long as she lived! So Neale ate it to save it, +sinking his strong teeth through the taut red skin, reveling in +the craunchy, juicy white flesh, chewing away on huge crisp +delicious mouthfuls. It was perhaps as well, too, that Myrtle +hadn't tried to go on eating it, for Neale found another rotten +spot. But he spit out the cottony-feeling, brown, bad-tasting +stuff into the waste basket, and having got rid of it, went on +with the apple, his zest undiminished to the last mouthful +gnawed off the core. The idea of going back on apples because +you struck a rotten place! Nobody asked you to <i>eat</i> the +rotten places! It was perfectly easy to spit them out, or, +if you saw them beforehand, to eat your way around them. +He couldn't make anything out of Myrtle, at all.</p> + +<p>But he didn't allow himself to be bothered by her, any +more than by rotten spots in apples, and he escaped from +her and from the whole genteel atmosphere of the Taylor +household, the moment three o'clock came. The instant Miss +Vanderwater said, "dismissed," he hurried home, left his books +and hurried out again to hang around Number Two School, till +four o'clock sent all its mingled conglomeration, ranging from +tattered ragamuffins to little boys in white sailor-suits, yelling +and whooping out to the vacant lots.</p> + +<p>For, although the Crittendens' New England Americanism +was not quite resolute enough to make them send Neale to +a public school full of foreigners, it was more than enough +to make them incapable of conceiving so odious an act of +tyranny as forbidding a little boy to play freely with other +little boys, whether any one knew their parents or not. They +would have detested the idea of keeping Neale alone in their +safe, sheltered back-yard, and would have been horrified to +detect in him any trace of feeling himself better than the public-school +children—which he certainly did not.</p> + +<p>Sundays had a special color of their own, not at all the tra<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>ditional +one. The Crittendens were Unitarians, not much +given to church-going anywhere, and the nearest Unitarian +church was across the river in New York. Mr. Crittenden +had enough of New York on week-days. So they never went. +Few of the Union Hill families did. Union Hill was anything +but a stronghold of Sabbatarianism. It considered Sunday +rather as a heaven-sent opportunity for much comfortable +beer-drinking, attendance on a Turn-verein, and for enormous +family gatherings around a big dinner.</p> + +<p>For Neale, with no other children in the family, the day +was always solitary; not unpleasantly so. It was a day for long +imaginings, stirring, warlike imaginings, realized through lead +soldiers. Lead soldiers were a passion of his little boyhood. +He had two hundred and ten, counting the ones with their +legs broken, that he had mounted on half corks. He did +not move them around much. He did not knock them down. +When he got them set up in the order he wished, he fell into +a trance, imagining stories and incidents. It took a long time +to get them arranged to his satisfaction, with stiff marching +columns, at shoulder-arms in the middle, some Indian sharp-shooters +prone or kneeling behind painted lead shrubbery +out in front, a squadron of parade cavalry on one wing, a +troop of galloping Arabs on the other. Always he had a pile +of blocks behind which a coal-black charger was tethered, +and on top, leaning against a spool of thread, stood the general +surveying his army. By uniform and whiskers the toymaker +had intended the figure for Kaiser Wilhelm I; but +to the boy's eyes it was no Prussian king, but Neale—Neale +commanding his victorious troops. It was all arranged +with a careful hand and a loving heart, and it took a long, +long time.</p> + +<p>Very often the dinner-bell rang before he had even finished +setting them up. At Sunday dinner there was generally "company," +men friends of Father's mostly, but sometimes husbands +and wives. Neale knew all their names, and shook +hands without self-consciousness. He grinned silently if they +spoke to him, and retired to his shell, busying himself with +his own thoughts, all concentrated on the impending battle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +He liked the things you had to eat on Sunday and had +found that on Sunday he could eat the soft parts out of +his bread and hide the crusts under the edge of his plate. +Mother always caught him if he tried that on week-days, but +on Sundays, with company there, she never said a word.</p> + +<p>But no matter how slowly he ate, he was always through, +wriggling uncomfortably on his chair and horribly bored, +while those tedious grown-up people were still gabbling on. +Mother always saw this, took pity, and smiled a permission +to him to be off. He slipped from his chair and tip-toed silently +into the kitchen where Katie was dressing the salad. But she +stopped long enough to open the pasteboard ice-cream box +from Schlauchter's candy-store and give him a saucer-full +from the soft part on top.</p> + +<p>Then he hurried upstairs again to act out with his army +the glorious scenes he had been imagining during dinner. +Sometimes it was a surprise attack on the march, with cavalry +sweeping down on limbered guns, sometimes it was artillery +formed in triangles, a muzzle at each apex, blowing the advancing +cavalry to flinders. Sometimes it was a magnificent parade +of triumph through a city gate with Kaiser Wilhelm (Neale) +at their head.</p> + +<p>But at any moment, especially as he came on to be ten years +old, quite suddenly and inexplicably he grew tired of it. The +illusion would pass ... they would be just lifeless stupid +dead soldiers, with broken legs and rifles, and the paint flaking +off ... impossible to imagine anything with them. Also +his arms and legs would feel numb with sitting still on the +floor so long. Then Neale would slide noiselessly down the +banisters, using his hands and legs as a brake to keep from +crashing into the newel-post, slip by the dining-room door +with its clinking coffee-cups and blue haze of cigar smoke, +grab his cap and go quietly outdoors.</p> + +<p>Nobody would have stopped him, he knew that, but it was +more fun to keep it quiet. Free from the house he would act +out his drama of escape by running for a block or so, and then +drop into the roaming boy's slow, zig-zag ramble.</p> + +<p>You can walk south or north on Union Hill for miles beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +a boy's endurance, without finding a single feature to quicken +the imagination; but if you go east or west from anywhere +on the Hill, you come at once to a jumping-off place where +below you stretches the flat, marshy river or the flats. Neale +preferred the western edge, even though it had no steep rocks. +He was far from having any conscious love for landscape, but +he found a certain satisfaction in looking over the yellow and +brown expanse of the marsh-grass and cat-tails, hazy in the +afternoon sun, cut with straight black lines of railroads (he +named them over to himself, identifying every one, the Jersey +Central, Pennsylvania, Erie, Lackawanna, and Jersey Northern), +each with little toy-trains, each tiny locomotive sending +up little balls of cotton-wool to hang motionless in the still +afternoon air. To the southwest a hazy blur that was Newark, +and right in front, like a doomed mountain, bogged and +sinking into the marsh, the sinister bulk of Snake Hill. Neale +used to stand and brood over it, sometimes till the sun went +down, all red and orange. He did not stir till the cold roused +him to think of home and supper.</p> + +<p>But his feet did not always turn westward. Sometimes he +walked to the eastern edge. The rocks were steeper here, +steep enough to be the impregnable fortress he always imagined +them. When he came here, after reconnoitering the ground +(for his tribal enemy did not observe the Truce of God on +Sundays), Neale would go out to the edge of the sheerest +promontory and dangle his legs down. Under his feet were +railroad tracks again, then a belt of vacant lots, some of +them black with cinder-filling, others green with the scum +of stagnant water, then a belt of frame houses where the enemy +lived, then a zone of city brick and flat tin roofs. Beyond +it all was Castle Point, high and green (healthy green this, +not scum), jutting out into the Hudson. Indistinctly he could +make out the other side of the river, the line of ships at +the wharves and more city ... New York.</p> + +<p>Occasionally Neale thought of New York, an almost mythical +spot, though he went there once in a while with Mother +on tiresome quests for clothes, as well as to matinées; sometimes +he thought of the ships and the wharves, and how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +much he wished he could see more of them. But mostly he +forgot the actual world. He was in command of the fort. +All around him his brave men were working the guns. Bang! +Bang! The enemy were marching along those straight paved +streets. Their cannon balls were bursting all around, but the +garrison did not quail. Their sharp-shooters were starting +to climb the rocks. Ah, this was serious! No time for delay. +The commander seized the rifle from the hand of a dying +soldier ... how plainly Neale saw that dying soldier there at +his feet ... bang! bang! bang! ... with every shot one +of the foremost scalers dropped headlong.</p> + +<p>The engagement was a decisive victory.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + + +<p>Inevitably Saturdays were all devoted to play. Neither +Neale's parents nor he himself could have conceived of any +other way of spending Saturdays. What were Saturdays for?</p> + +<p>It is true that in some of the more prosperous German-American +families, Saturday was music-lesson day, just as four +o'clock instead of ushering in roller-skating or marbles meant +sitting in front of a piano, or stooping over a 'cello. But +Neale felt for play-mates thus victimized the same slightly +contemptuous pity he felt for Jimmy Taylor's lameness, and +the same unsurprised acceptance of his own good luck in being +free from such limitations.</p> + +<p>Once in a while, too, Mother took him over to New York +to a matinée, and that was all right, too, if it didn't happen +too often. Neale liked going out with Mother pretty well, +and if there was fighting in the play he liked it fine. But +all that was having something done to you, a sensation of +which school gave Neale more than enough, and which he +didn't like half so well—oh, not a quarter as well—oh, +really not at all, compared to the sensation of starting something +and running it yourself. If it really came right down +to a comparison, there wasn't any fun at all in seeing Irving +pretend to be a crazy man, compared to the fun of starting +out Saturday morning, with no idea what you were going +to do, and rustling around till you got enough fellows together +for the game of the season.</p> + +<p>To stand in your old play-clothes on your front-step, of a +Saturday morning, all the world before you, unfettered by +obligations, a long, long, rich day of play before you that was +<i>yours</i> ... how could anybody be expected to prefer to dress +up in things you had to try to keep clean, sit in a dark, +hot theater and watch painted-up men and women carry +on like all possessed about things that weren't really so. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +that was all right enough for a change, and was as good a way +as any to spend a rainy afternoon. Also, you could occasionally +get ideas about fights, out of a play.</p> + +<p>But the real occupation of life was the playing of games. He +nourished his soul and grew strong on the emotional thrills +of games. They were the rich, fertile, substantial soil out of +which he shot up into boyhood from childhood. They were +his religion, and his business-in-life, the wide field where, unhampered, +free as any naked savage, for all his decent knickerbockers +and sweater, he raced to and fro, elastic, exultant, wild +with the intoxication of the heady young strength poured into +him by every new day.</p> + +<p>The astounding volume of sound, bursting up like flame and +lava from a volcano, which rose from every group of boys +at play bore witness to the extravagant and superabundant +splendor of the intensity with which they lived, a splendor +not at all recognized by suffering householders near whose +decent and quiet homes a gang of boys settled down to play +and yell and shriek and quarrel and run and yell again.</p> + +<p>It was the boys' world, not only untouched by grown-ups +but blessedly even unsuspected by parents. Since it was theirs, +since they created it anew every day, it exactly fitted their +needs, and it grew and changed with their inner growth as +their school never did. They were far from any self-conscious +notion that they created it. Rather they seemed to themselves +to accept it from the outside, as they accepted the +weather. What had they to do with the succession of the +seasons, either of games or temperature? In the nature of +things you could no more play marbles in the autumn than +pick wild strawberries in December.</p> + +<p>In the autumn, they played football, a sort of association-football +with no limit to the number on each side, played with +a heavy black rubber ball, blown up with a brass tube. The +tube always got lost, and the valve always leaked. After a few +games it became deflated, with the resiliency of a soggy sponge. +But it was kicked to and fro just the same.</p> + +<p>When snow came, there was snow-balling, with forts of a +rich, chocolate color, from the street-dirt mixed with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +snow. About these raged feudal chivalry, loyalty and pride of +place, one street against another. Sometimes all the district +united against invading Huns from Hoboken or Jersey City +Heights. Only a few boys skated, and Neale was not one of +them, but everybody made slides in the slush.</p> + +<p>With spring came roller-skates, marbles (utilizing the +cracks between sidewalk slabs), tops, kites, cat (a game for +two), and, ah! baseball in the vacant lots!</p> + +<p>Neale was neither a star nor a dub at any game, but craving +proficiency more than anything else in the world, he learned +to do pretty well at all of them. At baseball, the major sport +of the year, he toiled incessantly, and when he was ten years +old, he was pretty sure of his job at second base on the Hancock +Avenue Orioles. On ground balls he was erratic, but so +was everybody on those rough, vacant-lot diamonds, where the +ball ricocheted zig-zag from one stone to another. Long +practice catching fungoes gave him a death-like certainty on +pop flies. His "wing was poor," as he expressed it; strong +enough in the arm, he had never mastered the wrist snap that +gives velocity. As a batsman he was temperamental; one day +he would feel right, and hit everything, another day his batting +eye would inexplicably be gone, and he would fan at the widest +dew-drops.</p> + +<p>One Saturday afternoon they were playing the Crescent +Juniors, a glorious swat-fest of a game in which Neale had +run wild all the afternoon. It was in the ninth, the score was +17 to 15, with the Crescents ahead. One was down, Neale at +the bat, Marty Ryan, the captain, was dancing on the base line, +ready to dart in from third, Franz Uhler was taking a dangerous +lead off second. Neale rapped his bat professionally on +the plate and glared at the pitcher.</p> + +<p>"Hit it out, Crit, old man!" yelled Fatty Schwartz, with a +perfectly unnecessary steam-calliope volume of tone, "Hit it +out! Save me a lick!"</p> + +<p>"Much good you'd do with a lick," thought Neale to himself. +"You couldn't hit a basket-ball with a telegraph pole." +Yes, it was up to him, to him alone. It was like a scene from +one of his favorite stories about himself, actually happening;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +and it went on actually happening. A wide one, another wide. +They didn't call balls in Neale's league. He rapped the plate, +"Aw! put it over if you know how!" he taunted. A foul tip +caught, another wide one haughtily ignored, a strike. The +catcher put on his mask and moved up close behind the bat. +Neale felt himself nerved to great things. He glued his eyes +to the pitcher. By the motion it should be a slow out. It +wasn't breaking. Neale stabbed at it, sliced it and landed a +Texas leaguer back of short.</p> + +<p>He didn't see what happened. He ran. He flew. As he +rounded second he caught a glimpse of the left fielder and +short-stop falling over their feet, both trying to pick up the +ball. As he turned the corner at third he saw the pitcher +starting to run in to cover the plate and guessing that the +catcher was chasing a wild throw, Neale put his head down and +sprinted for dear life. Fifteen feet from the plate he dove, and +shot over in a cloud of dust.</p> + +<p>Neale, the ball, and the pitcher all arrived there at the same +moment, but a partial umpire called it "safe." Don Roberts +fouled to the catcher, Fatty Schwartz fanned. But the game +was won.</p> + +<p>With his chest a couple of inches bigger than normal, Neale +started for home, and there on the sidewalk watching him, stood +his father, looking right at him, instead of over his head as +Father was apt to do. Father patted him on the shoulder. +"That was a good swat, Neale," he said.</p> + +<p>Neale wriggled. "Well, we had to have a hit," he explained, +"and I knew Don and Fatty wouldn't do much."</p> + +<p>His father found no other comment to make. Neale had +said his say. Silent as Iroquois, they walked home to supper.</p> + +<p>The next afternoon Father brought him a Louisville Slugger +bat and Neale was in the seventh heaven.</p> + +<p>And yet, at the next game, he fanned the first three times +up and Marty waved him to the bench. This was terrible.</p> + +<p>But the sting did not last because two days later Miss Vanderwater +gave each of them a present of a little book in German, +and said auf wiedersehn for the summer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + + +<p>The end of school always meant the beginning of the yearly +romance, the beginning of the two months when Neale really +lived all the time, not just after four o'clock, and on Saturdays. +And yet it was not all made up of games! In fact there +weren't any games at all. Queer!</p> + +<p>Neale's life was largely made up of things that happened +over and over the same way, and so did this. The last day of +school he always went home and found the house smelling +trunky and Mother with piles of clothes folded on all the +chairs, packing a Saratoga trunk. All the afternoon she +would pack it, putting things in and taking things out to make +room for other things, and when Father came home, things +would be all unfinished. It happened just that way, always. +When Father came home things <i>were</i> all unfinished, and +Father took out his watch, and said the expressman had said +he'd come at five-thirty, and Mother answered, "You know +they're always two hours late."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless she stopped taking things out, and there was +a scramble and things put in any old way, with a good deal +of laughing and funning from Father and Mother, and finally +with Mother and Neale sitting on the lid, Father in his shirt +sleeves strapped and locked it. Then while they were eating +supper, the expressman drove up (only an hour late, no, not +even quite an hour late, Neale thought), and took the trunk +away, and now Neale felt they were going.</p> + +<p>He lay awake that night thinking of the coming adventure, +his heart beating faster, and then it was morning, and Mother +was shaking him and getting him into his clothes. A hurried +breakfast on lukewarm oatmeal. They went outside and got +into a coupé standing there. Father and Mother sat on the +back seat, and Neale on the little front seat you had to unfold. +Then jog, jog, they went along Griffith Street down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +curlycue road, the horse's feet going clatter on the cobblestones. +Then jog, jog, jog again till at last they stopped and +got out. They had come to the ferry.</p> + +<p>After they were on the ferry-boat, Father and Mother always +waited so that Neale could see the deck-hand pull down +the gates that closed the end of the boat and take out the +iron hooks that held her fast to the dock. Then the whistle +blew, and the boat started, leaving the dock looking as though +a giant had bitten a half-circle out of it. Father walked with +him out to the front deck, where, holding to his wide-brimmed +sailor hat, Neale watched the waves and tug boats, and the +gulls flapping about. Father made him look at the city ahead, +and pointing out a building with a gold dome, told him that +it was the World Building, and the highest in the city. Neale +looked, found it of no interest and went back to his waves +and gulls, which stirred something of the quiver and wonder +the wharves made him feel.</p> + +<p>When the boat got across, it went smash into the piles and +slid along into the dock, where men hitched it fast with iron +hooks and pulled the hooks tight by turning a wheel around. +Neale always noticed just how such things were managed, and +Father always gave him plenty of time to look.</p> + +<p>Then up went the gates and off went everybody. Outside +they got into a horse-car. After a while the horse-car began +to run through a long, white-washed cellar, and Father explained +(just as he had last year and the year before that), +that <i>he</i> could remember when the trains used to be pulled +through that tunnel by horses. At the other end of the tunnel +they all got out once more, and now, at last, you were really +getting quite "warm," for this was the railway station.</p> + +<p>After Father had bought the tickets and checked the baggage, +they got on the train, and Father and Mother talked for a +while, till Father said, with a long breath, "Well, it might as +well be soon as late," and kissed Mother and she kissed him.</p> + +<p>Until Neale was a pretty big boy, Father always stooped +and kissed him too. But Neale felt that this was quite a different +sort of kiss, and he noticed too, that after it, Father +always kissed Mother again, and held his cheek for an instant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +close to hers. But after this he always walked right away, +quietly, turning around once or twice to wave his hat at them, +his face as composed as that of any man in the crowd coming +and going beside the train.</p> + +<p>Mother let Neale settle things in the train, making no comment +as he fussed over it, putting the satchel up in the rack, +and then deciding that it would be better to have it down +where he could put his feet on it, arranging his coat and her +golf-cape over the back of the seat and then remembering the +hook between the windows. Then the train started. A +smoky tunnel, a scraggly belt of half-city—and then the +real country. Neale never called anything the real country +unless there were cows in the fields.</p> + +<p>He was always astonishingly glad to see it, and stared and +stared till his eyes ached, and drooped shut, and he had a +nap, hunched up with his feet on the seat. When he woke up +there was more real country, and finally they got there.</p> + +<p>There was Grandfather Crittenden waiting for them, with the +team and the three-seater, only the two back seats were out to +make room for the big trunk. This was something like living! +Grandfather Crittenden let him hold the lines. He remembered—<i>how</i> +he remembered—every step of the eight miles, +every hill, every house and barn and big rock, till finally +they drove into the yard, got out, were kissed, and went up to +the same room as last year, with its rag-carpet and painted +yellow bed. Mother washed his face very hard in the cold +water from the big white pitcher, there was supper of fried +ham and scrambled eggs and <i>soft</i> rolls, and cherry pie—and +that was all a tired little boy could remember that night.</p> + +<p>Next morning vacation really began with a rush outdoors +to see the mill, the saw-mill, the center of Neale's life in the +country. There it was, just as it ought to be, the big saw +snarling its way through a pine log, and old Silas with the +lever in his hand, standing as though he hadn't moved since +the day Neale had gone away last September. Neale ran +around to the back, climbed on the carriage and rode back +and forth as Silas fed the log methodically down on the saw, +and raced it back to set a fresh cut. Silas only nodded with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>out +speaking. He didn't like wasting words, and speaking was +mostly wasted when the saw was screaming, the belts slapping, +and down below was the pound! pound! pound! of the mill-wheel.</p> + +<p>After a time Neale went down to the far end of the mill +where the fresh sawed boards fell off from the logs. A new +lad he didn't know was "taking away." He wasn't keeping +up with the work very well, and to help him Neale picked up +a slab and started to cut it into stove lengths on the cut-off +saw.</p> + +<p>"Hey there! Whacher doin'? You'll saw your arm off, +boy!" yelled the lad. But Silas, stopping the saw so that his +voice could be heard, saved Neale's face, "Let be, Nat. He +won't get hurt. He knows more about the mill now than you +do, or ever will."</p> + +<p>Neale felt his heart swell with pride. He sawed pine slabs +till his back ached from lifting and his shirt and hands were +black from the dried resin.</p> + +<p>There were other things to do at Grandfather Crittenden's, +all the other things that boys do in the country, and Neale +did them all. But none of them came up to the mill. Day +in and day out it was around the mill that he spent his time, +lying on the piles of fresh sawed boards in the sunlight, watching +teamsters roll huge logs on the skidway with cant-hooks. +Or he went below where you could look through the +doorway at the flapping belts, and watch the sawdust raining +down and making a great yellow pyramid. Even such an +experienced millhand as Neale was not allowed to go into +the cellar while the mill was running, under pain of all sorts +of violent and disagreeable deaths. Getting your coat caught +by the shafting and being whirled round and round and beaten +to a pulp against the beams was one of the mildest.</p> + +<p>But after supper, when the mill was shut down, he used to +saunter out to it, in the long soft twilight, and then tip-toe +down into the cellar and play uneasily in the sawdust, casting +scared looks now and then at the shining semi-circle of the +saw, with its wicked hooked teeth just over his head.</p> + +<p>One day, as he played thus about the mill, his destiny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +came and tapped him on the shoulder, and he knew not that +day from any other day.</p> + +<p>As he was watching Silas take up the slack in a belt, a +strange man, an elderly, powerful, bent, old countryman came +into the mill, and asked, without salutations to any one, +"Where's Jo?"</p> + +<p>"Gone to town for feed," said Silas. He added with a grin, +"Mr. Burton, make you acquainted with a relation of yours, +Dan'el's boy." He jerked his head at Neale.</p> + +<p>The stranger looked hard at the boy, out of sharp gray eyes, +and the harder he looked the sharper grew his eyes.</p> + +<p>"What's he doin' here?" he asked Silas.</p> + +<p>"Oh, he's always hangin' round. He knows the trade as well +as some folks twice his size," said Silas.</p> + +<p>"Well, what do you think of the sawyer's trade?" asked the +old man suddenly of Neale.</p> + +<p>Neale could not think of anything to answer except that +he guessed he liked it all right.</p> + +<p>The stranger seemed to dismiss him from his mind, fingered +his gray goatee, and looked all around as if seeing the establishment +for the first time. "Mebbe. Mebbe. All right for +Massachusetts pine and saft maple. But if you want to see +a real mill, that'll handle tough Vermont yellow birch and +rock-maple, you come back to Ashley with me."</p> + +<p>The stranger stayed to supper, and Neale learned that he +was his great-uncle Burton Crittenden. He asked many sharp-sounding +questions that made his brother, Neale's grandfather, +snort and say hotly, "Oh, we all know there ain't any proper +mill practice outside Vermont, but the Commonwealth of +Massachusetts is managing to worry along somehow, in her +shiftless fashion."</p> + +<p>But when the old man spoke to Neale there was a gentler +note in his voice. He talked of sugaring-off, and twenty-two-foot +snowdrifts, and asked Neale's mother if she wouldn't send +the boy to Ashley some time, to visit his great-uncle.</p> + +<p>His mother agreed to do it—"some time."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="CULTURE_IN_THE_AIR" id="CULTURE_IN_THE_AIR"></a><i>CULTURE IN THE AIR</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +April 10, 1898.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Old Jeanne Amigorena was on her way to Bayonne to complain +to her niece of her rheumatism and her daughter-in-law. +She detested the railroad, as she did everything new and not +Basque, but at her age it was not easy to foot it along the +fourteen kilometres of white road between Midassoa and +Bayonne. So, grimly disapproving, she hoisted her square, +stalwart, black-clad body into the third-class compartment +of the slow way-train which comes shuffling up from the Spanish +frontier about noon.</p> + +<p>Even for a Basque of the oldest rock, there is one satisfaction +to be had out of the forty-minute trip by rail to Bayonne. +This is at the station of La Negresse where your way-train +meets the down express from Paris. The chic people from the +first-class compartments are there summoned to get out and +change to the little local line which jolts them the three kilometres +to Biarritz. This change of cars is never announced at +Paris, it is always furiously exasperating to tourists, and in +consequence they afford an entertaining spectacle to any one +with a low opinion of human nature. Jeanne, who had less +than no regard for any human nature outside the Basque race, +always enjoyed the contempt she felt for these fashionably-dressed, +ineffectual French weaklings. She took advantage of +the leisurely wait at La Negresse, while the luggage was noisily +transferred from one train to the other, to lean her head and +shoulders out of the window, and to indulge herself in a hearty +bout of derision for the uncomely fashionable Parisians, city-pale +and flabby. She drew a long breath of satisfaction in her +own untrammeled ribs, to see their rigid bodies like badly +carved pieces of wood in the steel armor of their corsets, their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +shoulders grotesquely widened by their high puffed sleeves. +Used to stepping out for a daily ten-mile walk over mountain +paths, free and rhythmic in her flexible cord-and-canvas sandals, +she laughed inwardly at these fine ladies, tottering on their +high-heeled leather shoes.</p> + +<p>Some of them were dragging along tired, over-dressed, pasty-faced +children. Jeanne had a passion for children, and she +now cried to herself, for the thousandth time, "What can the +Blessed Virgin be thinking of, to trust babies to such creatures!" +Straight as a lance, with more vigor in her body +at seventy than any of them at twenty, with more glistening +black hair of her own under her close black coif than any +of them could afford to buy, Jeanne who never altered her +costume by a hair or a line from one year's end to another, +who looked forward confidently to fifteen or twenty years of +iron health, felt a cheerful glow of contempt as she watched +them, running here and there, screaming nervously that one +of their innumerable bags or valises was lost, their faces distorted +with apprehension for some part of their superfluities.</p> + +<p>She did not altogether approve of the hatted, conventionally +dressed women she passed half an hour later in the sunny +streets of the little city on her way to the home of Anna +Etchergary. Anna was concierge of one of the apartment +houses on the Rue Thiers, opposite the Old Castle, and to reach +it, Jeanne had to pass through the new quarter of Bayonne, the +big open square where the fine shops are and the Frenchified +madames walking about. Bayonne was a poor enough apology +for a Basque city, thought Jeanne, but its somewhat backsliding +and partly Gascon and Spanish inhabitants were at +least not such grimacing monkeys as those Parisians.</p> + +<p>She strode along with the swift, sure, poised gait of sandal-wearing +people, her mind full of the grievances she wanted to +pour out to Anna; the disrespect of her son's wife, and the +scandalous extravagances of her expenditures. "Consider, +Anna," she rehearsed her story beforehand. "She uses the +eggs herself, instead of sending them to market. She serves +<i>omelettes</i>, as though Michel's house were a hotel! And she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +will not spin! She uses Michel's money to <i>buy yarn</i>! To +think that money from the Amigorena farm should go to buy +yarn, with a distaff hanging on the wall and ten idle, good-for-nothing +fingers at the end of her arms."</p> + +<p>On the terrible subject of lack of children in that house +Jeanne could not trust herself to speak. It was too sore a +spot that with all Jeanne's five grown sons, she had not a +grandchild to hold in her arms. The two, Americans now, +who were in the Argentine making their fortunes, were married +and had families, but what were grandchildren on the other +side of the globe to Jeanne? The two younger ones, who were +sailors, were not married, and Michel, who had promised to +be the mainstay of her life and had stayed at home to run +the farm, here he had been caught by that impudent little +French girl, one of the chambermaids in a Biarritz hotel, a +girl who did not know how to spin, who laughed at the decent +Basque ways, and who had no shame for her sterility, refusing +to go to Lourdes to pray for children.</p> + +<p>Jeanne had never had any romantic feeling for her shiftless, +hard-drinking husband, whose irregular earnings as a fisher +she had been forced to piece out with much domestic service +in the houses of others; and now he was dead, she never thought +of him. She had never been to a theater in her life, nor read +a novel, for she could not read at all. None of her native capacity +for emotion had been used in her youth, nor frittered +away later in the second-hand make-believes of modern life. +It had all been poured out upon children; on her five sons, +and on the one little dark-eyed, black-haired daughter, the little +Marie—who had died at eleven, so many years ago, just +after her first communion—the blessed saint Marise had +looked, slim and straight in her white dress! The Blessed Virgin +had found her namesake too sweet to wait for, and had +taken her at once.</p> + +<p>And now those strong, yearning old arms were empty of +young life, and Jeanne's heart was bitter. She might scold +her loudest over the waste of butter and eggs at the farm, she +might gossip her head off about the faults of the neighbors,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +and shriek out maledictions on the stingy bourgeoise who +wanted to buy her vegetables for nothing, she could not drown +out the forlorn echo of emptiness and loneliness within.</p> + +<p>She turned up the Rue Thiers, glanced frowningly at the +Paris-like department store on the other side of the street with +its gaudy plate-glass show-windows, the pride of the younger +generation in Bayonne, and looked up with approval at the +huge, thick, battlemented walls of the Old Castle, substantial +enough that, and plain enough and old enough to please even +a Basque.</p> + +<p>As she turned in at the door of Anna's apartment house, +her mouth was open to begin her litany of grievances; but when +she entered Anna's one-room, brick-paved lodging, she found +her niece with a budget of exciting news of her own, "Oh, +Tante Jeanne, what do you think...." she burst out as the +old woman swung lightly in; but before she would go on, she +went to close the door, bearing herself so secretly, with such +self-importance that Jeanne was between exasperation and +greediness to hear. Like all illiterates who cannot glut on the +newspapers their appetite for gossip, she was insatiable for it +in talk. She sat down on the front of her chair, her ear +cocked eagerly. Anna drew her own chair up close and began +to speak in Basque very rapidly. "I'm so glad you've come, +Tante Jeanne, you've had so much experience in working out +in families, you know about things. You know about those +American farm machines, that they're beginning to use on the +big farms, painted red, you know. Well, the American agent +for that company, he has come here to live, here in this house, +the grand second-floor apartments, the ones old Père Lapagorry +rents furnished, on <i>both</i> sides of the landing, yes, +the two of them, because his wife, a very chic madame, +didn't think one was big enough, and what can one family do +with two kitchens, tell me that, and they with only one child +to their name, a little girl, who doesn't take up any more +room than a flea, so to speak, and the lady has asked me to +find her a cook and a maid, and listen, Tante, she says she +will pay sixty francs a month <i>each</i>, and fed and lodged!"</p> + +<p>She paused to underline this and looked triumphantly at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +her aunt, who for years had worked as cook in families for +forty francs a month and lodged herself. Jeanne looked back +at her hard, a new possibility lifting a corner of its veil in her +mind.</p> + +<p>"What are they like, these Americans?" she asked, "Spanish-Basque +or French-Basque?" (To a Basque, the term +"<i>American</i>" means one of his own race who has emigrated to +South America, made his pile, and returned to his own country +to spend it.)</p> + +<p>"They're not Basques at all," said Anna.</p> + +<p>"What, French?" said Jeanne instantly incredulous of +Anna's story. There was no use trying to tell <i>her</i> that any +French family was willing to pay twice the usual wage for +servants.</p> + +<p>"No, they don't even understand French, but the madame +can read it a little."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Spanish, then."</p> + +<p>"No, I had Pedro Gallon go up to see them and they don't +speak a word of Spanish. They're not even Catholics!"</p> + +<p>The two women stared at each other. What could people +be who were not Spanish or French or Basque, or even +Catholics?</p> + +<p>Anna went on, "Tante Jeanne, come upstairs and see for +yourself what they are like. You have seen so many bourgeois +families, you can tell better than I. I'll only say you +have come to help me find servants for them."</p> + +<p>Anna followed her aunt out into the hall and locked the +door behind her. The key to the door hung with a dozen +others, large and clanking at the belt of her blue jeans +apron. Anna's philosophy of life consisted in having plenty +of keys and keeping them in constant use. The only things +you could be sure of were the things you yourself had locked +up.</p> + +<p>They climbed the shining, well-waxed, oaken stairway, +Anna's special care and pride, turning itself around and around +in the circular white-washed well, lighted by small pointed +windows, which showed the three-foot thickness of the stone +walls. They stood before the dark paneled door, its highly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +polished brass knob in the middle, and pulled hard at the thick, +tasseled bell-rope. A bell jangled nervously, light uneven +footsteps sounded on the bare floor inside, and a small, pretty, +fair-haired woman stood before them, dressed in a pale blue +house-gown elaborately trimmed with white silk. She smiled +a pleasant recognition at Anna, and gave a friendly nod to the +older woman.... Jeanne disliked her on sight.</p> + +<p>The old peasant assumed a respectful, decorous, submissive +attitude as became her social position, and made a quick estimate +at the age of the other woman. She made it thirty-six +at a guess although she reflected that probably any man would +guess not more than twenty-eight. Jeanne knew by the sixth +sense which comes from many years of unbiased observation +of life, that the other woman was the sort who looks much +younger than she is. She also was aware as by an emanation, +that the other woman was not French. That was apparent +from every inch of her, the way she stood and smiled and wore +her gown; and yet she was dressed like any French lady, with +a high, boned collar up to her ears, sleeves with a stiff puff +at the shoulders, and a full, long, heavy skirt that hung in +ripples and lay on the floor behind. Also her fair hair was +tousled up into a pompadour, with a big, shining knot on top. +Jeanne, her head a little to one side and bent forward in a +patient pose of silent respect, wondered if that fair hair were +her own or were false, and made a guess that a good deal of +it was false.</p> + +<p>All this Jeanne took in and pondered while Anna was trying +to explain by dumb-show who her aunt was and why she +had come. The foreign lady listened intently, but it was evident +that she did not understand at all.</p> + +<p>Jeanne took advantage of her absorption with Anna to look +at her intently, with the ruthless peasant scrutiny, going +straight through all the finer distinctions of character, deep +down to the one fundamental, the one question essential to +the peasant mind in all human relationships, "Is she stronger +than I?"</p> + +<p>Jeanne saw at once that the lady before her was not stronger +than she, was not indeed strong at all, although she looked as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +though she might have an irritable temper. She was one you +could always get around, thought Jeanne, her strong hands +folded meekly before her, her powerful body a little stooped +to make herself look politely mild. She was one who didn't +know what she wanted enough to go after it and get it, thought +Jeanne, casting her black eyes down, the picture of a well-trained, +European servant, with a proper respect for the upper +classes she served.</p> + +<p>The lady, laughing and fluttering, now motioned them into +the salon. Some of the furnishings had been taken away, +thought Jeanne, looking about out of the corner of her eye—no +lace over the windows! In this room sat the monsieur of the +family, a large man, smoking a large cigar, and reading an +enormous newspaper.</p> + +<p>On encountering a new member of the male sex, Jeanne, although +she had long passed the age when she needed personally +to make the distinction, always made a first, sweeping +division of them into two classes: those who were dangerous to +women and those who were not. She instantly put down the +monsieur of the new family among those who were not, although +he was not bad looking, not more than forty-five, with all his +teeth still in his mouth and all his thick, dark hair still on +his head. But a woman of Jeanne's disillusioned experience +of human nature knew from the expression of his listless brown +eyes, from his careless attitude in his chair, from the indifferent +way he looked at the three women before him, from the roughness +of his hair, evidently combed but once a day, with no +perfumed dressing on it, that he was not now and never had +been a man who cared for conquests among women, or who +had had many. She immediately felt for him a slight contempt +as for somebody not all there mentally, and wondered +if his wife were not occasionally unfaithful to him. She +looked as though she might be that kind, a rattling, bird-headed +little thing like that, reflected Jeanne behind her downcast +eyes, changing imperceptibly from one humble, self-effacing +pose to another.</p> + +<p>Anna now turned to her aunt with a long breath, "I cannot +make her understand," she said in Basque. "Think of a nice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +pretty-looking lady like that not being able to talk! I cannot +make her think anything but that you have come to be the +cook yourself."</p> + +<p>"Well, I might do worse," said Jeanne unexpectedly, her +mouth watering at the chance for pickings. She spoke in +Basque. Her face remained as unmoved as though it were +the wood-carving it seemed.</p> + +<p>Her niece stared for a moment, horizons opening before her. +"Oh, Tante Jeanne, if you only would! With you here and +me in the concierge's loge, what a chance for commissions +off everybody from the grocer to the wash-woman!"</p> + +<p>Jeanne agreed although with no enthusiasm. "But I'm +not young. I don't need the money, if only Michel's wife +would...." She gave a quick look at the man and woman +before her, who were now exchanging some words in their +queer-sounding tongue. "They seem such odd people. Who +knows what they are like? Their not being able to talk, +and all—and not even Catholics!" She hesitated, feeling +a distaste for their foreignness, and for the fussy, effusive +smilingness of the madame. Jeanne always distrusted ladies +who smiled at their servants. There could only be war to +the knife between servants and their employer. Why pretend +anything else?</p> + +<p>A little girl in a white dress came swiftly into the room +now, a long-legged, slim child of eleven. She darted in as +though she was looking for something, and in a hurry to find +it. When she saw the two Basque women, she paused, suddenly +motionless, and gave them a steady inquiring gaze out of +clear dark eyes.</p> + +<p>Jeanne stared at her, startled. The child had thick black +hair, glossy and straight, a cream-like skin, and long eyes with +arching eyebrows as black as her hair, which made a finely-drawn +curving line on her forehead and ran back at the sides +upon her temples.</p> + +<p>Anna noticed the older woman's surprise and said casually, +"Yes, isn't it queer how the little girl looks like one of us, a +real little Basque? She seems nice enough, only with no manners. +See how she comes bursting into a room and then only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +stares; but none of the family have any manners, if it comes +to that."</p> + +<p>The child made a quick move now and still moving swiftly +stepped to Jeanne's side. To Jeanne's astonishment she put +out her small white fingers and took Jeanne's gnarly old +hand in a firm grip. "Bonjour, Madame," she said, smiling +faintly at her attempt to speak the foreign language, although +her eyes were grave.</p> + +<p>Jeanne had for an instant a strange impression that the child +seemed to think that she had found what she was looking for. +At the sight of the little girl, at the living touch of that small, +warm hand, Jeanne forgot the chic madame with the shallow +eyes, and the dull monsieur with the tired eyes. She looked +down at the child who had eyes that were looking for something. +The old woman and the little girl exchanged a long +serious gaze, one of those deep, inarticulate contacts of human +souls which come and go like a breath taken, and leave human +lives altered for always.</p> + +<p>Jeanne drew a long breath. She said in a low tone to the +child, forgetting that she could not understand, "What do you +call yourself, dear?"</p> + +<p>The child answered in French haltingly, but with a pure +accent, "I call myself Mary."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," explained Anna, "the little girl is picking up +French fast. I can make her mother understand now, through +her. She does the ordering for them at the Bouyenval pension +already. They are taking their meals there, till they +get servants to begin housekeeping. Madame Bouyenval +was telling me this morning...."</p> + +<p>Jeanne interrupted her niece, speaking in Basque, "Well, +if you think you can make that featherhead of her mother +understand anything, you can tell them that I'll come to-morrow +to stay, and I'll bring a chamber-maid with me."</p> + +<p>To the foreign lady she said respectfully in French, with a +deferential inclination of her tall strong body, "A votre service, +Madame."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +May 10, 1898.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Marise sat in her room, in front of her table, a copy-book +opening blank pages of coarse paper before her, a thin, mean-looking, +pale-blue book marked "Mots Usuels" on her lap. +It was her own impression that she had stopped for a minute's +rest from study (although she had not yet begun), and that +she was thinking hard. But she was not thinking. She was +feeling.</p> + +<p>She sat with her elbows on the table, her chin in her two +hands, braced so that she was quite motionless. Her eyes +were fixed on the candle flame, burning bright, fluttering and +throbbing in the draughts which came into the old room, around +the decrepit window-casing, under the door, through the worm-eaten +base-board. There seemed to be a thousand wandering +puffs from every direction. What Marise called her "thoughts" +were burning bright, fluttering and throbbing like the tiny +flame at which she stared. They too were blown upon by a +thousand breaths from every direction. If they would only +hold still for a moment, Marise thought, and give out a steady +light that she could see something by! If she only had some +shade to put around those flickering thoughts so they wouldn't +quiver so! It upset her, jerking around so, from one way of +seeing things to another. What she wanted to know was, how +did things <i>really</i> look?</p> + +<p>Of course it was worse here in France, where everything +was so uncertain, but it had started back home in America, +it had always been going on ever since she could remember. +It had always made her feel queer, as though she were holding +an envelope up to a mirror to read the address and saw it +wrong end to, the way everything looked different at Ashley +the moment Maman came up to Vermont to take her home after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +vacations with Cousin Hetty. Marise loved it so there at +Ashley, the dear darling old house in the mountains, with its +nice atticky smell that no other house in the world had! +It just fitted all around you, when you went in the door, the +way Cousin Hetty's arms fitted around you, when she took you +up on her lap, and rocked and sang, "We hunted and we +hallooed."</p> + +<p>At the memory, Marise's heart gave a great homesick throb. +How far away she was from Cousin Hetty and Ashley now! +How long since she had sat on anybody's lap.</p> + +<p>And yet when Maman came to take you away, from the first +minute she went in and looked around her, you could see +right through her eyes and what you saw was something different. +After all it was just a homely old house with ugly +crocheted tidies on the chairs, and splashers done in outline +stitch back of the wash-stands, and old red figured carpets +on the floors, the way <i>no</i>body did at home in Belton. And +Cousin Hetty talking so queer and Vermonty, her white hair +smoothed down flat over her ears instead of all roughed up, +fluffy, over a rat the pretty way other ladies did, with her +funny clothes, her big cameo pin holding down her little +flat round collar, and all other ladies so stylish with high +collars under their ears. Yes, of course, the minute Maman +looked at her, you saw how ashamed you'd be of Cousin +Hetty if she came to visit your school at Belton. And +yet there <i>was</i> the other Cousin Hetty you'd been having +such a good time with. You just flickered away from Maman's +way of seeing it to yours and never could make up your mind +which was the real way.</p> + +<p>Marise shook her head, drew a long breath and looked +down again at her spelling lesson. It was a list of the +names of furniture and household utensils, all very familiar +to her from old Jeanne's thinking them so terribly important. +My! How much more Jeanne cared about her work than +any girl they'd ever had in Belton.</p> + +<p>"<i>Lit ... sommier ... traversin ...</i>" all the names of +the complicated parts of a bed, a sacred French bed. As +Marise looked at them on the page she could see Jeanne in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +the mornings, taking poor stupid little Isabelle's head right +off because she didn't make the bed up smoothly enough; and +all the time it was about a million times smoother than any +bed ever was in America! Marise didn't believe the President +of the United States had his bed-clothes pulled so tight +and smooth. And she wondered if Jeanne worked in the +White House, if she would let even the President's little girl +sit down on the bed in the daytime. How <i>particular</i> they +were about things in France! About everything. When you +bought anything in a store how they did drive you wild with +their slowness in getting it put up in the package just <i>so</i>, +as if it mattered, when you were going to take it out of the +package three minutes later, as soon as you got home. And +at school how they did fuss about neatness! The lessons +were easy enough to learn. Marise never had any trouble with +lessons, but how could anybody ever do things as neatly as they +wanted you to. And how the teacher jumped on you if you +didn't, ever so much worse than if you got the answer to an +arithmetic problem wrong. Mercy! How she did scold! +There wasn't anybody in America knew <i>how</i> to scold like +that even if they wanted to, and they didn't. It had scared +Marise at first, and made her feel like crying, and she never +had got entirely used to it although she saw how all the other +girls did, just took it and didn't care and did whatever they +liked behind her back.</p> + +<p>Marise couldn't get used to Jeanne that way either, to her +yelling so when she scolded. Marise hated to have people get +mad and excited. And how Jeanne did carry on about the +house being neat, the part that is, where company could come; +(under her kitchen sink it smelled awfully and was full +of greasy rags) and yet she'd shine up the salon floor +over and over when it was already shiny, and never think +of those rags. The least little bit of clutter left around in +the dining-room, or even your own room, and how she would +scold! And yet she was so awfully good to you, and was +always giving you big, smacking kisses, and hugging you, +and she always saved over the best things to eat when Maman +had a lunch party, and you were at school. Even when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +Maman had said you couldn't have any of something Jeanne always +brought it to your room, under her apron, after you'd +gone to bed. It wasn't very nice to do things behind Maman's +back, but everybody seemed to be doing things behind everybody +else's back. Maman did behind Father's, lots of times, +and it was perfectly understood between them that Marise +was never to tell Father on her. And it would be telling +on Jeanne if you told Mother. And anyhow Marise didn't +see Maman so very much any more, to tell her things; it was +mostly Jeanne who did things for her.</p> + +<p>Marise laid down her book again, lost in one of her recurrent +attacks of amazement at there being so many different +Jeannes inside that one leathery skin. There was the Jeanne +who came every morning to take orders, and folded her hands +on her apron, and sort of stooped herself over and said, "Oui, +Madame," to everything Maman said. You'd think she was +scared to death of Maman, and yet she went away to the +kitchen on the other side of the landing and became another +Jeanne who never paid the least attention to what Maman had +said, but ran the house just the way she thought it ought to be.</p> + +<p>There were two Jeannes right there, and there was another +one, the outdoor Jeanne, who took her to school every morning—how +funny that in France a great girl of eleven had to +have somebody tagging along every time she stepped outside +the house! This was the most interesting Jeanne of all. She +told stories every single minute. Lots of them were about +when she had been a little girl—gracious! think of Jeanne +ever having been a little girl! That was ever so long ago, +before the Emperor and the Empress had made Biarritz the +fashion. Jeanne said those were the good days, when the +Basques had their country to themselves, and you never saw +a hat on any woman's head; they all wore the black kerchief +for everyday and mantillas on Sunday for Mass, and lived like +Christians. Jeanne could remember when Biarritz was just +a little fishing village, a decent place, and <i>now</i> look at it! +She could remember just as well when Napoleon and his +Spanish wife first began to come down there so the Empress +could get as near to Spain as possible. Many and many's the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +time Jeanne had seen them in their springy barouche, driving +right along this very street, he with his eyes as dead as a +three-days-caught fish's, and she as handsome as any Basque +girl!</p> + +<p>They weren't all stories of Jeanne when she was a little +girl. Lots of them were of what had happened hundreds and +hundreds of years ago around here. There were ever so many +stories of witches and ghosts and sorcerers. There were plenty +of those still in the Basque country. There was a sorcerer +living in that little tumble-down house near the river on the +road to St. Barthélemy. Why, Jeanne's own mother, years +ago, one day looked up from her spinning and saw a monstrous +pig, big and black. She jumped up and ran out to +try to catch it. Her grandmother went out too, and there +were a lot of the neighbors who were trying to drive the +pig away. But it didn't pay a bit of attention, butted at +them so fierce when they came near they were afraid, for he +was as tall as a calf, and whoever saw a pig as big as that? +And then the grandmother made the sign of the cross, Spanish +fashion ... and like snapping your fingers, didn't the pig +change, right before their eyes, into a little wee woman they'd +never seen, and she went up in the air as thin and light as a +loose spider's thread, and drifted away and there was nothing +there.</p> + +<p>The little American girl knew enough to know that this +story couldn't be true, of course. And yet Jeanne's mother +and all those people had seen it. They saw a pig and it +turned into a wee witch woman.</p> + +<p>Marise stopped thinking about that, leaned forward and +began kneading the softened tallow at the upper end of the +candle. Father could say all he liked about candles being +a bother, they were lots of fun. This part up next the flame +got just right so you could poke it and it stayed put, any +way you wanted it. And it was fun to lean the candle over and +drop the melted tallow on your hands in little drops that got +hard and you could peel them off.</p> + +<p>As she poked at it, a dozen pictures flickered through her +mind; the bridge over the Adour with the river flowing yellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +and strong under it, and the bright painted vessels loading and +unloading; the Sister who opened the door at school, always +so calm and silent; the playground at school with the black-aproned +girls, their faces twisted up with running and screaming +and catching each other; and the same girls at their +desks, with their faces all smoothed and empty, looking up +at Mademoiselle as though they had never thought of doing +anything she told them not to; the school-room itself, battered +and gray with age, the old black desks with the slant lids +that lifted up; Reverend Mother stopping in to hear a lesson, +with her old, old quiet face; Maman so pretty and stylish, +looking so sweet when she made mistakes in French that nobody +minded, or thought of laughing at her.</p> + +<p>Marise tipped the candle over carefully and let some melted +tallow fall on the back of her hand. As she set it back and +waited for the tallow to harden, she was thinking how very +different from home Bayonne was; the Basque fish-women, +with the shiny fish in the round flat baskets on their heads; +the white oxen with the sheep-skin on their horns, and their +red-striped white canvas covering, pulling those two-wheeled +carts; everybody streaking it along in canvas sandals and +bérets, talking French and Basque and Spanish and never +a word of English. And yet, Marise reflected as she +slowly peeled off the hardened tallow drops, none of that was +the <i>real</i> difference. And there was a real difference. The +real difference was something inside you. You felt different, +as if you'd looked in the glass and seen somebody not quite +you. It was....</p> + +<p>Somebody was walking slowly down the brick-floored hall +to her room. It was Father's heavy step. That was nice! +She hadn't thought she would see either Father or Maman, +because there had been company to dinner again. She gathered +the tallow drops together and dropped them in the base of the +brass candle-stick. Then she remembered that Jeanne would +scold if she did that. These candle-sticks like everything else +in the house had to be just <i>so</i>, or everybody caught it. She +swept them out again with her fingers, and stood holding them +in her hand, looking around her for some place to put them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +The waste-paper basket was too open, they would fall right +through on the floor, and what a fuss there would be over +that! Oh, there was the fireplace, if you put things way +back of the sticks, Jeanne didn't see them.</p> + +<p>She was just straightening up from reaching back of the +wood, when Father came in. He said, "Hello, kid," and she +answered, "Hello, Poppa." They did this for a kind of a +joke, to be extra American when Maman couldn't hear them.</p> + +<p>Father sat down on the edge of the bed, making a big dent +in the fluffed-up crimson, eider-down quilt, which Jeanne +rounded so carefully each morning, and which she never let +anybody disturb. Not, of course, that Jeanne would dare to +say anything to Father, le patron. She would only grumble +in Basque, under her breath, and Marise would feel her opinion +of Americans going down even lower than it was. Marise could +always feel everybody's opinions as they went up and down. +And how she did hate to feel them going down, anybody's +about anything! She always tried to fix it so they would +go up. She now planned to fluff the édredon to a puff again, +after Father had gone back. She didn't say anything about it +to Father. You never did, about that sort of thing, even +Maman didn't, although it made her awfully provoked not +to have Father care, and she always said a lot afterwards. +Marise didn't even say anything to him about the white +down that would be sure to work through the cover of the +édredon and get on his clothes. Father wouldn't care if it +did. There were such lots of things Father didn't care about. +But Maman would. She must remember to brush him off +before he went to the salon.</p> + +<p>"Having a good time?" asked Father slowly, the way he did, +that let you see how he knew perfectly well you weren't.</p> + +<p>"Not so very," she answered.</p> + +<p>"Neither am I," he returned, "though you needn't mention +it to Momma." There were always a great many things that +were not to be mentioned to Maman, and a lot of quite other +things that were not to be mentioned to Father, and Isabelle +told her things she didn't want Jeanne to know, and <i>everything</i> +that Jeanne said was not to be mentioned either to Father or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +Maman. Marise, coming back from school, used to feel when +she opened the door of the apartment, as though she were +walking into cobwebs spread around in the dark, and you +mustn't on any account brush into any one of them.</p> + +<p>Father now went on, "What are you doing with yourself?"</p> + +<p>Marise looked down at the cahier, its pages as blank as +when she had sat down. Her father looked with her. "That's +lovely paper, I must say," he commented, always with his way +of showing that he meant just the opposite. "Are you supposed +to write on it in ink?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," cried Marise, flashing up to seize the chance of +sympathy for one of her grievances, "they <i>never</i> let you use +lead-pencils because in lead-pencil there's a chance to rub out +your mistakes. You're not supposed to <i>make</i> any mistakes."</p> + +<p>"Doesn't your pen get stuck in it—it must be like writing +on mosquito-netting," said Father.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it does," complained Marise, "and you spatter the +ink all over and break off the tips of the pen, and everything. +And the teachers just kill you if it's not perfectly neat."</p> + +<p>Father took up the cahier and looked at the paper hard, +scratching it a little with his finger-nail. "Well, there's culture +in the air, anyhow," he said without smiling, although +Marise knew he was quoting Maman. He looked around the +room now without saying anything more. Marise followed +his eyes and saw with him the dingy, high-ceilinged room, +dimly lighted by the one weak candle-flame, the heavy, figured +tapestry curtains drawn over the window, the draught, although +the window was closed, making them suck in and out; the +ugly, ugly wall-paper, dark and scriggly; the stuffed red +chair, the only comfortable one, where Jeanne would never +let her curl up with her feet under her, because she said the +place for shoes was on the floor; the marble-topped wash-stand +with its little chipped white earthen-ware basin and pitcher +like the old things at Cousin Hetty's; the clock on the chimney-piece +that looked as though it were carved out of greasy, +dark-green soap with a greasy dark-green man in a Roman +toga on top of it; the shabby, dingy, red-and-white checked +curtains hanging over the hooks where Marise hung up her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +dresses, the tall dark armoire whose slightly greenish mirror +reflected all these things as if you were looking at them through +water; and finally over the bed, the big, shiny lithograph of +Our Lady of Lourdes in her bright blue cloak, standing in +front of her grotto.</p> + +<p>"Well, maybe it's in the <i>air</i>," said Father. He spoke in his +usual tired, slow voice, sagging down on the bed the way he +always sat.</p> + +<p>But then he surprised Marise very much and said something +she never forgot. It gave her such a jump of astonishment +to have Father say something as though he really +meant it, that she sat up straight at his first words, staring +at him. He said in a strong voice, "But look here, Molly, +there <i>is</i> something in the air here, by heck, and I wish you'd +get it. I mean the way every one of them in this country +keeps right after what he's doing, till he's got it just right. +That's the way to do, and we're all off the track with our +'that'll do,' the way we say back in America. It's the only +thing in their whole darned country <i>I</i> can see, that don't +make you sick. Now, look here, kid, you go after it and get +it. Start right in now. Learn how to make that infernal +note-book perfectly all right in spite of the bad paper. I +wish to the Lord <i>I</i> had been taught that."</p> + +<p>And then, while Marise was still staring, the words echoing +loudly in her ears because of the strangeness of hearing them +from Father, he went on in his usual voice, "It might be <i>something</i> +to hold on to, and I don't see much else."</p> + +<p>Marise had never before known Father in any way to try +to "bring her up!" He made Maman so much provoked +because he always said that he didn't know, any more than +Marise, how she ought to be brought up, and he didn't +see that it made so much difference what you did, everything +turned out about the same in the long run. Now her little +room seemed full of the oddness of his thinking that something +did matter, of his telling her so hard that he wished +she'd do something. In the loud silence which followed, she +could hear his voice and what it said, sinking deeper and deeper +into her mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<p>After a while Father yawned very wide and rubbed his hair +forward and back so that it was all rumpled up the way Maman +didn't like to see it. "What did you say you were doing?" +he asked again.</p> + +<p>"I'm writing down my leçon d'orthographe," said Marise.</p> + +<p>"Your <i>what</i>!" said Father.</p> + +<p>"My spelling lesson," Marise corrected herself with a jerk. +She knew how Father hated to have people mix up their +languages.</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know that you're any worse off at that than +we are in the sitting-room," said Father. He always called +the <i>salon</i> the sitting-room. He added, glancing at her blank +note-book, "You haven't got very far, I see." He paused, +and smiled a little with one corner of his mouth, "But then +neither have we in the sitting-room."</p> + +<p>It came into Marise's mind that perhaps Father, seeing he +was so specially serious to-night, might tell her some way to +keep her thoughts from jiggling around so, from one way of +feeling to another, according to what other people thought of +things, instead of knowing what she thought of things. But +she had no chance to ask him, for when she began, "Well, I +sort of forgot about my spelling. I got to thinking," Father +broke in, as he got up heavily to go, "I wouldn't advise you to +do <i>that</i>, either. It never gets anybody anywhere."</p> + +<p>Marise forgot till after he had got clear back to the salon +that she had not brushed off the down from the édredon. +Maman wouldn't like that a bit, to have him look untidy when +company was there! Oh, dear!</p> + +<p>But she forgot this as she thought again about the queerness +of Father's seeming to care so much about her doing +one thing rather than another. It was still there, this wonder +at him, when she turned to her book finally to study that spelling +lesson. "Lit ... sommier ... traversin...." She +wrote the words down on the coarse paper, with infinite care, +drawing on some deep, unfamiliar store of patience when the +pen sputtered and caught its point and stuck. She was going +to try to do as Father said. She would take as much trouble +with writing those words about a bed, as old Jeanne took<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +in making the bed every morning; and that was more trouble +than anybody in America ever took about anything.</p> + +<p>Her dark, shining hair fell forward about her cheeks as she +leaned over the copy-book, writing slowly, chewing her tongue, +frowning in her concentration on the formation of those letters.</p> + +<p>She forgot all about her uncertainties as to how things +really were; she forgot her loneliness. All her flickering +thoughts steadied themselves and grew quiet as she worked. +A stillness came over her. She felt happier than she had +since they came to France to live.</p> + +<p>Later, ever so much later, after she had undressed, washed +in the cold water in the little earthen-ware basin, gone to bed +and to sleep, the night-time Jeanne tip-toed in to see that she +was all right. This Jeanne was very different from all the +others, because she was so quiet. Marise half-waked up when +she felt the energetic French kiss on her cheek (Jeanne always +kissed you so hard), and as she dozed off again, she heard +Jeanne saying a prayer over her, half in Basque and half in +Latin. Marise couldn't understand either Latin or Basque, but +she understood the intention of that nightly prayer at her bed, +and she caught sleepily at old Jeanne to return her kiss. It +wasn't as good as Cousin Hetty's taking you on her lap +and putting her arms around you, but it was enough sight +better than nothing. Also she heard Jeanne carefully close the +window. Jeanne always did this every night, although Maman +said to leave it open. Jeanne was the last one in there always +so she had it her way. She didn't think it healthy to let night +air into rooms. Marise was too sleepy to get up and open it +again. Anyhow Jeanne often told her about the evil spirits, +that come in through open bedroom windows, and sit on your +chest and suck your life into their black bodies, as you sleep. +Marise did not believe this, in the least, of course, and yet....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p class="right"> +May 12, 1898.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Two plump ladies with large busts and very small waists +were sitting in the salon of the Allen apartment, waiting for +the mistress of the house. They wore very tight-fitting dresses +of excellent silk, obviously not new, obviously made by the +sort of "little dressmaker" who goes from house to house. +Their shoes were stout and clumsy, their hats somewhat heavy +in line, their gloves exquisitely fitting, perfectly fresh, made +of the finest-grained leather. Although the sky was blue, +each lady carried a small silk umbrella of the very best +quality, tightly rolled with a masterly smoothness, as smoothly +tubular as the day it was bought.</p> + +<p>The two women held their cruelly corseted bodies very erect, +and sat squarely on their chairs, both feet on the floor, their +knees close together, their backbones very straight. Under the +brims of their heavy, much-ornamented hats, their fresh, +healthy faces wore an expression of perfect stability. They +knew that they produced exactly the impression they meant +to produce, and that they looked exactly like what they were. +From every inch of them was proclaimed the fact that they +were fine housekeepers and economical managers of their +husbands' incomes, that they were of the well-to-do bourgeoisie +and proud of it, as of everything else they were and did. +They looked out on their lives and found them good in every +detail, from their slightly and purposely behind-the-fashion +dresses to their stout shoes, evidence of their respectability; +from their fixed ideas to their excellent gloves.</p> + +<p>They glanced about them now, keenly, with the penetrating +survey of the professional good housekeeper, and found much +to comment on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How strange to have no lace curtains over the windows, +only the heavy ones at the side. Why, people outside must +be able to <i>look right in</i>! Do you suppose they have taken +them out to be washed? Or don't they know about curtains +in America?"</p> + +<p>They murmured their remarks in a low tone, keeping a +weather-ear cocked to the hall.</p> + +<p>"That wall-paper is disgraceful. It was on when the Charpentiers +lived here."</p> + +<p>"M. Lapagorry had expected, you know, of course, to do +this apartment over after the Charpentiers moved out. But +these new people never made a single comment, or complaint. +Just accepted it."</p> + +<p>"I daresay they are used to log-cabins at home, with Indians +at the door."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, Madame Garnier, my Henri says that the Indians +are quite civilized in America now."</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier frowned slightly at the mention of Henri.</p> + +<p>The other woman went on, "Apparently they thought it +was all right to have faded paper and those awful old curtains. +M. Lapagorry was so astonished he almost fell over +backward. And when he saw they didn't find fault with anything, +he asked a higher rent, ever so much higher than the +Charpentiers had paid, and they took <i>that</i> too without a word. +People say M. Lapagorry can't sleep nights now because he +didn't ask more."</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier observed, as one mentioning an obvious +fact, "Oh, well, Madame Fortier, he will, of course, next +time."</p> + +<p>Madame Fortier saw nothing to smile at in this. "Yes, of +course," she said seriously.</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier now said, "They must be <i>very</i> rich. Where +is it they are from, Buenos Aires?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, Madame Garnier. I think it is somewhere in +North America. My Henri says that...."</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier broke in, irritated, to say with suppressed +heat, "Oh, North America or South America, what's the +difference? They are all foreigners, and who knows what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +strange, immoral ideas they have? They don't come to Mass, +you know. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that the man +is a Free-Mason. I wish M. Garnier had not asked me to +call on them."</p> + +<p>The other shrugged her shoulders resignedly, "Yes, it's a +very strange thing to do, make the first call, and on people you +know nothing about. But M. Fortier says the man, M. Allen, +is very important in a business way, and he specially asked all +the business men to have their wives call on his wife. He +almost seemed to make it a sort of condition, so M. Fortier +said, almost made them promise before he would talk business +with them. It may be in America, they do. And of course +anything M. Fortier thinks may be good for his business...."</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier's nod signified that of course that principle +went without saying for any good wife; the expression of her +face adding that this was an application of it which might +count as one of a good wife's sacrifices. But she said hopefully, +"Well, they won't stay very long, foreigners never do."</p> + +<p>Madame Fortier now murmured, "They say she's very free +with the gentlemen. M. Fortier and his friends are laughing +about her. They say they really don't know how much of what +she says is due to her bad French; or how far she really +does expect them to go."</p> + +<p>This did not surprise Madame Garnier. "What can you +expect? I shall see to it that our Jean-Pierre has nothing to +do with them."</p> + +<p>This apparently started a new train of thought for Madame +Fortier, for she now said with the cheery warmth of one who +brings out something which will be a bitter pill to her interlocutor. +"It seems the American, M. Allen, has taken quite a +fancy to our Henri. We think we can get a position for +Henri, through him, in America, where Henri can learn English, +and study the American market. It would be a great help +in the business if Henri knew English and all about American +imports. And of course the salaries paid in America are +enormous."</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier's eyes opened wide. She fell into a trance-like +meditation, and presently murmured, "Our Jean-Pierre<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +made quite a specialty of English in the lycée. I should +think...."</p> + +<p>The mother of Henri shook her head decidedly, "I don't +think America would suit your Jean-Pierre's temperament," +she said. "He's not at all practical. And you get skinned +alive by American business men if you're not as sharp as +they. No, you'd better keep Jean-Pierre away from them."</p> + +<p>The two looked at each other hard. A brilliant light of +rivalry came into their eyes. It brought an animation, a zest +into their faces, which made them look years younger. A +main-spring had been touched, and all their wheels began +visibly to turn.</p> + +<p>Steps were heard in the hall.</p> + +<p>They composed their faces, and turned towards the door. +The American lady now came in, and they rose to greet her. +They were extremely cordial, a competitive friendliness in their +manner.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>They went down the well-polished oaken stairs in silence, +each holding up her long heavy skirt with one gloved hand and +letting the other rest on the railing. At the bottom, each with +an automatic gesture like a reflex action, looked at the palm +of her glove to see if it had been soiled by the railing, and +with a similar mechanical action, shook their heads disapprovingly, +although there was not a grain of dust on the smooth, +tightly-stretched, pale kid.</p> + +<p>They shook out the trains of their skirts and swept into +the street, conscious of the pouncing inspection of Anna +Etchergary, gazing at them from the loge of the concierge, and +proudly aware that there was nothing to criticize in any detail +of their backs or anywhere else about them. They turned to +the left and began to climb the steep street which led towards +the Cathedral. Madame Fortier remarked presently, "Very +bad taste, that dress, like an actress. All that white silk and +lace. And slippers like a dancing girl's. It must be she never +puts her hand to anything in the house."</p> + +<p>"No, she doesn't," returned the other disapprovingly. "My +Marguerite meets her Jeanne every morning at market. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +says that Jeanne says the American lady never does anything +about the house, and doesn't even verify her accounts. You +can just imagine what Jeanne is getting out of it. It quite +upsets Marguerite, and I have to be specially careful with my +own accounts. Everybody near them is getting a rake-off +on everything." She made these revelations with a satisfied +look as though the words had a pleasant taste in her mouth.</p> + +<p>Madame Fortier's comment was made with the accent of +mature, worldly experience, "Mark my words, money spent in +a loose careless way like that <i>must have been ill come by</i>. +That's the way disreputable women spend money."</p> + +<p>"It's very hard on the rest of us, at any rate. And Jeanne +tells our Margot that she is a very poor housekeeper, as heedless +as a child, wears her best tailored street dress in the house +as like as not, lies down on the bed when she is not sick +at all, and doesn't do a thing but read novels all the time; or +fool away a whole afternoon in the Museum. Very suspicious, +that, too. Why should anybody go to the Museum so much? +I'd just like to know whom she meets there. A regular +place of rendezvous, the Museum. I wonder if her husband +knows."</p> + +<p>They were enjoying the conversation so much that their +faces looked quite sunny and bright. The other shook her +head forebodingly. There was a silence as they climbed steadily +up the steep, narrow, stone-flagged street.</p> + +<p>Then Madame Garnier remarked, "The little girl is quite +pretty, though so mannerless."</p> + +<p>"Her dress was covered with grease spots, and had a hook off +the back," reported Madame Fortier.</p> + +<p>"I didn't see but <i>three</i> grease spots," demurred Madame Garnier, +"and she really has lovely eyes and hair."</p> + +<p>"How badly that woman speaks French. Without the little +girl to interpret, it would actually have been hard to know +what she was saying. Strange they don't know French better. +But perhaps they don't have regular schools like ours."</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier made no answer to this conjecture, but +asked, looking sideways at her neighbor, "Shall you ask them to +dinner?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> + +<p>Madame Fortier all but groaned, and said in a martyr's +tone, "Oh, I suppose so, for Henri's sake."</p> + +<p>The other digested this thrust in silence, and then changed +the subject. "What was that she was saying about De +Maupassant? Was she quoting him, to <i>us</i>? What did she +take us for?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, she didn't realize what we might think of her. It +was that indecent Boule-de-Suif, too. But she knows so little +French most likely she didn't understand what it was all +about."</p> + +<p>"Have you read that?" asked Madame Garnier.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I thought it my duty to, as a mother, to know what it +is. But I burned the book, and you may be sure <i>I</i> don't +go around letting everybody know I've read it. Did you find +her pretty?"</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier answered obliquely, but quite understandably. +"I daresay a man would think so. I couldn't think +of anything but her manners. How she lolled in her chair, +and crossed her legs. I wouldn't want my Gabrielle to see +her. And to my eyes she had a faded look. Queer, her +being so fair. I don't see any trace of Indian blood. I +thought all Americans had Indian blood."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, Madame Garnier, my Henri says that...."</p> + +<p>Madame Garnier made a gesture of one thoroughly out +of patience with Henri, and ended the conversation abruptly, +"Oh, here we are at the corner. I must turn down here. Good-day, +Madame Fortier."</p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p class="right"> +May 15, 1898.<br /> +</p> + +<p>The rosy, wrinkled face of the Sister of Charity shone out +from the white quilled band over which the black veil was +draped. Beside her the distinguished old lady showed, under +her long crape veil, a face as quiet as that of the nun. The +two elderly women sat at ease, their hands folded in their +laps, chatting in a pleasant low tone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, so every one says, a great deal of money, Madame la +Marquise," said the nun in her murmuring monotone, "as all +Americans have."</p> + +<p>The other breathed out with a great wistful sigh, "Oh, +Sœur Ste. Lucie, if only the good God has sent us at last +the opportunity to get our chapel."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes indeed," assented the nun, drawing in her breath +sharply between her teeth. She raised her eyes, singularly +bright and personal in her professionally passive face. "They +say there is a child, too. Perhaps a soul to save. Our Mother +Superior always so zealous for the honor of our Order has +asked us specially, specially ... the Bishop has so much to +say about one of the Sisters of the St. Francis Order because +of the conversion of a Swedish sailor, whom she nursed in their +hospital. The Mother Superior hopes very much that some +one in <i>our</i> Order...."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I understand," said the great lady, nodding.</p> + +<p>The nun went on, deferentially, "Madame la Marquise is +so good to be willing to come to call on the foreign lady! +I shall see to it that the foreign lady understands the honor +done her."</p> + +<p>The other made a graceful deprecatory gesture with a +shapely black-gloved hand, and explained with great simplicity +and gentleness, "Oh, no, ma sœur, it is nothing, nothing to +praise. I would make a far greater sacrifice for the sake of +our beloved work. But in this case, there is no risk of being +misunderstood. It is not as though they were French bourgeois, +who might have their heads turned. There can be +no question of social equality with transient foreigners." She +smiled, bowed her head with humility and said, "So you see, +dear Sœur Ste. Lucie, that I deserve no praise for making a +sacrifice."</p> + +<p>The nun nodded her understanding. It was evident that +they understood each other to perfection. "Yes, yes, of course, +I see. No social equality possible," she murmured, drawing in +a sharply taken breath again.</p> + +<p>They looked about them in silence now, the restrained calm +of their faces uncolored by their thoughts. Hearing steps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +in the hall, Sœur Ste. Lucie shook out her long black sleeves +to cover her hands more completely, and cast down her eyes +so that her sweet, rosy, wrinkled old face was once more blank +and impassive.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Anna Etchergary was waiting at the door of her loge as +they descended the stairs, and she ran before them out to the +old closed carriage, which stood at the curb. Bowing deferentially +and murmuring under her breath, "... Madame la +Marquise...." she held the door open for them. The lady +smiled her thanks at her, a pre-occupied, well-modulated smile +which took for granted the deference and the service.</p> + +<p>As the nun stepped into the carriage she said with unction, +"Now I see how lives in the world can be as useful to Our +Lady as those of the convent. No one could have resisted +Madame this afternoon. To have a great name and all worldly +graces, and to use them only for the greater glory of Our +Lady!"</p> + +<p>The other sighed and said sadly, "Dear Ste. Lucie, since the +death of my dear one, there is nothing for me in the life +of the world, except an opportunity to serve our good work." +She went on more cheerfully, with a little animation, "Yes, +I must say, it seemed like fruitful ground this afternoon, +fruitful ground. I think we may say we made a good beginning."</p> + +<p>The old coachman came to the door for his orders. "To 4 +rue Marengo, in the Petit Bayonne," said his mistress, and +as he stepped to his seat, she explained to the nun, "I feel +so much encouraged that I am going straight to an architect +to have him make an estimate of what the chapel would cost."</p> + +<p>The carriage proceeded very slowly and rackingly over the +rounded boulders of the pavement. Inside it, the two women, +accustomed to such joltings, thrust their arms through the +broad, hanging loops, and went on talking.</p> + +<p>"Not a disagreeable person," said the great lady in a kind +tone of tolerance. "A very middle-class little woman, but +no harm in her, I should say. I was afraid to find some +one not quite—not quite—you know it is said that American<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +women are not very moral—so many divorces in America."</p> + +<p>"And still you went...!" breathed the nun, lost in admiration +of the other's heroic devotion, "when you ran the risk +of meeting a <i>divorced</i> woman!"</p> + +<p>The Marquise made another gentle, fatigued gesture of +warding off praise. It was a practised gesture as though she +had occasion to make it often.</p> + +<p>After a time she said, "Odd she should be so interested in +the Cathedral here, and yet a free-thinker. What made her +talk so much about the South Portal? I never heard of anything +unusual about it, did you? Except that that disagreeable, +anti-clerical fountain is somewhere near there, to the +memory of those wicked revolutionists."</p> + +<p>The nun shook her head, indifferently. "I always enter by +the North Portal," she said. "I don't believe I ever happened +to see the south one."</p> + +<p>After reflection, the marquise said, "I don't believe I ever +saw it either. Why should any one? You never enter from +that side. Nobody lives on the rue d'Espagne, that anybody +would ever have occasion to visit."</p> + + +<p class="center">III</p> + +<p class="right"> +May 20, 1898.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Anna Etchergary measured accurately the social status +of the two ladies who asked for Madame Allen's apartment, +and without getting up, or stopping her sewing, she answered +in the careless tone suitable for people who wore home-made +hats and cotton gloves, that Madame Allen was at the top +of the first flight. After they had passed, she thought to +herself that she believed she knew them, Mlle. Hasparren, the +school-teacher and her married sister. They were Basques, +like Anna, but of the small government employee class, who +put on airs of gentility, and wore hats and leather shoes. Mlle. +Hasparren gave music lessons, as well as teaching school. +Probably she had come to try to be taken on as Marise's +music-teacher.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>The two ladies were mounting the stairs in silence and +very slowly, because the school-teacher had taken off her cotton +gloves and was putting on a pair of kid ones, which she +had pulled from her hand-bag. She explained half-apologetically, +to her sister, who had only cotton gloves, "It's to +do honor to America!" and then with a long breath, "The +first American I ever saw."</p> + +<p>"What do you care if it is, Rachel?" asked her sister languidly. +She added with more animation, "Your hat is over +one ear again."</p> + +<p>The other stopped short on a stair. "America! ... free +America!" she said passionately, "don't you remember what +Voltaire said, 'Europe can never be wholly a prison so long as +it has America for open window?'" She knocked her hat +back into place with the effect of using the gesture to emphasize +violently what she said.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't quote Voltaire, if I were you," advised her +sister mildly. "You never know who may be listening. +People think badly enough of you for being a school-teacher in +a lay-school as it is."</p> + +<p>"There you are!" Rachel caught this up as a point for +her side. "There it is, our airless, stagnant European prison-house +of prejudice!" She struck a hand, gloved in kid now, +on her breast, with the gesture of one suffocating.</p> + +<p>Her sister shrugged her shoulders resignedly and said, "Which +door do you suppose it is? We forgot to ask which side."</p> + +<p>They were now on the landing, hesitating between the two +exactly similar doors. Rachel made a quick decision at +random, crossed to the right-hand side, and pulled the bell-rope.</p> + +<p>The door opened, and showed the upright frame of Jeanne +Amigorena. There was a moment of mutual surprise, and exclamations +of greeting and inquiry. "Why, Jeanne, you here? +I thought you were on the farm at Midassoa!"</p> + +<p>Jeanne broke out upon them with a great rush of Basque, +enchanted to see familiar faces, enchanted to have a new +audience. "Oh, good-day, Madame Hardoye. Good-day, Mlle. +Hasparren. Who ever would think to see you here? Yes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +here I am in a family of the queerest foreigners you ever saw. +But they pay very well. They have both apartments on this +floor. Yes, they must be <i>made</i> of money, and I have little +Isabelle from Midassoa with me, as femme de chambre, and +what do you think, we have each a room, a real furnished +bedroom, just as though we were guests. The madame took +one look at the maids' rooms, under the roof, on the fifth +floor, you know, and when she saw they are all dark except +that little sky-light, with no furniture to speak of, she said +she wouldn't let a dog sleep there. The idea! It would +have been plenty good enough for Isabelle and enough sight +better than what she ever had at home. She is getting beyond +herself all the time, Isabelle is. I have an awful time keeping +her in her place. The lady hasn't the least idea of doing it. +They are such queer people, I can't tell you! She knows no +more about taking care of a child, our madame! She started +to let our little mademoiselle go <i>alone</i> to school, through the +<i>streets</i>! And the poor child was so disgraceful with spots +and dirt on her dresses that I was ashamed to have people +see her and had Madame buy her some aprons and now I +keep her in order myself. She is a sweet child, only brought +up the way you'd expect a little savage to be, puts her <i>feet</i> +on the <i>chairs</i>! Or else sits on the <i>floor</i>! And <i>runs</i> on the +street, or else loiters along looking at shop-windows. But she +is learning fast. I don't complain, oh, no. I know well +enough that when you are a servant, you must take what +comes to you, and make the best of it. But I never thought +I would work in a family of free-thinkers! Still, they sleep +over there on that side of the landing, and Isabelle and I +sleep here. I keep the holy-water shell well filled, and we +brought the branch of box from home that had been blessed +last Palm Sunday, and we sprinkle a few drops of Lourdes +water on the table before we eat. I hope we are safe. +M. le Curé says that is enough. I often think that...."</p> + +<p>Madame Hardoye had been listening to this flood of talk, +her lively interest in the matter struggling with her distaste +for Jeanne's familiar manner.</p> + +<p>She now broke in with an accent which she meant to ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>press, +"There you've talked quite enough. After all, though +my sister has queer ideas, we are not in your class. We are +not peasants. And it's high time you remembered that." +What she actually said in a curt tone was, "Where do we +ring to make a call on your mistress?"</p> + +<p>Jeanne understood the implication perfectly. It was one +quite familiar to her. With a change of manner she motioned +them silently across the hall. "There," she said laconically, +her face suddenly hard and somber.</p> + +<p>Rachel Hasparren also understood the implication and +flushed an even more vivid color than that habitually on her +dark cheeks. She held out her hand, her kid-gloved hand, to +Jeanne, with a defiant gesture of equality, "Good-by, Jeanne. +I'm glad we had a glimpse of you."</p> + +<p>Jeanne took the hand awkwardly, with a sort of rancorous +reluctance to have her grievance appeased, and turning back, +shut the door behind her.</p> + +<p>"Now, Rachel!" expostulated her sister.</p> + +<p>Rachel breathed ragingly and stared at her sister in an old +resentment, which the other took calmly, looking inside her +card-case.</p> + +<p>Rachel advanced provocatively, "Did you hear what old +Jeanne said, how the American lady would not put a dog +to sleep in lodgings in which we French expect to house our +servants?"</p> + +<p>The married sister resented this spiritedly. "Spoiling servants +for the rest of us, that's what it is!" she said impatiently. +"And what good does it do? You saw how old Jeanne only +thinks the less of her for it. The more you try to do for +that class, the less they think of you."</p> + +<p>"That's because Jeanne's whole nature has been degraded +by our caste ideals!" shouted Rachel. "She's a poor, superstitious, +medieval old thing, incapable of ordinary decent +human relations. If she'd lived in America...!"</p> + +<p>Angèle pulled the other bell-cord here with an air of cutting +short another out-burst, and they both stood silently looking +at the closed door, which presently was opened by little Isabelle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> + +<p>As they went down the stairs, Angèle remarked, "Well, she +seems to be all right. Like everybody else, as far as I can +see. I expected to see her with a Liberty cap on her head +and swinging a lighted bomb, to hear you going on."</p> + +<p>Rachel was taking off her kid gloves and putting on cotton +ones. She said dreamily, her black eyes deep and glowing, +"When I asked her how the peasants lived in America, she +said ... the dear American ... 'there aren't any peasants +in America.'"</p> + +<p>Her dark flushed face was shining as they came out on the +rue Thiers and stood for an instant, glancing up at the battlemented +walls of the dark old Castle.</p> + +<p>Rachel suddenly shook her fist at it, her cotton-gloved fist, +and cried out, "You needn't glower down like that, you hideous +old relic of an evil past! There's a great, wide, rich country +across the seas, that never heard of such as you, that never had +a feudal castle in it, that isn't darkened by a single hateful +shadow such as you still throw down on us here."</p> + +<p>"Hush, Rachel," said her sister, patiently attempting to quiet +her, "Anna Etchergary is looking out of the window at us."</p> + +<p>Rachel instantly lowered her voice, with an instinctive response +of caution to this warning, but she was furious that +she had done so. "That's Europe, that's Europe for you!" +she said hotly, under her breath. "Spied upon every minute by +suspicious, mean, malicious eyes."</p> + +<p>Angèle broke in on her to say reasonably, "Well, anyhow, +your hat is on one side again."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p class="center"><i>Round-robin Letter to Mrs. Horace Allen's Neighbors and +Friends in Belton, New Jersey</i></p> + + +<p class="right"> +Bayonne, France, May 25, 1898.<br /> +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Mes Chére Amies</span>:<br /> +</p> + +<p>Je vous demande pardon for being so late with this letter, +I know I promised to write just as soon as we got here. But, +chére amies, I know you would forgive me if you knew how +<i>marvelous</i> our new life is here in this old, beautiful, <i>civilized</i> +world. I have just been letting myself go in it, just <i>grabbing</i> +at its charm and wonder, and all I can tell you is that +Europe is even more <i>wonderful</i> than I thought. I just wish +every one of you could persuade your husbands, as I did, to +take a position that will bring you across the seas to this +"fabled old land of story and art." <i>You owe it to your +children</i> to give them the culture which they would get here.</p> + +<p>But let me begin first with the material things. Mr. +Allen, you know, felt sort of badly because the position here +didn't seem to be as important and have as big a salary as +the job the Company offered him in Chicago—<i>Chicago</i>! +Well, you cannot imagine anything like the cheapness of the +life here. We have two flats of six rooms each, on the same +floor, just the landing between them, twelve rooms in all, +furnished elaborately down to the last little things in the +kitchen even, and we pay about half the rent we paid in +Belton for our unfurnished house. There is perhaps a little +old-world dinginess about the wall-paper and the curtains +and things, but that only adds to the delightful <i>atmosphere</i> +and makes you realize that you are really in old Europe and +not raw young America.</p> + +<p>We have two maids for <i>less than three dollars a week</i> each,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +and such maids! In America we haven't any idea what it is +to have good servants. I am not expected to lift my hand or +think about the housekeeping. My old cook, the most <i>fas</i>cinating +creature, in a quaint peasant's costume, takes <i>all</i> +the responsibility on her own shoulders. She gets up frightfully +early in the morning, and goes off to market with a big, +flat basket, and comes bringing it in <i>on her head</i> all filled +with the loveliest things to eat you ever saw, and bought +for almost nothing! But she buys just as closely for me as she +would for herself. Servants identify themselves with the family +of their masters here, and are glad to! I know the word +"masters" sounds very un-American; but one so soon gets +used to the vocabulary of the country. Pardonnez moi!</p> + +<p>Jeanne—that is our cook—brings our breakfast to us <i>in bed</i>, +all except of course for Mr. Allen, who can't seem to adapt himself +to other ways of living. The first morning when she +started to, he just jumped out of bed as though the house +were on fire, and slammed the door shut in her face. He can't +get over his Anglo-Saxon prudishness. But we have separate +rooms now, and I have my tray in bed, and read my mail there, +and between you and me, it makes me feel just like a heroine +in a novel, to lie there in my pretty negligée—you know +in America we don't realize what negligées are for. When +do you ever have a chance to wear one except when you are +sick? And then you don't care. Marise has hers—her breakfast +I mean—in her room, too, as she dresses, and Jeanne +always expects to help her dress, so I don't have to think at +all about getting her off to school! Oh, mes amies, <i>what</i> a +rest to one's nerves that is! Not to have that horrid, hurried +hour trying to find clothes and books and get Marise off +in time. I just lie in bed reading the mail or a book and +Marise comes in, all fresh and combed (Jeanne is wonderful +with her hair), and kisses me and says, "Au revoir, Maman." +We always try to speak French together for the practice.</p> + +<p>Then, as I am getting dressed, Jeanne comes in, with a clean +apron to "take her orders," in the good old European way. +And from that minute on, I have no more bother about it. +Everything is set on the table at the right time, beautifully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +cooked, the house is kept clean and in the most <i>perfect</i> order.</p> + +<p>Perhaps you are wondering why I call Mary, "Marise?" +It is a quaint nickname for her that the servants have, and +I have picked it up from them. Isn't it delightful? I never +liked Mary, and I detest "Molly." Both the maids are devoted +to Marise, and it is the European custom for the servants to +do a great deal more for the children of the house than our +girls ever dream of doing. Without a word, Jeanne has simply +taken over the care of Marise's clothes as a part of her regular +work, and she is always ready to go out with her, for it seems +that no nice children go alone on the streets here. Every +morning, Jeanne takes Marise to her school, and goes for her +in the afternoon and brings her back. Marise is perfectly +happy here, in a splendid school, and having wonderful opportunities. +I am so happy about her advantages. It is not +a public school (the "lay" schools as they say, because all +the others are run by Catholic nuns). It seems the public +schools are something quite new in France, and nobody sends +children to them except the poor, or people who are queer in +some way, with unbalanced ideas. I can easily believe this, +since I had a call the other day from a school-teacher in the +public schools, who also gives music lessons. She is a very +queer and dowdy person, with the most awful hat you ever saw. +Didn't you think that all Frenchwomen wore pretty, stylish +hats? Not in the least. Quite the contrary. Her sister was +with her, quite middle-class, both of them, and not at all like +the other ladies who have called on me.</p> + +<p>For they <i>have</i> called! Do you remember that little old +French teacher who came to see me about getting a job in our +High School, how discouraging she was about our coming to +live in France, and how she said nobody would come to see +me, at all? Well, if you ever see her, just tell her she is +<i>entirely mistaken</i>. People are just as cordial as <i>they can be</i>, +with the most beautiful manners you ever saw.</p> + +<p>Do you wonder how I manage about the language? It is +<i>much</i> easier to get along than I expected. Of course my +thorough reading and writing knowledge of the language is a +great help. And I have been making <i>won</i>derful progress in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +speaking it. Being right in the midst of the language all the +time it just soaks into you. No one here speaks any English; +not from provincial ignorance, the sort we have in America, but +from choice, because of their concentration on their own perfect +language. They are all deeply cultured. It is <i>won</i>derful +to be in the midst of cultured people, to be able in casual +afternoon calls to discuss De Maupassant with one lady and +Gothic architecture with another.</p> + +<p>For we have here in Bayonne—you notice that I already +say "We,"—a simply splendid Gothic cathedral, the first +one of my life. It is right up the street from where we live, +and it is <i>won</i>derful. Chére amies, think what it means for +a town to have in its midst such a marvelous thing! Think +what people must be like who live right close to it, go in and +out of it every day, and feel its "beauty and puissant power" +(as Matthew Arnold says). The South Portal is especially +fine, <i>starred by Baedeker</i>, which means a great deal, as you +know. I make a pilgrimage there every day, to just <i>gaze</i> at +that South Portal. <i>I</i> have a life-time of arrears to make up, +not having lived with it from childhood, as these fortunate +people have. It is no wonder that you meet here people absolutely +<i>won</i>derful in their polish, like a lady who called on me +the other day, the Marquise de Charmières. Her husband's +family dates back to the days of Louis XII. I am ashamed to +say I had to go and look up who Louis XII was, after she had +gone. She had with her a nun, who lives with her, by special +permission, the dearest old thing with her sweeping black robes +and the quaint, quilled, picturesque head-dress. I suppose they +used, in the old days, the Charmières did, to live in the <i>won</i>derful +old castle, just across the street from us, which is another of +my great admirations. Think of living across the street from +a real castle! It was constructed in 1100, on the remains of +the <i>old Roman wall</i>, if you please, for Bayonne is very, very +old. And it is right there, just the way it always was, with +battlements and a real drawbridge and everything, just as it was +in feudal times. Many famous people have lived there, Richard +Cœur de Lion, Louis Quatorze, and others. It was there that +Catherine de Medicis planned the St. Bartholomew massacre,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +and in a house on this very street that Napoleon took the +Spanish crown away from the King, and gave it to his brother. +Isn't it marvelous to think of?</p> + +<p>I have had some of the curtains taken down in our <i>salon</i> +(the French simply swathe their windows in curtains, simply +<i>swathe</i> them!) and I often stand at the window and just gaze +out at those old castle walls and try to imagine the splendid +life that went on here then, the streets full of people in costumes +and knights in armor and everything. I see the modern crowds +coming and going under those massive walls, and I keep thinking +how proud they must be of such an inheritance from the +past, and how they must often wish the good old feudal days +back again, when "life had color," as a writer said in a book I +was reading the other day. No such inspiriting reminders of +past glories in America! No such past glories! Nothing but +what Ruskin calls the drab, dead level of democracy.</p> + +<p>There is a fine Museum here too, with perfectly splendid +works of art in it, pictures by Van Dyck, Rembrandt, Raphael, +Rubens, Ribera, Murillo, Poussin, Delacroix, Ingres, Troyon, +Meissonier, Corot, Isabey, Bonnat, Bouguereau, Gervex, and +many others. I am simply <i>studying</i> them, absorbing them, I +go every day with a handbook on art which I bought here (in +French, of course), and just gaze at them till their very spirit +enters into me. I must tell you that Bouguereau is considered +very much out of fashion here, and not at all admired any +more. The Meissonier are simply <i>mar</i>velous. You could take +a microscope to them, and still not see any brush-marks. Indeed +it is said that he painted with a microscope. There is +a <i>perfect</i> copy here of the Mona Lisa, which people who know +say is just as good as the original. Mes chére amies, think +what a privilege it is to sit there, right before her, with the +book in my hand, looking up into that mysterious face, and +reading those wonderful words of Pater's, which I have studied +with you so often. "Here is the head upon which all the ends +of the world are come, and the eyelids are a little weary. She +is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, +she has been dead many times and learned the secrets of the +grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with Eastern +merchants; and as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, +and as Ste. Anne, the mother of Mary; and all this has been +to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in +the delicacy with which it has molded the changing lineaments +and tinged the eyelids and the hands."</p> + +<p>Mes amies, we have often read and studied this marvelous +passage together, and now I can only say to you <i>that it is true</i>! +But every bit of culture means so much more to me than it ever +did before and now that I know what European life is, I +can understand why they are more cultured than we are. It +is because they have <i>leisure</i>. Here the working classes <i>expect +to work</i>, as our American working class does not. And the +material cares are just taken right off the shoulders of the +upper classes. <i>We</i> are <i>expected</i> to occupy ourselves with +higher things. I am reading, reading, reading as never before, +and getting a closer knowledge of French literature, even than +our studies together gave me. It all <i>means</i> so much more to +me, now that I am right among the very people who are described +in it. Think of looking up from a volume of Zola, +and having a caller come in, who might be a character right +out of the book. I often tell Mr. Allen, that the life around +me illustrates and explains the literature, and the literature +illustrates and explains the life. It is a wonderful, <i>won</i>derful +experience!</p> + +<p>I have just finished De Maupassant's "Notre Cœur," and I +am not surprised that we found it impossible to get hold of +the French edition in America. Our strait-laced, old-fashioned, +Puritanic America doesn't know enough to appreciate such +a picture of this <i>free</i> European world, where relations between +men and women are different from those between high school +boys and girls. At home the girls rule the roost, if you will +excuse a vulgar expression. But not here. Here they are put +off in a corner, till they get a husband, and <i>then</i> they are allowed +to blossom out. A woman of my age, so a French gentleman +told me the other day, is considered <i>just at the right age</i> +for being fascinating. And he assured me he didn't say that +because it might apply to me, but <i>because it is so</i>. The men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +have temperament here. They really look at you, and are just +as different as can be from the American business-man who +never thinks of any woman but his wife, and never pays any +attention to <i>her</i>! Here the men positively sparkle in conversation, +and they all say they would hardly know I am an +American, I have acquired the French manner so entirely. +Here a woman is not expected to have become a mummy, because +she puts on a wedding-ring. <i>Quite the contrary</i>, I assure +you!</p> + +<p>But this is a terribly long letter. I have poured out my +heart to you in untrammeled spontaneity, such as comes to +you in the free intellectuality of this finished civilization.</p> + +<p>May you all be able some day to enjoy it!</p> + +<p class="right"> +Your devouée friend,<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Flora Allen</span>.<br /> +</p> + +<p>P.S.—Mr. Allen says the business part seems to be all right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + + +<p>As happens to us all, there were certain moments which +stayed alive in Marise's memory for years; and as is always +the case, those moments did not at all correspond with apparently +important events. Such events come, seem of great +consequence, happen, and therewith sink down into the featureless +mass of things which happen only once and then are in +the past forever. The other moments, those queerly, heterogeneously +tumbled-together impressions, are the things which +happen over again every time one thinks of them.</p> + +<p>One of Marise's fantastic notions was that the things which +had happened were piled up in a big junk-heap in your memory +in front of a great black curtain. But there were pinholes +in the curtain, and if you put your eye to one, there, +right before you, one of the things that had happened was +alive again, and your heart knocked and your throat felt +queer just as it did the first time. This notion may have come +to her in this form because it was generally in the night that +she experienced the vivid living-over of some long past moment. +Wakened from a sound sleep by the hoarse whistle of one of +the steamers in the Adour, taking advantage of a favorable +tide to weigh anchor and be off, she saw in the instant while +she drew a long breath and turned over in bed, one of those +living scenes again, as actual, as piercingly real to her as though +it were happening for the first time. Some of these she greatly +dreaded, some set her to ringing all through with happiness, +others she never understood at all.</p> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p>One of the very happy ones was the moment when she +had first really heard music. She had been "taking lessons" +of Mlle. Hasparren for weeks and months. Mlle. Hasparren<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +taught as Marise thought all the teachers in France taught, +the hardest possible way; scales, scales, scales and then thumping, +monotonous exercises, played over forty, fifty, sixty times, +till Marise felt as though there wasn't anything left of her +except that exercise, pound, pound, pound all over her. Marise +saw nothing in music except hatefully numerous little black +dots on white paper, and heard nothing in it beyond a combination +of sounds as interesting to hear as a problem in arithmetic +is to look at.</p> + +<p>She rather liked Mlle. Hasparren, although Maman thought +she didn't have a bit of style; but she certainly did hate the +three-times-a-week music lesson. She never could have kept +on with it in America, but here everything was hard work, and +if you weren't working at your music lesson, they'd expect you +to be working at something else. And then, too, there was +what Father had said about keeping at what you were doing +until you got it just right. Marise's bed-room seemed to have +taken up the sound of Father's voice as he said that, so that +many times, as she sat there doing her lessons and not thinking +of it, all of a sudden, the very curtains and walls and chairs +seemed to be reminding her of it. That was really what kept +her going, as day by day she sat down heavily before the +piano, prodding her mind up to keep it fixed on the little +black dots.</p> + +<p>That at least was what had kept her at it till the evening +which came back to Marise so clearly. Father and Maman +had gone out to dinner; she had eaten alone, with Jeanne's +chatter for company, and then on her way back to her room, +had wandered into the salon, candle-stick in hand, sort of hoping +she could think of something nice to do before she settled down +to study.</p> + +<p>But there was certainly nothing nice to do in the salon. It +was awfully lonely in there, the chairs all empty and stiff, +standing around heavily, the thick curtains drawn close over the +tall windows, and in front of the alcove where Maman's writing-desk +stood, the polished floor shining hard and bright, the +stands, the table with one of Maman's yellow-covered books on +it, the dark little cave of a fireplace. Marise set her candle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +down on a stand, and herself sank down on the piano stool, her +back towards the keys, staring at the lonesome looking room. +How perfectly dead it did look. Marise could hear faintly in +the distance an echo of the brisk voice of Jeanne and Isabelle, +laughing and carrying on over the dishes. But in here, in the +empty salon, there wasn't a sound. Her ears fairly rang with +the nothingness all around her. Her heart was big and heavy.</p> + +<p>At school that day, the girls had started up a new fad, the +"wishbook." You got a little blank book, and then went +around asking everybody to write down in it what she most +wished to be. Marise was astonished at what the other girls +wrote; one, "I wish I could be a great actress," another, "I +wish I could marry a millionaire," another, "I wish I could be +a great and holy saint." Marise had not been able to understand +why everybody did not write what she did, instantly, +instantly, something she had always known she wanted. What +she had written in everybody's book was, "I wish I could be +happy." She thought of this now, and in the empty, cold, +echoing room cried it aloud, "I wish I could be happy."</p> + +<p>There was no answer from the stiff stuffed chairs, from the +well-polished tables, from the black hole of the fireplace. +Marise had expected no answer, would not have expected one +if her parents had been there, never expected one. What answer +could Father give, Father who apparently never thought +of such a thing as being happy, and never hoped for anything +more than to be a little less tired and bored. And if Maman +had been there, she wouldn't even have heard what Marise +said, busy as she always was with thinking something of her +own. Maman wasn't nearly so cheerful as she had been. What +<i>was</i> it Maman was thinking about when she sat so still and +her face got dark and drawn? Certainly not about Marise.</p> + +<p>The little girl sat on the piano stool, dangling her long legs +and looking straight ahead into the empty room, which looked +back at her, she thought, as though it had a low opinion of +her and a very high opinion of its own importance and elegance. +She knew she ought to get up and go into her own +room and study a very long lesson on the reign of Henri IV. +But she couldn't seem to get up the strength to do this, sitting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +fallen together on the piano stool, her heart heavier and +heavier.</p> + +<p>She looked hard at the empty chairs, and thought to herself +that it wasn't any worse to see them empty, than to see the +people that usually sat on them—not one who could help a +little girl to be more happy. There wasn't a single person she +knew, whom she'd wish sitting there now, unless it might be +Cousin Hetty! Marise felt a knot come in her throat, and +the corners of her mouth began to tremble. She would <i>like</i> +to get up in Cousin Hetty's lap again.</p> + +<p>But Cousin Hetty was not there. There was nothing there +but the circle of unfriendly chairs and tables and the empty, +silent room. The trembling of her lips got worse; Marise +was afraid she was going to cry. She turned round on the +piano stool, put one bent arm up on the music which stood +there, and hid her face in it. She was not crying; though +she wished she could, because the ache in her heart and the +knot in her throat hurt too much.</p> + +<p>The silent, motionless room stood aloof and meaningless +about the silent, motionless child. Marise pressed her face +closer against her arm. She was trembling now, all over her +body.</p> + +<p>The silence was intense.</p> + +<p>And then it seemed to her that the silence had been broken +by a voice, a beautiful, quivering voice, deep and true, which +went straight to her heart, as though some one had spoken a +strong, loving word. At the sound she stopped trembling and +sat motionless.</p> + +<p>Before she could draw her breath in wonder, she knew what +it had been ... only a note of music. Her own hand falling +on a key of the piano had struck a note, which was even then +echoing in her ears.</p> + +<p>But the first impression was ineffaceable. That, too, rang +in her ears. It seemed as though it was the first time she had +ever heard a note of music. Really, really that was so. She +had never been <i>still</i> enough before to hear how a note sounded. +How it rang and rang in the stillness, its deep vibration stirring +echoes deep within Marise's heart! She had thought it was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +voice. Why, it was like a voice, a voice speaking to her, just +when she had been so sure that there wasn't any voice she +could possibly expect to hear.</p> + +<p>She sat up marveling, and struck another note. Into the +dead, stagnant air of the room, and into her loneliness, it sang +out bravely, the same living voice, thrilling and speaking to +her. She struck a chord, astonished at what she heard in it—all +those separate voices, each one rich and true and strong +and different from the others, and all shouting together in +glorious friendliness. "That's the way things <i>ought</i> to be," +thought Marise, "that's the way <i>people</i> ought to be." But, +oh, how little they were like that! But here was a world where +she could always make it come true, where she could have +that singing-together any time she wished to make it for herself.</p> + +<p>She struck more chords, her fingers finding the keys with +the second-nature sureness, learned in her months of dreary +practice.</p> + +<p>She listened to the sounds, shaken and transported to hear +how they flooded the barren emptiness of the room with glory, +how they filled her heart full, full of happiness ... only if +she were happy, why was she crying, the tears running as fast +as they could down her cheeks?</p> + +<p>This was one of the remembered moments which brought +nothing but a pang of joy to Marise. When it came, the world +about her brightened.</p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p>There was another, one of those which came very seldom, +which brought something deeper than pain or joy. This was +the recollection of an instant, just one instant, of the day when +Maman let Sœur Ste. Lucie take her to Lourdes. It was the +feast of St. Louis, and Sœur Ste. Lucie always went every year +then. She had been awfully nice and jolly, the way she +always was with Marise, and it was fun to start off with her +early in the morning, at dawn, in the special excursion train. +At Lourdes it was fun, too, really exciting to be in such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +monstrously big crowd, oh, <i>what</i> a crowd! She heard somebody +tell Sœur Ste. Lucie that there were thirty thousand pilgrims +there that day. It amused Marise very much to hear them +called pilgrims and to think that she and Sœur Ste. Lucie +were counted as pilgrims, too. She had always thought of +"pilgrims" as people who landed on a stern and rock-bound +coast and began to fight with Indians; and nothing could be +more unlike that than the crowd at Lourdes, swimming in the +dusty, yellow sunshine, everybody dressed up in his best, walking +around in groups, talking and singing. Marise held on to +the Sister's nice, soft, old hand and followed her around from +one thing to another, taking a good big drink of the water, and +kneeling down whenever Sœur Ste. Lucie stopped to pray before +a shrine. Marise didn't pray much, but watched the +crowd, the endless crowd shuffling slowly past. She was proud +to be kneeling there beside a Sister, who had the right of entrance +everywhere, who opened any gate in any railing she +liked, and walked right in to say a prayer where the common +run of people didn't dare go.</p> + +<p>At noon, after three hours of this, Sœur Ste. Lucie took +her charge off up along the bright, quick-flowing stream, off +into the real country, till finally they came to a field that wasn't +too thick with people. There they sat down on the grass, under +a tree. Sœur Ste. Lucie got out the pasteboard shoe-box +they had taken turns carrying around all the morning and they +ate their lunch. Marise was simply starving by that time and +anything would have tasted good. But that lunch would have +made a stone statue eat, it was so good. Cold roast chicken, +plenty of it, big slices cut recklessly right off the breast, tender +and juicy and <i>flavored</i>; and crispy, crunchy rolls and fresh +butter; and little radishes and green onions and salt, and a +half bottle of the best white wine, which they watered down in +their cups with Lourdes water. Sœur Ste. Lucie laughed over +this as she poured it out and said they ought to be saints at +least for a day or so, after drinking Lourdes water with their +lunch, oughtn't they? She was as jolly as could be, anyhow, +and was enjoying herself so much that she kept Marise laughing +at her jokes all the time. One of those numerous friends of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +hers turned up here too, a stout, red-faced farmer's wife, who +shouted with pleasure at seeing Sœur Ste. Lucie, and came +over from the other side of the field to bring her lunch and +eat with them. She and Sœur Ste. Lucie got into gales of +laughter in which Marise joined with all her heart although +she didn't always quite see what the joke was. Then they had +their dessert, a triangle of creamy Camembert cheese, spread +on the crust end of their roll, and after this a great golden pear +apiece, so full of sweet juice that you couldn't take a bite of +it without its running down your chin, so you had to lean way +forward, to the tune of everybody laughing at you, and doing +the same thing themselves.</p> + +<p>After they had packed up what was left, and the farmer +woman had gone back to her family, Sœur Ste. Lucie got very +quiet and still, pulled out her rosary and began to murmur +her prayers in a very fast, low tone, her eyes almost shut up. +Marise sat beside her in the grass, watched the crowds beginning +to turn back towards the Basilica, and a couple of little +gnats dancing round and round each other in the air. The murmur +of the prayers was like a bee-hum in her ears. She leaned +back against the tree and drew a long breath, and the next +thing she knew it was hours later, and Sœur Ste. Lucie was +shaking her gently and saying she'd better wake up because it +was time to go back if they were going to get a place to see +the blessing of the sick.</p> + +<p>After that ceremony was over, everybody was perfectly worn +out and almost starved. Sœur Ste. Lucie went to one of the +convents for supper, where the good Sisters took care of hundreds +of the pilgrims, and looked as tired as Marise felt, and +walked as though their feet hurt as hers did. But there was +still one more Lourdes sight to see, the procession of the +lights in the evening. When they came out of the convent, +they found the weather changed, the wind blowing hard and a +light rain falling and not a bit of light coming from the black, +black sky. The damp was bad for rheumatism, and Sœur Ste. +Lucie's knee began to pain her, so that she said they would +not march in the procession but go up along the side of the +high horse-shoe staircase, where they could see on both sides and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +along the esplanade. How black and empty that looked, that +enormous stretch of pavement, like a great empty hole, outlined +by the street lights on all four sides of it. Back of it, +down towards the Grotto, there seemed to be millions of people, +judging by the lights which danced around, every way at once; +and through the wind and the rain and the darkness, Marise +and Sœur Ste. Lucie could hear snatches of singing, the chant +which fairly rings from the stones and walls of Lourdes.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img085.png" alt="img085" /><br /> + +<p class="center"><a href="music/avemaria_voice.mid">Listen</a></p> + +<p class="center"> +A-ve! A-ve! A-ve Ma-ri-a! A-ve! A-ve! A-ve Ma-ri-a! +</p> + +</div> + + + +<p>Then as Marise stuck her head through the railing to watch +what went on there, far, far below them, she saw the lights begin +to straighten out into two long lines and start streaming up +the lower part of the horse-shoe staircase where she and Sœur +Ste. Lucie stood. The procession had started; two by two they +were marching up towards the blaze of light at the top where +the door of the upper church stood open. The sound of their +voices grew louder and louder and there they were! The first +ones were a mother and her little girl; after them a couple of +working men; after them a man and his wife; after them a +priest and a soldier; after them—after them—Marise lost +count, she felt her head whirl, she couldn't see the people +any more, only the little dancing, quivering lights they were +carrying, candle-flames, scarcely at all protected from the +wind by a bit of card-board, or a hand curved about them.</p> + +<p>They kept going by and going by, those little flames, until +Marise's eyes ached. And yet she couldn't look at anything +else, she couldn't stop staring at those flickering, swaying little +flames.</p> + +<p>After a long time she was able to pull her eyes away from +them, to look past them down at the great esplanade—and +oh! now it was not a black and empty hole; it was all full, full +of lights, a million little marching and singing flames, in +endless lines, ordered, purposeful, marching to and fro. So +small, so tiny and feeble each one, but enough all together<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +to make a great light in the blackness, to fill all the emptiness +with glory.</p> + +<p>It was then that the terrible great moment came to Marise, +something that she could never think about long enough to +try to understand, because when she tried to think about it, +she began to shake all over just as she had then, when, across +the line of chanting pilgrims, she looked down at all those +little, marching, singing flames. What was it that came to her +then? The most aching sorrow; and yet an exaltation as +though broad wings were lifting her up in a solemn beat of +power.</p> + +<p>It was all over in an instant. Whenever it came after that, it +always came and went between heart-beats. But after it had +come and gone, everything looked different. It was as though, +plodding along on foot, a great wind had snatched her up, and +blowing mightily for an instant so that all the world was filled +with it, had set her down, ever so much farther along the road +she had to go. And always after this moment, she had an +hour or so when she liked people better, everybody, the dirty +old flower-vendor, the street-sweeper, Jeanne, the teachers at +school, Father and Maman. It was as though she saw them +all in a procession, each trying to keep alive a precious, flickering +flame.</p> + + +<p class="center">III</p> + +<p>There was another, a horrid one from which Marise always +looked away the instant she knew it was coming because she +couldn't bear it. And yet she never could be quick enough. +She always saw it, as though in her, as in a camera, a lens had +whirringly clicked open and shut.</p> + +<p>And yet there was nothing to it. She had come from school +with Jeanne, who had gone to the kitchen. Marise had crossed +the landing and started to pull the bell-rope, and then noticed +that the door happened to be a little ajar. So she pushed it +open and walked in. As she walked past the salon door she +had glanced in, and saw M. Fortier there, just going away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +from making a call, the father of Elise Fortier, her classmate +at school. He had his broad, fat back turned to her and was +stooping to kiss Maman's hand. There was nothing surprising +in this; everybody knew that gentlemen who kept on with the +old ways of doing things, always kissed ladies' hands. She had +seen the father of one of the girls kiss the bony hand of Mlle. +Ballot, the head teacher at school. What was registered indelibly +on Marise's mind was the expression on Maman's face. +Maman was looking—oh, it was horrid to think such a thing, +to say such a thing, to have looked at her and seen such +a thing.... Maman was looking sort of.... Marise could +never, try as she might, shut down on this moment quickly +enough to shut out the ugly thought she hated so.... Maman +was looking sort of foolish and silly, as though, as though.... +But here Marise was always able to snap the shutter shut and +put it all out of her mind, except the dull heaviness it left.</p> + + +<p class="center">IV</p> + +<p>But the worst, the very worst and most awful of all those +remembered parts of the past, was what happened about the +gray cat. No, that wasn't the way to put it, because you +couldn't say that anything had <i>happened</i> ... and yet how +sick it had made Marise, and did every time something reminded +her of it!</p> + +<p>One day when Marise came home from school, Jeanne gave +her a big, pretty, gray, yellow-eyed cat and said she thought +it might be company for her. Marise was awfully pleased, +took the cat in her arms, bending her cheek down to rest it +against the soft fur, and carried her off to her room to try +to get acquainted with her.</p> + +<p>But there seemed to be something the matter. She didn't +act like Cousin Hetty's Tommy, up in Ashley, nice and cuddlesome; +she seemed to have something on her mind. She +wouldn't sit still on Marise's lap and be petted, she wouldn't +play with a string nor drink the milk Marise put in a saucer +for her, nor lie down and go to sleep the cozy way cats usually +do. She tramped around and around the room, and every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +once in a while she'd give a loud miauw, in an anxious voice.</p> + +<p>Marise thought it was because she was with strangers in a +strange place, and that as she grew wonted, she would be +happier. But she kept this up all that day, and at night +when Marise shut her up in the extra kitchen they didn't +use, she yowled so that Maman complained. And the next +day she was even worse, acting so queer, doing such funny +things, stooping her front paws down, and tramping hard with +her back paws. And as she did this, she would look up at +Marise and miauw in a loud, anxious way as though she were +asking Marise to do something for her. At the end of that +second day, Marise was too worried to keep it to herself, +although she had resolved not to bother either Maman or +Jeanne because they didn't like cats. She went across the +landing to ask Jeanne to come. Jeanne came and Isabelle +too, instantly sure of the worst as usual, and declaring that +the man who had sold them the cat was a thief and a robber +and had palmed off on them a sick cat that nobody wanted. +They added emphatic precautions to Marise about not touching +her if she was sick, because a sick cat's bite meant poison.</p> + +<p>They went into the room. The cat got up and came towards +them that same queer way, stooping and treading and +switching her tail. And she gave again that strange, anxious +cry.</p> + +<p>"There, that's the way she does all the time," said Marise, +troubled and concerned. She came round in front of the two +women, so that she could look full up into their two faces, to +see what they thought.</p> + +<p>Not a turn, or color, or tone, or line of what they looked +and said and did ever faded from her mind. Her first feeling +as she looked up into their faces was of utter amazement; and +after this an instant cold premonition of something evil. She +stood perfectly still gazing at them.... What could it mean?... +What made them look so...?</p> + +<p>Jeanne and Isabelle looked down at the cat; the anger went +out of their faces, and in its place came a singular, secret expression, +half amused ... half <i>horrid</i>.... Marise could +never think of any other name for it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then they looked at each other, their eyes meeting, their +eyebrows arched high, and they laughed.</p> + +<p>At the sort of laugh they gave, Marise burned hot all over, +although she had no idea of what there could be to laugh at. +But every line of the two women's bodies and faces, the tone +of their laugh, the look of their glistening, amused eyes told +her that it was something they thought shameful. And she +was ashamed.</p> + +<p>Then, as she stood there, cold and burning hot, they had +both as by a common impulse glanced at her as if something +about her also seemed very funny to them. That glance was +the worst of all—like a smear she could never wipe off.</p> + +<p>She felt very sick, her knees shook under her. But something +furious and strong inside her told her that whatever else +she did, she must not let them see how sick they made her. +She stood her ground, her eyes burning, utterly at a loss. What +could it be? What was this awful joke they laughed at and +she couldn't see?</p> + +<p>Jeanne said, as they looked at the cat with a greedy amusement +in their eyes, "Oh, she's not <i>sick</i>. She's looking for a +husband, that's all."</p> + +<p>Isabelle laughed again at this, and said something to Jeanne +in Basque. Marise could not understand a word of this, but +her hot, straining eyes, fixed on their two faces, with a helpless +fascination, received another deep and indelible impression +of conscious shamefulness.</p> + +<p>Jeanne nodded and said to Marise, "I'll take her back to M. +Bergeret's brother-in-law for a few days, where there are other +cats, and then she'll be all right again."</p> + +<p>She picked the cat up by the middle and held her so, while +she listened to Isabelle, who now said something else in Basque, +half-grinning, her lips curled in an embarrassed, half-pleased +way. Jeanne glanced sharply at Marise, as if to see whether +she had understood this, in spite of its being said in Basque.</p> + +<p>Then they both went out of the room, Jeanne carrying the +cat by a hard, careless grasp about her middle. Outside the +door they both burst into giggles, as though they had been +restraining themselves before Marise. The little girl heard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +them giggling all the way down the hall, the sound broken once +by the loud anxious miauw of the cat.</p> + +<p>Marise stood perfectly still till she heard the outer door +open and close. Then she looked about her wildly. She +wanted to run somewhere and hide her face. She wanted to +sink down on the floor; she wanted somebody to help her, to +make it up to her, some one to wipe it away and put her back +where she had been three minutes before, when Jeanne and +Isabelle had come in the door. She <i>couldn't</i> go on, living the +way she felt now, as though she were dirty inside and couldn't +wash herself clean. What was it all about? What had it +meant? What was there about having a husband that people +thought was so...?</p> + +<p>At this it came over her in a wave again, so that she started +as though she had been struck a slashing blow, and ran, ran +breathlessly out to get help.</p> + +<p>In the dark hall she stood still, the thump, thump of her +heart loud in her ears. A murmur of voices came from the +salon. Maman had callers.... But even if she hadn't, Marise +now knew she could not have spoken to Maman about it. +Something came and stood between her and Maman so that +she knew she could not tell her. She had a horrible fear +that Maman would look that way, too, perhaps she might +laugh that way ... perhaps everybody would. Perhaps that +was one of the things they <i>did</i>. Not Father, either ... no, +she'd be ashamed of ... not ... why, there was <i>nobody</i> she +could tell; there was nowhere to run for help.</p> + +<p>She went slowly back to her room. The sight of it brought +up before her again the glistening eyes of the two women as +they had looked at the cat and laughed. A terrible burning +came up all over her so that she was almost suffocated. She +wanted to hide her face. She found herself leaning against +the dingy, checked red-and-white curtains. They smelled of +dust as she buried her face in them, burrowing deeper and +deeper among them as though she must hide herself, hide herself +from ... but she couldn't hide herself from what was inside +her own mind.</p> + +<p>She stood there a long time, her face pressed into the dusty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +curtains, her body buried in them. She was sick, sick from +head to foot.</p> + +<p>And then ... nobody came to help her, since there was +nobody to come; nothing happened ... nothing could happen. +She had thought she <i>couldn't</i> live, feeling like this. But +she would have to, since there wasn't anything else to do.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>This came to her slowly, and slowly sank into her, like still, +deep cold.</p> + +<p>Two days after this, as Jeanne was brushing her hair, she said +to Marise, "Our cat will be brought back to us to-morrow. +She is all right now, M. Bergeret says."</p> + +<p>Marise waited until the wave of sickness passed and she felt +she could make her voice sound as usual. Then she said +casually, "I've changed my mind. I don't want a cat now. +It would bother Maman too much."</p> + +<p>Jeanne was relieved. "Oh, very well. I don't ask anything +better. I hate cats around the house anyhow." She went on +brushing Marise's hair, with careful, loving skill, proud of its +thickness, its sheen, its silky blackness. She thought to herself, +"What a beautiful child our Marise is. And how I love +her! There isn't anything I wouldn't do for her! May the +Holy Virgin guard her and keep her safe always, Amen." She +never thought again of the cat.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="NEALE_BEGINS_TO_BE_NEALE" id="NEALE_BEGINS_TO_BE_NEALE"></a><i>NEALE BEGINS TO BE NEALE</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + + +<p>On Neale's thirteenth birthday, his mother gave him a little +silver watch and his father, a bicycle. In addition to the +excitement of getting into his teens and of owning these visible +and outward symbols of advancement, he was told that he +would now be sent to a real school, with no girls in the classes, +where he would really learn something; that is to say where +he would be prepared for college.</p> + +<p>Hadley Prep. was an excellent school, a sort of model school, +an information factory. You fed a small boy into it and at +the end of four years the school turned him out completely +filled with classified information. Boys entered with all sorts +of hazy disorders of learning; they were ground out, possessed +of a chain of facts, every link shining, polished and +joined by flawless welding to the preceding and consequent +facts. The curriculum took no count of modern +educational fads; "spiritual awakening, character building, intellectual +growth" had no place there. What would you have? +Four years is a short enough time to prepare boys for their +college entrance examinations. The non-essentials had to be +cut out. The great point was that when the Principal signed +a certificate of graduation he knew that the boy in question +could produce any piece of information required of him, from +the preterit of recevoir to the formula for accelerated motion +of falling bodies, at any college entrance examination in the +United States.</p> + +<p>Into the hopper of this mental polishing-machine, Neale +was poured with fifty other little boys and began painfully to +adapt himself to its rigorous codes. It was a process trying +to the most robust among them, and devastating to the weaker +ones. The devastating quality was not only recognized and +admitted but sedulously fostered by the faculty and Principal. +It was part of their business to see that the weaklings fell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +by the wayside long before the flock was led up to the narrow +gate of the college entrance examinations. And as some hospitals +achieve a miraculously low death-rate by the simple process +of never admitting a patient whom they are not sure they +can cure, so Hadley Prep. achieved the miraculously low rate +of examination mortality for which it was famous the country +over, by the simple process of knocking on the head and +throwing out on the scrap-heap any boy whose brains seemed +reluctant to admit college-entrance examination facts.</p> + +<p>Those whose heads were hard enough to resist the knocking, +found themselves completely absorbed by the mental +gymnastics which filled their days. The first two years of his +life at Hadley Prep. had almost nothing in them for Neale +except his over-time struggle to make up for the omissions of +Miss Vanderwater's haphazard tuition. Everything else, even +the assuming of long trousers, even the summers in the country, +<i>even games</i>, were banished to the fringe of consciousness, like +things seen out of the corner of your eye while you are gazing +with all your might at something else. The life of his +personality, his inner self, during those two years, realized the +ideal of the eighteenth century educator who felt that the only +safe up-bringing for boys would be to shut them up in a +barrel, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, and feed them +through the bung-hole. The record of what was fed through the +Hadley bung-hole was set down on Neale's report cards, which +he dutifully brought home to his parents. They glanced up +from their absorption in each other, read, and smiled over the +mathematical accuracy of the Hadley information about the +state of Neale's mind (the Hadley professor often marked a +boy as 87.75 proficient in American history, or 90.3 learned in +German). At times they wondered if Hadley were the best +place for him. But they were exactly like all other parents: +they really had no idea what else to do with Neale. His +health continued good and he did not seem rebellious, so they +confined their supervision of his education to paying his +rather expensive tuition, signing his report cards, and handing +them back to him.</p> + +<p>Towards the end of the second year Neale began to master<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +the new technique. He memorized the magic pass-words +which are accepted as a proof of understanding many subjects. +He began to draw breath, to tread water less frantically and +still not to fear the closing over his head of smothering floods. +The third year he felt earth beneath his feet again, and relaxed +enough from his mental concentration to spend occasionally +an hour or two on the school athletic field. He was fifteen +years old now, wore long trousers and suits with vests, a stand-up +collar, ties he tied himself, and carried a fountain pen. +Underneath all this grown-up bravery of exterior, there was a +brain that had learned to acquire and pigeon-hole information, +and a perfectly dormant personality.</p> + +<p>Life at the Crittenden home was, as far as he was concerned, +exactly the same life he had always known, except that instead +of playing on the streets, he went out on the school athletic-field, +and instead of playing with his tin soldiers, he usually +went up to his room to grind over his lessons. At breakfast +and supper his father and mother talked peaceably to one +another just as they always had, and although Neale was +able now to understand the subjects of their chat, their talk +was, as a matter of fact, often quite as incomprehensible to +him as it had been when he was a small boy. They had grown +so much together, had so shared life with each other and no +one else, that they possessed almost a language of their own, +made up of references, only half-expressed, to things they +had said long ago, or to experiences they had had together, +or to opinions they both knew so well there was no need to +formulate them in words. Neale was not surprised at this, +nor yet resentful. On his side he was absorbed in his studies +and the life at school. It was true that every once in a +while they talked directly to Neale; asked him questions—what +studies he liked best—how the teachers treated him—what +he had to eat at lunch. Whatever they asked Neale +always tried to answer in accordance with the facts; that he +was getting along all right he guessed, that everything was +satisfactory as far as he could see, that he hadn't any idea +what he should like to do later on to earn his living.</p> + +<p>Occasionally, instead of taking the trolley cars, Father<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +and Neale walked together down the long steps to Hoboken +and along 6th Street to Hudson, where his father turned south +and Neale went to the school. Then talk was harder to dodge—not +that Neale ever consciously dodged. They would walk +a dozen blocks. Father would ask a question, Neale would +answer it. Another dozen blocks, and another question. Once +Father asked if Neale wasn't sticking indoors too much. +Couldn't he manage to get a little more exercise? Neale +explained the seriousness of his studies and pointed out that +he still rode his wheel on Saturdays. But the suggestion took +root. Neale bought a pair of Indian clubs and an instruction +book, and took to swinging the clubs fifteen minutes night +and morning with the windows open.</p> + +<p>Another time Father said, "Look here, Neale, haven't you +any friends?"</p> + +<p>Neale was astonished, "Why, yes, I'm friends with the whole +class."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I suppose so, but you never seem to be with them +outside of school. When I went to school we were always +playing around in each other's yards and barns."</p> + +<p>"You went to school in the country," Neale reminded him. +"We haven't any yards or barns here. We have the athletic +field at school."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's so," his father admitted. After a time he +made a further admission, "Athletics are all right, too." But +something in his tone intimated that he was baffled rather than +convinced. Since Neale considered that athletics were not +only all right, but all there was to life, he found no comment +to make.</p> + +<p>A moment later, "But, great Scott," began his father with +some heat as though struck afresh with some aspect of Neale's +life. He seemed to hear the too-great vivacity of his accent +and to wait until he could ask quite casually, "Aren't there +any of your school-mates you'd like to have visit you?"</p> + +<p>Neale considered. It hadn't struck him before, but it was +a fact that after school and athletic practice, all the boys +vanished to their various homes. Never having known any +other than this city relation with school-mates it seemed to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +obvious and natural. "Visit me?" he said, trying to imagine one +of his classmates sitting at the Crittenden dinner-table, and +then, "No, I don't believe I do. There wouldn't be anything +special to do at home, would there?"</p> + +<p>His father drew on his cigar thoughtfully, and walked on in +silence.</p> + +<p>But he had a long talk with Neale's mother that evening, +the two country and village-bred parents putting their heads +together, earnestly though helplessly. The only course which +occurred to them was proposed to Neale, a week later, when +Mother asked him if he would do something to please her. Incautiously +Neale said, of course, yes, he would. He was always +willing enough to please Mother, and he had never made +the slightest objection to anything his parents planned for +him. But this plan turned out to be something very alarming. +It was all arranged, Mother told him, that he was to go +to dancing-school in the Germania Club ball-room on Tuesday +afternoons. Mother pointed out that, now he was fifteen +years old, and half-way through prep.-school, he ought to +learn to dance. Neale had no theoretic objections to offer +and had given his word that he would not object. So hiding, +except for his first wild look of dismay, the terror and repugnance +which filled him, he wrapped up the newly bought patent-leather +oxfords and started. There were limits even to +the Iroquois stoicism of his acceptance of what Fate brought +him. No power on earth could have made him walk through +the streets in those patent-leather shoes. But Mother never +pushed him anywhere near one of those limits. She did not +even suggest that he wear his dancing shoes. She helped him +find the paper and string to wrap them up. Also she did not +fuss over him ... not much. She looked at him hard, +picked a thread off the sleeve of the blue serge which was +his dress-up costume, and called his attention to the fact that +a button of his vest was unbuttoned. She did not offer to +button it herself, or handle him in any way. Mother was all +right, if she did want him to go to dancing-school.</p> + +<p>So he went. And it was not so bad, not nearly so bad as +he feared, the reassuring factor being that everybody else<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +there was in the same boat. You could see how they all despised +it. Except, of course, the girls. While he was changing +his shoes in silent alarm and disgust in the cloak-room, +who should come in but Jenkins, a "Lower Middle" at school. +Neale didn't know Jenkins except by name, but at least he +was some one to lean on. Neale was at once very cordial and +Jenkins, surprised and flattered by this attention from an +upper-class man, promised to show him how everything was +done. They went into the ball-room, Neale clinging morally +for dear life to Jenkins. A number of other young men of +fifteen and sixteen, and girls who looked almost like young +ladies, were sitting on opposite sides of the room. A bald-headed +man to whom Jenkins referred as "One Lung" sat at +the piano. The dancing master was young, German, energetic +and thorough. He called the class to their feet, explained +and illustrated the step and made them all practice +it en masse, "<i>One</i> and <i>two</i>! <i>One</i> and <i>two</i>!" Then after +a few minutes the music struck up and he left them to choose +partners and dance. Neale, of course, did nothing of the +kind, but pretended he couldn't find a partner (there were +twice as many girls as boys), and went back to his seat. This +was a tactical error. The Master spotted him at once. +"Couldn't find a partner? Oh, dance with me, then." He +whirled Neale about the room till his soul sickened, led him +up to the other side of the room and sent him off with a +bony, red-haired girl with freckles. Neale was caught that +way twice, but no more after that. He had at least ordinary +sense, he told himself. Next time the music started, he gulped +down his objections to the whole proceeding and bowed to the +prettiest girl in the room.</p> + +<p>The course was very thorough, covering much that was obsolescent, +and a good deal that was definitely dead. In that +and succeeding lessons Neale received instruction in the +steps of the Polka, the Schottische, the Varsovienne. The +two-step he really learned, managing to "Yale" down the +length of the hall without stepping on his partner's feet; and +although he hated the waltz, he was forced by infinite repetition +into mastering it. Oh, the misery of the hour-long<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +waltz-lesson, with the Master's constant exhortation, "Don't +hop! <i>Slide!</i>"</p> + +<p>Neale carried into his dancing the same minute earnestness +that won him success at his games and studies. He did not +see the use of dancing, any more than he saw the use of learning +German. But as the jobs seemed to have to be done, he +tackled both of them conscientiously. He remembered to +reverse in waltzing just as he remembered to put the auxiliary +at the end of a sentence after "als." He came to be considered +a good dancer. The girls did not claim to be tired when +he asked them to dance with him. But he went no further. +Even after he had mastered the steps and "leading," he did +not talk as he spun methodically around. What was there +to say? And even when he waltzed with Flossie Winters, the +admitted belle, his heart beat no faster. It was nothing to +him to put his arm around her waist. In spite of his long +trousers and stick-up collar, the spirit of the thing escaped +him; his time had not come.</p> + +<p>After some months (they seemed very long months to +Neale), the conscientious and thorough instructor gave him a +printed testimonial of efficiency; there was no more he could +teach Neale.</p> + +<p>Over this his mother looked at him, "Wouldn't you like to +go on, for the fun of it, Neale?" she asked him rather urgently. +Neale's father took his cigar out of his mouth to hear Neale's +answer.</p> + +<p>"For the <i>fun</i> of it!" said Neale, stupefied at the idea. His +parents exchanged glances and shook their heads, beaten.</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course you don't <i>have</i> to!" his mother assured him +hastily. His father put his cigar back in his mouth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + + +<p>In June 1899 when Hadley Prep. unlocked its grim doors +and spewed forth the fifteen-year-old Neale for his third vacation, +he did not as he had always done before, go at once +with Mother to West Adams and the saw-mill. The invariable +program of his journey there, Mother's two weeks' stay +with him to get him settled, her going on to visit vague relatives +of her own elsewhere in Massachusetts, and her return +to spend the rest of the summer with Father, was upset by +the news from the West Adams Crittendens. Jenny, the +hired girl, had been to visit friends in Troy, and had fallen ill +on her return. The doctor thought it might be typhoid. +Certainly they did not want a boy visitor bothering around, +until the matter was settled and they knew whether they were +in for a long siege.</p> + +<p>The Crittendens like all methodical people were quite at a +loss when circumstances interfered with their routine. If +there was one part of Neale's year the rightness of which they +did not doubt, it was the summer spent in the country where +his father had grown up. Now they were confronted with a +perfectly new aspect of the problem of what to do with him. +They solved it by not doing anything for the present. Mrs. +Crittenden went off to visit the usual relatives in Massachusetts, +delicate old ladies, whose nerves could not hold out +against the idea of a great ramping boy; and Neale was left +temporarily with his father to wait developments in West +Adams.</p> + +<p>The first days of liberty were sweet enough, after the strain +of examinations. Neale loafed or rode his wheel (he had a +new 24-inch frame bicycle now) at random up to Hudson +Heights, and beyond on the Palisades. But less than a week +of this was enough. He tried to amuse himself with baseball +again, but it was not as he remembered it. The three years he +had been at Hadley Prep. had separated him from his old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +friends. They were no longer to be found. Some were at +work, some had moved away. The boys playing ball seemed +absurdly young. The vacant lots themselves were absurdly +small and rough. How could he have played there? He gave +the thing up and moped.</p> + +<p>What was there to do? He got on his wheel again and +went out over the Plank Road as far as Passaic, swung left +through Montclair, the Oranges, out to Elizabeth and home +through Newark. Home was just as dull as he had left it. +Neale was bored to desperation, and on a chance went into the +parlor and opened the book-case. He was no great reader. +In his own room there was a fair collection of Henty, G. Manville +Fenn and Harry Castleman, but none of these seemed +worth re-reading. He didn't suppose these grown-up books in +the library could be worth anything, but he took down a volume +to see.</p> + +<p>"Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within +twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid impression of +the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on +a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time +I found out for certain that this bleak place over-grown with +nettles was the churchyard ... and that the dark flat wilderness +beyond the churchyard intersected with dykes and +mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was +the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond was the +river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind +was rushing, was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers +growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.</p> + +<p>"'Hold your noise!' cried a terrible voice, as a man started +up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. +'Keep still, you little devil, or I'll cut your throat!'"</p> + +<p>Half an hour later Neale was still standing by the book-case, +the book in his hand, his mouth hanging open, shivering +in the clammy mist together with Pip and the man with +the iron chain. An hour later he was tucked into the Morris +chair, among the cushions of which he hid the book when the +dinner bell made him reluctantly lay it aside.</p> + +<p>What made him hide it? An invincible sense of moral de<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>cency +made him hide it. He would have shuddered and +cowered like a modest girl whose bed-room door is opened inadvertently +by a stranger, at the very idea of carrying the +book to the table and pouring out to his father what it made +him feel. With a shy, virginal delicacy he stood guard, half-frightened, +half-enchanted, over the first warm gush from the +unexpected well-springs of emotion in his heart. If his father +had come into the room, had seen what he was reading and +asked him how he liked it, he would have answered briefly, +"Oh, all right."</p> + +<p>But for the next three days he did nothing but live with Pip, +and feel intolerable sympathy, far deeper than anything he had +ever felt in his own healthy life, for the convict victim of +society. On the afternoon of the third day, his heart pounding +hard with hope, he was in the row-boat, in the track of the +steamer. The Morris-chair in which he sat, swayed up and +down to the ocean rhythm of the great deeps which bore him +along. He peered forward. There was the steamer at last, +coming head on. He called to Provis to sit still, "she was +nearing us very fast," ... "her shadow on us," ... and +then, oh, <i>gosh</i>! ... the police-boat, the betrayal, the summons +to surrender!</p> + +<p>Neale's soul recoiled upon itself in a shudder of horrified +revolt. He recognized the traitor, a white terror on his face. +Grinding his teeth, Neale leaped at his throat. With a roar +the water closed over their heads ... he would never let +him go, never, never.... Down they went to the depths, to +the black depths, fiercely locked in each other's arms. Neale +smothered and strangled there ... and came up into another +world, the world of books.</p> + +<p>At the table that night, his father looked at him and asked, +"You're not getting a cold, are you, Neale?"</p> + +<p>"No, I guess not," said Neale, blinking his reddened eyelids, +and eating with a ravenous appetite his large slice of rare +roast beef.</p> + +<p>After that, time did not hang heavy on his hands. The days +were not long enough. The volume which stood next to +"Great Expectations" was called "The Tale of Two Cities."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +"Which two cities?" Neale wondered. He opened it and +began to read. In a moment, wrapped in a caped great-coat, +shod with muddy jack-boots, he was plodding up-hill beside +the Dover Mail, his hand on his horse-pistol. The panting +rider on his blown horse—the message, "Wait at Dover for +Mam'selle,"—the answer in capital letters, "<span class="smcap">Recalled to +Life</span>!" With a long quivering breath Neale slid back a century +and a quarter, into a world vibrating with sorrow, hope, +indignation, hatred, love.</p> + +<p>He dipped his handkerchief in the muddy wine spilled in +the street; he looked up, not surprised to see the squalid joker +scrawl "<span class="smcap">Blood</span>," on the wall; he climbed the filthy staircase, +and averted his eyes in horrified sympathy from the ruin +of humanity who sat in the dark, cobbling shoes.</p> + +<p>And then, brushed in with great colorful strokes, the causes +and authors of the filthy stairway, the squalid joker, the +ruined man, the endless misery. With the four serving-men +pouring out the chocolate of Monseigneur, Neale began to +burn, like a carefully constructed bon-fire, alight at last. He +had never in his life before, given a conscious thought to social +injustice or the poor, but every instinct for fair play, sound +and intact in his heart, flared up hotly and honestly, as he +gave himself naïvely to the spell of the magnetic exaggeration +and over-emphasis of the story. He had "had" the French +Revolution in his history at Hadley Prep. and could have recited +correctly almost any date in it. But, quite literally, he +had no idea until after he had finished the story, that this +panting, bleeding, weeping, thundering book had any connection +with what he had learned at school.</p> + +<p>"David Copperfield" was good, not so terribly exciting as +the others, but solid food on which Neale, aware for the first +time of his hunger, feasted with a deep content—all except +the parts about Dora, who made him tired. After this for a +change, he reached up to a shelf above and took down at +random one of the set in green and gold binding. This was +"Kidnapped." Thereafter he read nothing but green and +gold, till his eyes gave out and his father drove him out to +spend a whole afternoon on his wheel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + + +<p>Although he had gone reluctantly, once he was out it +seemed fine to be on his bicycle again. His forgotten body +reacted with a rush to exercise and fresh air. Generally he +expected to make at least fifty miles in a half-day but to-day +was hot. Pedaling easily through Nutley he caught sight of a +young man playing tennis against two girls and stopped in +the shade of a maple to watch the game, still sitting on his +wheel, his right pedal locked over the curb-stone. Tennis +was not so universal then as now: Neale knew little about the +game.</p> + +<p>Presently a chance stroke sent the ball into the street. +"Out!" announced the young man, and turning ran back to +retrieve it. As any American would do anywhere in the world +when a ball is in question, Neale stooped, picked it up and +was just going to toss it back when amazement paralyzed his +arm. Could this slim youth in immaculate flannels possibly +be Don Roberts? Don, the big boy who had played shinny +and vacant-lot baseball with him, whom he had never seen but +with a dirty shirt and unkempt hair! The elegant youth cried +out, "Neale Crittenden! I'll be blessed if it isn't old man +Crit! That's luck! Come on and meet my friends and we'll +have a set of doubles."</p> + +<p>He ushered Neale up to the net, where laying a patronizing +hand on his friend's shoulder, he presented him. "Ladies, my +old friend, Crittenden. We used to be boys together long ago. +Neale, the Misses Underhill, Nutley's peerless blondine duet, +Polly and Natalie. Now, how about some doubles? Neale +can use my old racket."</p> + +<p>"But I don't play," said Neale, alarmed at the idea. "No, I +honestly don't. I've never had a racket in my hand. I'll +watch."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, fudge! That's all right. You'll learn. Nat and +Neale, that's your team. Polly, my dear, come over to this +court and back up your Uncle Don. No fair banging everything +at Polly."</p> + +<p>The essential rudiments were explained. Neale gripped +the racket and the game began. At first his partner politely +kept her own court but as the completeness of his ineptness +became awfully apparent, she began covering more and more +territory, running across and snatching the ball from in front +of his hesitating racket. In vain, for Don continually placed +his return down her undefended alley. The set was soon +over, 6—love.</p> + +<p>"Now, Crit," said Don, jumping over the net, "we'll have +sex against sex."</p> + +<p>The second set went better. Now that he was playing on +Don's side, Don gave him a little coaching. Neale learned +to run in to the net and found volleying much simpler than +playing ground strokes. Natalie's low returns often went +through him and he did nothing with her service, but not infrequently +he managed to pat back Polly's gentle offerings. +When points were needed Don monopolized the court. The +boys won,—a love set.</p> + +<p>Don lit a cigarette and pretended to fan himself with his +racket. "How about lemonade for the victors?" he cried, but +the girls demurred. It was five o'clock, they had to go home +and dress. They laughed over nothing at all, shook hands +with Neale, told a few friendly lies about his progress, and +walked off laughing over nothing at all, swinging their rackets; +white-shod, yellow-haired, pink-skinned.</p> + +<p>"Dear little sweethearts, aren't they?" commented Don. "A +little insipid like most nice girls, but you have to take what +you can get. Polly's a dub at tennis, of course, uses her +racket like a snow-shovel, but she's not such a worse little +flirt. Look here, Crit, old boy. I've got to stay in this stinking +hole all summer, cramming for deficient exams. The old +man won't let me go to the Water Gap till I can answer those +damn questions. And there isn't a soul to play with but those +girls. It's rotten for my game. Why don't you come out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +here? Come to-morrow. Of course you can't play, but I'll +teach you. I can teach anybody."</p> + +<p>Neale blushed and accepted the magnificent offer.</p> + +<p>"Well, ta, ta, old man, sorry you can't stay to supper."</p> + +<p>Neale mounted his wheel with a very high heart. This was +something like. Something was beginning to happen in his +life. Wasn't Don great? As he rode home he decided that +he would ask his father to let him go to Princeton. Don was +at Princeton.</p> + +<p>But he didn't. Father read him Mother's latest letter, all +about the particular great-aunt she was visiting in Cambridge, +and after they had commented on this, Father looked at his +evening paper sideways as he ate, and Neale went over in his +mind the events of the afternoon, and the wonder of Don +Roberts turning out such a splendid fellow, such a good sport, +such clothes, such a way with him. Neale thought about him +a great deal more than about the girls, and with vastly more +admiration. He was sure that David Copperfield's Steerforth +was nothing to Don Roberts. Once when he glanced up, he +saw Father looking at him instead of his newspaper.</p> + +<p>"Well, Neale," he asked, "what are you up to these days?"</p> + +<p>This was his opportunity, Neale knew it was, to introduce +the subject of Princeton, but he could not think of any way to +do it. Instead he said vaguely, "Oh, nothing much. Sort of +hanging around." And then with a great effort, he brought +out, for once, a vital piece of news, "I'm learning to play +tennis."</p> + +<p>"That's <i>good</i>," said Father. "It's a great game."</p> + +<p>This seemed to be final. He looked back at his newspaper. +But after a while, as though something had occurred to him he +asked, "Who's teaching you? Where do you play?"</p> + +<p>"I ran across Don Roberts, over in Nutley. They used to +live here, on Central Avenue. He used to go to Number Two +School." He wanted to go on and tell about Don's being in +Princeton, but could not propel himself past the full-stop, +where an inadvertent cadence of his voice had dropped him.</p> + +<p>Next morning he found Don with a whitewash brush touching +up the marking of the court. For three hours they prac<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>tised—a +most exhausting three hours! He thought he began to +make a little progress. He knew he was almost all in, when +noon came, worn out far more by the mental strain of struggling +his way into a new technique, than by the physical effort, +although that had been enough to leave him blown and panting, +as they went into the house to have lunch.</p> + +<p>The two boys were alone at the table. Don swaggered a +little as he served his guest. "No one at home," he explained. +"Mother and the girls are down at Asbury. The old man +doesn't get back from the office till the 5.45. I can hear +his train whistle from here. He finds his loving son deep in his +books, you bet."</p> + +<p>Through luncheon Don fired Neale's enthusiasm with stories +of Big Bill Edwards, Arthur Poe, Lady Jayne and other heroes +of his Alma Mater. Afterwards he strolled to the living-room, +sat down at the piano, and sang "The Orange and the +Black,"—"There's a college we call Princeton." Then lowering +his voice, with many nods and knowing winks, he sang +a long song with the refrain, "Keep your eye on tricky little +Sarah."</p> + +<p>Neale's play on the streets and in vacant lots with perfectly +heterogeneous and casual little boys had given him +quite enough of a vocabulary to understand the words of this +song; and odds and ends of the older boys' talk overheard in +the locker-room at Hadley made the spirit of it by no means +unfamiliar. But this was the first time that either words or +spirit had ever been more than one of the casual by-products of +boy-life. What put it in the center of his attention now +was his admiration of Don as the model of colorful, sophisticated +life. Evidently this was a part of such life. Neale +applied his mind therefore to the words and the spirit and +learned to hum the air.</p> + +<p>That evening Father read another uneventful letter from +Mother; then they sat in silence till, as father was filling his +pipe, he remarked, as if it had just come into his mind, "Oh, +I thought you ought to have a racket of your own, Neale. +I got one. It's in the hall on the coat-rack."</p> + +<p>Neale bounded upstairs and carried his prize to his room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +There was not only a Sears racket, but three Wright and Ditson +balls, Spalding's "Tennis Guide," and a little pamphlet +on "How to Play Lawn Tennis." Neale dropped into his +Morris chair and devoured both books before going to bed.</p> + +<p>The hard protective husk of his little boyhood was so +newly sloughed off, that his adolescence had as yet received +scarcely a mark upon its new freshness to impression. Ready +now, responsive with an inward quiver to a whole range of +experience to which he had been blind and deaf before, he was +catching up from the chance materials about him, the stuff +with which to construct his new world. And here was material +ready to his hand. The editor, an enthusiast, an idealist +of sportsmanship had put a great deal in his little treatise +beside his copious advice as to the proper grip on the racket and +the laying out of a court. Without the slightest self-consciousness +(because he had the not-to-be-imitated single-heartedness +of the sincere devotee) he had charged every section +of his treatise with the spirit of the game, the spirit of sport, +not of border warfare. So matter-of-factly was this message +conveyed that even the adolescent soul, half-crusader, half-Hun, +did not guess that it was being preached to. The word +"honor" was never mentioned, yet Neale understood perfectly +the significance of what he read, under the caption +"Tournaments:" "The committee should provide adequate +linesmen, for while the contestants themselves can generally +tell whether a ball is good or not, yet close decisions occur +in every match and it is obviously unfair to force a player to +penalize himself (as he naturally would feel bound to do) +by giving his opponent the benefit of the doubt on all uncertain +cases." He nodded approvingly over the phrase, "as he +naturally would feel bound to do." It did not strike him as a +new idea, but merely a clearer statement of something he had +always felt was in the air about sports. Yes, that was how a +college man would act, how Don would act.</p> + +<p>Again, among the illustrations he was struck by a photograph +of the winner and runner-up shaking hands after the Newport +tournament. Neale looked long at the expression of cordial +congratulation and admiration on the loser's face. He moved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +uneasily in his chair at the recollection of a nine of disgruntled +urchins muttering after a defeat, "Aw, you bunch of stiffs, +wait till we get you on our own diamond." Neale had been +one of those who muttered, one of those so stung by defeat +that the idea of admiring the better playing which had beaten +them would have been inconceivable to him. Neale knew +himself well enough to know the fierceness of his lust for +victory. He knew it was going to be a job to tame that lust +to this civilized code. But he would try. Morally on tip-toe, +he resolved to be worthy of Don's friendship.</p> + +<p>When he turned the last page, relaxed the intense concentration +with which he had been absorbing the essence and spirit +of the book, and stood up to stretch and yawn before going +to bed, he felt that he had learned a lot. And he had. Silently, +with the incalculable silence of natural processes, an +ideal had crystallized in his heart around a standard of conduct.</p> + +<p>And yet this was all under the surface. As he dropped off +to sleep, his mind retained as the chief lesson of the book a +mass of stimulating suggestions about rolling strokes, the reverse +twist service, and the advice for a solitary beginner to +practise against a brick wall.</p> + +<p>He knew where such a wall could be found; in a vacant +lot on Poplar Street, just off Summit Avenue. He often had +played hand-ball there in the old days. Next morning he went +there after breakfast, postponing his ride to Nutley till after +lunch. The result was so good that thereafter he spent every +morning there.</p> + +<p>The summer days went by. Neale progressed far in his +imitation of Don and Don's manner and standards. He +learned after practising with a box of his own, to accept the +cigarettes Don constantly offered him. To be like Don, he +learned to call the girls by their first names without choking, +although he never could bring himself to squeeze their +hands or pat their shoulders or stroke their hair as Don did +so casually; and he did manage to pick up a fair game of +tennis.</p> + +<p>When he challenged Natalie to singles and beat her 7-5,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +Don looked at him with a new expression, and a few days later +announced great news. "It's all arranged. Tournament here +next Saturday, lemonade, lawn party, picnic-supper, dance. +The old man's agreed not to butt in and spoil things. I've +got four fellows from here, Peterson, and a friend of his from +Montclair. You and I make eight. Just right for a day's +tournament on one court."</p> + +<p>"But I don't play well enough," protested Neale.</p> + +<p>"You'll be put out in the first round of course," Don admitted, +"but I need you to make the even eight, and you can +chase balls and make yourself useful. Entry fee's a dollar. +That'll buy a Pim racket as a prize. I <i>need</i> a new racket."</p> + +<p>The great day came and Neale, flustered and tense, was +put out in the first round according to schedule. It didn't +surprise him, although deep in his heart he had had a fluttering +hope—but no matter. What happened to him was of +no consequence. Don came through easily, of course. After +lunch Neale sat with Natalie and together they gasped and +clapped and cried, "played!" as Don captured his match in +the semi-finals.</p> + +<p>"Isn't he splendid?" said Natalie. Neale nodded, too much +moved to speak.</p> + +<p>The finals were called. Neale focussed himself on the game, +blind to anything else. Don was matched against the Peterson +boy, a high-school lad from Montclair. Don got the first +set. Good. The second set unexpectedly went to deuce. +What had happened! Neale leaned forward, his eyes hot +from staring, and tried to make out the meaning of what he +saw. Peterson didn't hit the ball as hard as Don did, but his +long, bony arm pulled off the most impossible of "gets." +Deuce, vantage, deuce, vantage. Don put on more steam, +served doubles, lost his service. Peterson won his own service, +and the sets were even. Don's face was a blank. He +walked to his place, hitched up his trousers, pulled the brim +of his white felt sports-hat low over his eyes, set his jaw and +faced his opponent. Neale's anxious eyes had not left him for +a second.</p> + +<p>The last set was astounding, paralyzing to the spectators.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +Don had gone to pieces and the high-school boy had pulled +himself together. His gawky, graceless body and long arms +seemed to cover the whole court. Don served with murderous +force, his rising fury burning with a sensible heat all around +him as he raced and plunged and stroked the ball. Peterson +broke through his service again—four-two. Don struck +out dazzling drives, but many of them landed in the net. +He got by Peterson with wily stroke after stroke—only so +many of them landed in the alleys; four-three; five-three. +Peterson kept on steadily, with his stiff, mechanical, chopped +returns, his intent eyes gleaming in his impassive face. He +had Don forty-love. Neale's heart was bursting. Don rushed +to the net. Peterson lobbed to the base-line, and it was all +over. Don was beaten.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>In a flash Neale found an excuse for his hero, "Every one +has his off-days ... but...."</p> + +<p>Though half-forewarned by the look on Don's face, he +could not turn his eyes away from the dashing figure in white +flannels, which stood there frozen in mid-flight as the fatal +ball fell inside the back-line. Then with a furious swing of +his arm Don flung his racket from him as if he wished to +break it into a thousand pieces. By good luck it did not +hit one of the girl spectators, but fell with a little crash of +broken twigs into the midst of a lilac bush. He took a step +or two after this, as if he meant to leave the court at once. +With an effort, he turned about, walked up to the net where +the Peterson boy stood panting, and gave him in silence, a limp +hand-shake.</p> + +<p>Then he pushed through the spectators, and went into the +house calling over his shoulder that Polly was to award the +prize. Neale did not dare to look at Natalie; the moment was +too awful.</p> + +<p>The Peterson boy did not stay to flaunt his triumph. Pleading +an impending thunder-storm as an excuse (the sky was as +a matter of fact very black and lowering), he scorched off on +his wheel back to Montclair with the spoils of victory bound +to his handle-bars. With his departure, the atmosphere of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +gloom among Don's friends began to lift. When the storm +broke, as it did shortly, they all hurried indoors. The girls +set about getting supper with a great clatter of chafing-dishes, +and much screaming, with each clap of thunder. By the time +the cheese was melted, Don reappeared in blue serge and negligee +silk shirt. Coming down stairs he passed Neale standing +apart with his back against the newel post.</p> + +<p>"Oh, drop your grouch, Crit, old man," he said. "Forget it! +Of course Nordhoff's a pretty rotten umpire. I suppose he +thought he'd give the kid a chance, but he needn't have stung +me on <i>all</i> the close ones."</p> + +<p>On this, he passed lightly to the supper-table, where later, +on being loudly called, Neale followed him, starting up from +his moody silence as though he had forgotten where he was. +It was his first supper out with young people, the first time +he had eaten welsh-rabbit; the first time he had seen anything +prepared over a chafing-dish; the first time he had encountered +the traditional young people's menu of that date—welsh-rabbit, +fruit cake, nut-fudge made on the spot, all washed +down with ginger-ale. It might have been bread and milk +for all Neale knew. What he saw was the photograph in +the Tennis Guide of Davis shaking hands with Whitman.</p> + +<p>Presently loyalty flared up. If Don fell short of the standard +perhaps the standard was wrong.... It would not do, +even as he thought of this excuse, he knew it would not do. +He was aware of a streak of iron in his soul. An idol might +sweep away the warmth and color of life by its fall—let them +go then! No warping of standards could keep it on its pedestal. +But the real sorrow in his heart drove him to try to +find excuses for Don. Great Scott! it <i>was</i> hard to lose! +How could you blame anybody for not coming up to such +a terribly high standard? Anybody on earth would naturally +feel sore at being beaten in such a....</p> + +<p>Even as he tried falteringly thus to lower his ideal to fit +his affection, he was aware of something stern and relentless +within him. The gallant face of the defeated player in the +photograph stood out beside Don's startled, angry resentment +at a wound to his vanity. Nine generations of Puritan fore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>bears +would not let Neale abandon his ideal because it hurt +him.</p> + +<p>He passed into a condition of acute amazement at the others. +How could they take it so light-heartedly? Perhaps they +didn't care. Or perhaps they felt themselves obliged to pretend +since they were still in Don's house. Yes, of course, he +ought to pretend too.</p> + +<p>Smarting, he sprang up at a new word of command. "How +about a little rag-time?" Don was crying in his role of master +of ceremonies. "Polly, you to the piano. Get the old +banjo, Dick. Clear the floor, boys. Oh, pitch the rugs out +of the window, a little rain won't hurt 'em." For through +the open windows came the steady voice of a summer downpour.</p> + +<p>The musicians struck up "Whistling Rufus," couples were +formed and racketed noisily to and fro from the dining-room +to the sitting-room and back, with much bumping and giggling +at the congested doorway. Neale danced absent-mindedly with +a girl whose name he could not remember, and whom he +exchanged for a similarly anonymous girl when the tune +changed to the "Georgia Camp-meeting." He went on thus, +setting his body to do the decent thing, while his spirit lay +prostrate within him.</p> + +<p>They were dancing harder than ever now, racing long-leggedly +from one end of the room to the other, the boys carrying +the girls bodily off their feet at some of the turns, the girls +abandoning themselves like romping children to the whirlwind +of the insistent rhythm, which they marked by shouting +out as they danced, "Oh, la la, la, la-la, la la la! There'll +be a <i>hot</i> time in the <i>old</i> town <i>to-night</i>!" Neale danced +on with the rest. Under his grimly silent exterior, something +fine and high and deeply wounded, cried out silently to the +others, and received no answer.</p> + +<p>The music ended with a crash, the exhausted couples sank +into chairs, gasping and fanning each other. Neale's heart +leaped to see, half-way up the stairs, Natalie sitting alone +as if she had not been dancing. Why, of course. There was +Natalie! He had forgotten her. She had understood. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +tragedy of the afternoon must have gone home to her. <i>She</i> +was a good sport! With a warm glow he hurried up to where +she sat, and sank down beside her, his stifling sense of isolation +gone.</p> + +<p>She lifted the sweet, flower-like mask of her youth to him, +her eyes gleaming in the half-light of the stairs. But at the +moment, Neale had forgotten whether she was a girl or a boy. +She was a good sport. That was what he needed. He started +to speak, but a shout of laughter burst out of the room below +them. They looked down. In the center of the vociferously +amused circle of spectators, Don was making fun of +his late adversary's gawky manners and poor eye-sight. He +had a racket in his hand, and glaring through it with a burlesque +of Peterson's intent short-sighted gaze, he was mimicking +the school-boy's strained awkward position at the net.</p> + +<p>Neale fell back appalled, and looked to Natalie for sympathy +and understanding.</p> + +<p>Natalie had also leaned forward, and as they turned towards +each other, her face was so close to his that he could +see the peach-like bloom on her cheeks.</p> + +<p>All the pretty face was quivering with mirth. "Isn't Don +the <i>wittiest</i> man!"</p> + +<p>Neale got up stiffly and walked down the stairs without a +word. Nobody in the crowd of laughing boys and girls paid +the least attention to his silent passage through them. He +went out on the porch, the beating downpour of the rain +suddenly loud in his ears. Oh, all the better! He'd like +getting soaked.</p> + +<p>He found his wheel on the side-porch, mounted it without +troubling to light his lamp or turn up his coat collar, and delighting +in the clammy discomfort of the streaming water, +pedaled stolidly over the nine miles to his home.</p> + +<p>Alone in his room he took off his steaming clothes, rubbed +down and got into pajamas and a bath-robe.</p> + +<p>"Crittenden," he said sternly, "the world is no place for +you. You're a lone wolf. A lone wolf."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + + +<p>When Neale turned out his Welsbach burner and rolled into +bed, he encountered a strange, new sensation, an immense relief +just to lay himself down, and to have darkness about him. +For the first time in his life he was consciously very tired, +for the first time he knew the adult sensation of having lived +to the point of weariness, for the first time he felt the passive +sweetness of the resigned adult welcome of repose which is +perhaps a premonition of our ultimate weariness and our ultimate +welcome to death.</p> + +<p>For a moment Neale lay there, drowned in astonishment +at this new, unguessed-at pleasure. Then, without warning, +the thick cloud of a boy's sleep dropped over him like black +velvet.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The next morning, his father, passing on the way to his cold +bath, looked in and saw the boy, sunk fathoms deep in sleep, +the bright new sunlight of the early morning shining full on +his face. Heavens! How can children sleep so soundly! +His father stepped into the room, walking silently on bare +feet, and drew down the shades. The shadowing of the room +did not waken the sleeper. He still lay profoundly at rest +and yet profoundly alive, one long, big-boned arm thrown +over his head on the pillow, as he always had slept when he +was a child.</p> + +<p>"As he had when he was a child!" His father was struck +by the phrase and looked again at the tall, rather gaunt +young body flung on the bed. That was no child who +lay there, nor was that a child's face, for all the pure, childlike +curves of the young lips, firmly held together even in this +utter abandon to sleep. The older man stood by the bed +for a moment, looking down on his son, his own face grave and +observant. He would be a fine-looking fellow, Neale, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +those honest eyes, wide apart under his good, square forehead. +Yes, Neale's father had always known the extreme satisfaction +of being able to respect his son, there was no doubt about +that. But there was something else, the something that had +always baffled him, that he had never been able to penetrate, +the closed look, locked tight over ... what? Was it locked +tight over something, or nothing? Did Neale have a real +personal life? Would he ever have? Would there ever be +anything, anybody who would have the key to unlock and set +free what was there, before it died of its imprisonment?</p> + +<p>For an instant the face of Neale's father was unlocked as he +stood looking down on his son. Then, with a long breath, he +stepped back into the hallway, silent on his bare feet, and went +on to shave, and to take his cold bath.</p> + +<p>It was after ten when Neale awakened and the day had +sunk from its first fresh hopefulness into the resigned apathy +of a hot mid-morning, with the stale smell of dusty, sun-baked +pavements, the slow, unimportant jog, jog, jog of the horse +hauling the grocer's delivery-cart, and the distant, jingling +of the scissors-grinder's bell.</p> + +<p>Neale came slowly to himself and rolled over, a very bad +taste in his mouth, both physically and mentally. He had +not noticed it at the time, but he now thought, scraping his +coated tongue against his teeth, that melted cheese and cake and +nut-fudge and ginger-ale were a darned bad combination to +be swallowing of an evening. And as for the rest ... oh, +gosh! Never again!</p> + +<p>He turned his big, strong feet out of bed and sat sunk together +for a moment, recalling it all, and steeping his soul in +wormwood once more. <i>Now</i> what?</p> + +<p>The telephone rang; he heard Katie answer, and clump up +the stairs to see if he were awake.</p> + +<p>"Somebody to talk to you, Neale," she said, seeing him +sitting up. Neale's father might note he was no longer a +child, Neale's mother might keep her hands from fussing over +him, but for Katie he would always be the little boy she had +helped to bring up. She laid her hand on his head now, and +Neale did not mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> answer," he said stolidly.</p> + +<p>"It's him that's always telephonin'," she explained. "He's +after wantin' you to go and play tennis."</p> + +<p>"You tell him I can't go," Neale repeated.</p> + +<p>Katie retreated astonished. Neale heard the sound of her +voice at the telephone two flights below. Then she shouted +up, "Neale!"</p> + +<p>He went to the stairs and answered crossly, "What?"</p> + +<p>"He wants to know will you be goin' this afternoon?"</p> + +<p>"<i>No!</i>" shouted Neale, leaning over the banisters.</p> + +<p>In a moment she cried again, "He wants to know will you +be goin' to-morrow morning?"</p> + +<p>"NO!" shouted Neale again, and going into the bathroom +locked the door behind him.</p> + +<p>When rather damp as to hair, he came out, silence and the +smell of frying bacon told him that Katie had left the telephone +to get his breakfast ready. Gee Whiz! He didn't want any +breakfast, not with a taste like that in his mouth.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>To act the part of a lone wolf of sixteen, one must read +poetry. He had never read much poetry except some of +Milton's Paradise Lost, for a specially loathed English Literature +course at Hadley. But there were plenty of poetry +books in the library at home. After some false starts, Neale +began to know his way among them, concentrating on the +slim volumes with pasteboard covers and paper backs.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Beneath the bludgeonings of chance ..."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Yes, Neale too would hold up an unbowed, bloody head.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"... without fear, without wish,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Insensate save of a dull crushed ache in my heart...."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">... "Just to reach the dreaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the sleep."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Sitting alone in the darkened library how Neale soaked +himself in this sort of thing, hunting up one page and down +another till he found the voice that spoke to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The irresponsive silence of the lands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The irresponsive sounding of the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breathe but one language and one voice to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>When Katie's carpet-sweeper and feather-duster and kind, +gossiping voice sounded too close, he escaped out of doors, +but not on his bicycle. That, like his tennis-racket brought +up painful memories. Every evening he walked to the Boulevard, +and gazed over the Hackensack meadows till the sun +set.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i-4">"No sweet thing left to savor; no sad thing left to fear...."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>On the evening of the third day, a letter from West Adams +arrived, announcing that Jenny was up and around, and the +farm-house was ready for Neale. The evening after that, +Neale was undressing in the slant-ceilinged big-beamed, white-washed +bedroom, as familiar to him as his room at Union Hill—but +uncontaminated with any of the new, troubling sensations. +The air of the hills blew in at the window. Neale +felt that it was a different air. He began to feel a difference +in himself, but fell asleep in the midst of this perception. +The next morning, scorning the mill, the barn-yard, the brook, +he climbed to the highest back-pasture where the young white +birches and quivering aspens, skirmishers of the unconquered +forest, were leading the way in the reconquest of the fields +man had taken from them. Here he lay down and prepared +to nurse his sorrow....</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i-4">"Pain gnaws at my heart like a rat that gnaws in a drain...."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>But what was this? What was this? As unexpectedly as +the impudent little mick had sprung out of the ground to +carry off his shinny ball, so did a cheerful little imp of high +spirits spring up in his heart, leaping and skipping to meet +the glory of the great sun pouring down its mellow gold upon +him through the flickering, tricksy aspen leaves. He lay +back on the soft, deep moss, his hands clasped under his +head. Huge, jovial-looking clouds floated, piled up in strong,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +rounded masses against the summer sky. Miles off in the +valley he could see the Hoosick River winding its way among +the green, green hills. He was warmed, cool, alive ... and, +oh, yes, there was no use in pretending otherwise, mighty well +pleased to be alive.</p> + +<p>The ten-year-old Neale when suddenly the glamor had faded +from his lead soldiers, had never wasted time in pretending +that it was there. He had risen at once, left the little heap of +clumsily-made mannequins to lie foolish in their flaking paint, +and sliding down the banisters, had gone out of doors in a great +hurry. Well, he wasted no time now. He looked with an +ironic eye upon the glamorless lost illusion, with the paint +flaking off, and hurriedly turning his back on it all, he went, +metaphorically, out of doors.</p> + +<p>What had happened after all? He'd thought the world of +Don Roberts, who had turned out a four-flusher. Well, he'd +been stung. But why holler so about it? And whose fault +was it? His own, for not knowing better. Don hadn't ever +pretended to be any less of a four-flusher than he was. It +was just that he, Neale, had been taken in by a cheap, flashy +guy when any kid ought to have had enough sense to see +through him, and those would-be smart college-man airs and +manners.</p> + +<p>But anyhow if that was a false scent, it had put him on a true +one. There was a lot inside those slim, pasteboard covered +books beside rats gnawing in drains, and twilight and all-goneness. +You bet your life there was. Neale had never dreamed +what was inside them, poems that stood up to a glorious day +like this, and called it brother, poems of foot-free wanderings +and high-hearted scorn of prosperity and conventions.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">"I tell you that we,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">While you are smirking<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And lying and shirking<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Life's duty of duties,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Honest sincerity,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">We are in verity<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Free!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Free as the word<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of the sun to the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Free!"<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>Neale's voice quavered with another sort of emotion ... +that was the doctrine! "Off with the fetters!" He pictured +himself in a blue flannel shirt and flowing neckerchief, alone, +or with some perfect comrade, knowing reality, sneering at +railway trains and cities.</p> + +<p>It was a gorgeous dream ... but of course the first Tuesday +in September found him back at a desk at Hadley with all +the grinding and polishing wheels of that well-appointed educational +mill at work on the corners of his individuality, bent +on turning out the fifty young Seniors smooth and identical, +the perfection of the Hadley type. And since this was +the last year, the faculty speeded up the hunt and all the +pack put their noses to the ground and ran their legs off +in pursuit of mathematics and science. The pace was cruelly +hot, and it was specially hard for Neale because he had yielded +to the captain's entreaties and had come out for the football +team. He made left tackle with little competition and through +October and November practised almost without coaching +(Hadley permitted athletics but was too busy to encourage +anything so childish), and played and was beaten with painful +regularity.</p> + +<p>Neale found himself dropping far below the rating he had +maintained in the lower classes. He began to pant and strain +as he had the first year. It was a gruelling race; but temperamentally +he liked races and his wind got better as the months +went by. He cut out all superfluities—no dancing—no reading +for amusement except on Sunday mornings, and then only +short poems about Vagabondia and the Open Road. Work, +work, work through every waking hour. By April he had +risen to sixth in his class, and felt grimly sure of holding his +stride to the end.</p> + +<p>On the night of Easter Monday, Neale was bent over his +desk with a green eye-shade, trying various combinations to +solve a problem in analytical geometry, when his father knocked +at the door, walked in and sat down on the bed. This was so +remarkable that Neale knew something was up. One of the +things that Neale had always taken for granted in his home-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>life +was that his room was practically inviolate when he was +in it. His father and his mother respected his privacy in this +as in other things with scrupulous exactitude. It was a little +corner of the world which was his, where he could come out +from his tightly-clutched shell, and move about freely with +no fear of intruders spying on his nakedness. The security +of this privacy had been one of the well-squared stones Neale +had found ready to his hand, when slowly, rather later than +most boys, he began to build. Hence it was now apparent +to him that Father must have something on his chest. He +looked up, nodded and greeted him with, "Hello, Dad."</p> + +<p>"Hello, Neale," said Father quite as casually. "Don't want +to interrupt your studies. How late do you expect to keep +at them?"</p> + +<p>"Sometime between eleven and twelve, I guess. His Nibs +gave us some stinkers, and I haven't touched the German prose +yet."</p> + +<p>"That would be pretty late for me. We'd better take a +few minutes now. The fact is, Neale, we mustn't let you slide +along any more without some sort of an idea what you are +going to do next."</p> + +<p>Neale having no idea beyond that night's work, said +nothing.</p> + +<p>"The work you're doing this year has given your mother +and me a great deal of pleasure," Father went on. "Your +marks are getting better and better. I did think of putting +you through an engineering school, but I notice you seem to +do better at the liberal subjects. Have you set your heart on +any college in particular?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure I want to go to any college."</p> + +<p>Oh, now for a break into the Open Road, and a flaming +neckerchief and far lands!</p> + +<p>Mr. Crittenden looked thoughtful.</p> + +<p>"I'll admit it's a waste of time for some, but I don't think +it would be for you. I understand your wish to get to work, +and begin to make your own way, but it's wiser not to start +with too little preparation. And there's no need for it yet.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +It's no hardship for me. It's a real pleasure for us to be +able to help you to an education...."</p> + +<p>Neale chewed his pen hard. How hard it was to have things +out with a father! When a man takes it for granted that +if you don't want to go to college you must want to be a +bank-clerk or sell shoes, how are you to make him understand +anything about Freedom and the Open Road and Comradeship +and Vagabondia, distant countries and ships that smell +of tar and salt like the wharves. How could a man in a +three-button, pepper-and-salt cut-away understand? A man +who wore a derby hat and went to his office in the city every +day? And Father was getting fat, too, the three-button +cut-away was heavily rounded. No—all that was in another +world. There weren't any words to express any of it to a +Father. So he said nothing, jabbing his pen into the blotting +paper. Presently Father went on, "Of course, I should +like to have you go to my old college, Williams, but Mother +feels—we both feel—that it would be a pity to break up +the family circle. What would you think of Columbia? +They say since it has moved up to Morningside Heights +there is more college life—and of course it's one of the leading +Universities...."</p> + +<p>Another pause, so long that Neale felt bound to say something.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I guess I would like Columbia as well as any," he +finally brought out.</p> + +<p>Father looked at him several minutes. Then he stood up, +"We needn't settle it to-night, of course. Think it over; +we'll talk it over again."</p> + +<p>But of course they never did. They never talked anything +over. The subject was not raised again. Nevertheless it +was somehow understood in the family that Neale was going +to enter Columbia. And Neale made no protest. To tell +the truth, as spring advanced and all his classmates began +talking over their plans for next year, the uniformity of having +a recognized respectable destination was not disagreeable. +It saved talk, and useless talk about his affairs was one of the +things Neale detested. Till he could be really independent and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +do as he liked without suffering the ignominy of having people +know about it and talk him over, it might be better just to +slide along the grooves provided, get the usual labels stuck on +you. It couldn't do you any harm. They'd soak off easy +enough, later on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> + + +<p>With June came examinations at Hadley. Long, long experience +and concentration on the subject had taught Hadley +administrators exactly how to time their training so that when +examinations came, the boys would be in the pink of condition. +Two weeks later they would be stale, horribly, sickeningly +stale, but nobody at Hadley cared a continental what happened +two weeks after examinations. That was no business +of theirs. Weary, but still docilely answering the crack of the +ring-master's questions, the thoroughly disciplined Troupe of +Trained Boys went through subject after subject, with the +automatic rear and plunge of circus-riders breaking paper +hoops. That was all right. Those were only the Hadley +examinations. They expected to be able to pass those.</p> + +<p>But now for the College Entrance examinations, the Apollyon +which from afar their professors at Hadley had pointed +out to them, straddling over all their roads, belching out +brimstone-fire on all who tried to pass. With much trepidation +hidden under his usual decent impassivity, Neale journeyed +up to take his first examinations at Columbia. He was +glad that the first chanced to be in history. That was one of +his good subjects. He stood a better chance there. With +a careful air of carelessness, he went up to the proctor's desk, +took one off the pile of the printed examination sheets, and +with it in his hand, not entirely steady, he went back to his +seat. Safe from observation there, he laid it before him and +his eyes leaping to know the worst, took in the first three +questions at one glance. Holy Smoke! Was this all? Was +it for this he had sweat blood! There was an outline map +of the United States, with a request to mark on it the location +of such idiotically well-known places as Acadia, Pittsburgh, +New Orleans. There was "<i>French and Indian Wars. +State causes immediate and remote.</i>" There was, "<i>What do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +you consider to be the relation between the Missouri Compromise +and the Civil War? Justify your opinion in 500 words.</i>"</p> + +<p>Neale leaned back in his chair faint with relief. Why, he +could eat it up like candy. And he ate it up like candy; +emerging from it, his head in the air and the world at his feet. +This aspect caused him to be chastened by a gang of Sophomores +who played hare and hounds with him (he was the +hare), through Riverside Park from 120th to 81st Street, +where his long legs finally distanced them.</p> + +<p>The other examinations were of the same sort, exactly the +same sort, of a childish facility compared to anything the +Hadley professors had described. Why—it came to Neale with +a shock—why, the Hadley purpose had not been to enable +them to pass the exams,—it had been to use Hadley boys +to exalt the name of Hadley throughout the collegiate world! +He felt a deep resentment, a burning bitterness at having +been taken in; and by people who had consciously intended +to, who had known very well what they were about, and had +taken advantage of his defenselessness. He thought of those +four years of driving drudgery and causeless dread, and hated +Hadley as the quintessence of cheating. The idea that the +subjects of his study had any value other than as legal tender +for college entrance, that he was the better off for his thorough +acquaintance with them did not once cross his mind. +In that respect, too, he was a product of Hadley.</p> + +<p>He came away from the last examination, as stale and +worthless as an overworked colt. The Sophomores let him +alone. He looked to them as though he had not been able to +pass.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>A wide, green pasture with running brooks is the best place +for a tired colt, and it was such a one that Neale now entered, +his head hanging, his big legs like cotton twine. Oh, +shucks! What was the use of anything?</p> + +<p>Grandfather and Grandmother kept a Crittenden shut +mouth about his drawn face and sallow skin, and at first were +careful to keep out of the way and let him even more alone +than usual. He fell into bed at eight o'clock, unable to keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +his eyes open another moment, and lay as though he were +dead for twelve or fourteen hours every night, awaking to +see the country sun shining in on the slant, hewed beams over +his head, and to hear the country sounds, as clear as crystal +coming in through the open window; the mill-brook chanting, +the wind in the big maple, the bright, brazen call of the rooster, +the sociable grunting of the pigs.</p> + +<p>The pigs were a great comfort to Neale at this time. After +he had washed in the brown rain-water in his wash-bowl, +and had gone down to the clean, sunny kitchen, always empty +at this hour, and had eaten heartily of the fried potatoes, hash, +and pan-cakes which he found waiting for him in the warming-oven +of the kitchen stove, he sauntered out, a doughnut in +his hand, to lean over the pig-pen and commune with the pigs. +He stood there an hour at a time, occasionally scratching +their backs as an excuse for staying so long with them, but +for the most part gazing dreamily down, lost in the magnificent +sensuality of their joy in life. They had always been +fed an hour or so earlier, so there was no excitement in their +profound beatitude, none of the homeric scramblings of meal-times. +Neale was not ready for that yet. What he needed, +what slowly floated him up from the depths, was their rapt +ecstasy of repletion, their voluptuous pleasure in sinking +thoughtfully into the cool, wet filth and the glow of their peace +as they stood sunning themselves, visibly penetrated to every +fleshly cell of their vast bodies, by the most perfect accord with +the scheme of the universe, as they saw it. Neale gazed at +them as they lay sprawled in the mud, or moved about very +slowly, grunting very gently, occasionally turning upon the boy a +small, wise, philosophic eye; and they did his heart good, like +medicine.</p> + +<p>When he was ashamed to stand there any longer ... although +no one ever commented on it, and indeed no one was +there to see it, except Grandmother and Jenny busy in the +house, he loitered along the path which led to the seldom-used +foot-bridge across the mill-brook. The sound of the +water always threw him into another contemplative pause +here. He often lay down on the rusty-colored pine-needles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +and lay looking up at the distant dark green branches of +the forest-roof, the voice of the water rising and falling, so +insistent that he could think of nothing else, so unintelligible +that it made him think of nothing at all, sliding, breaking, +turning, slipping down, leaping up, like an endlessly curving +line drawn endlessly before his eyes. He usually shut his +eyes after a little, and not infrequently added an hour or +two of sleep to the fourteen he had spent in his bed; this +time, sleep not black and opaque, but shot through with the +gleaming pattern of the brook's song.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>One morning when he woke up, while he still lay in bed +staring up at the beams over his head, some chance association +of ideas made him think of Hadley and he was astonished +to find his resentment against Hadley had gone. Hadley +seemed very remote and vague to him. He did not hate +it any more. He could scarcely remember what Hadley had +been like. Nor anything that he had studied there. That +day for the first time he went down to the mill, walking, not +sauntering, his legs solid under him again.</p> + +<p>He found Grandfather and old Si "making out" very badly, +with no boy to "take away." The last one had followed +all his predecessors into the cotton-spinning mills at North +Adams, and as this was haying-time no other help was to be +had. The two old men had to stop the saw every few minutes +till Si could run around and catch up on taking away. +It was fretful work, like trying to lace up your shoes with +one hand. Neale stood and watched them for a while. Then +although he had not really meant to say it, he was not sorry +to hear his voice suggesting, "Why don't you take me on? +I haven't got anything else to do."</p> + +<p>"What say, Si?" asked Grandfather, laughing so at the +idea, that Neale was nettled and had a picture of how unutterably +lazy he had looked for the last fortnight!</p> + +<p>Si spit tobacco-juice into the mill-race and shifted his quid.</p> + +<p>"Wa'll, I know hands is scurse these days, but land! have +we got down to taking <i>any</i>body?"</p> + +<p>Neale was used to the Yankee roughness which they meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +for humor, but this touched him a little closely. Didn't they +think he could do any work?</p> + +<p>Grandfather puckered his old face into a grin and nodded +him into the job.</p> + +<p>"If so be so, then so be it. Kin or no kin, I guess we can +afford to pay him what we were giving Hubbard."</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>So Neale bought a suit of overalls at the general store and +began to work. For the first three days he wished with all +his heart he'd kept his mouth shut. Handling green beech +for ten hours a day was very different from helping out a +half-hour at a time. Besides, his muscles and above all his +hands were pitifully soft after an indoor winter and his fortnight +of vegetating. It didn't seem worth while to make +an ox of himself for five cents an hour and board—the wage +of unskilled labor in that non-unionized Arcadia—but he was +ashamed to quit on a job that was always handled by boys of +his age. Nobody had asked him to do it. He had offered +himself, pushed himself in. It would be too worthless to +back out. But, oh gee! he was tired when he got through +at six o'clock, and clumped heavily up the hill after Grandfather +and Si, walking, it seemed to him, with as stiff and +aged a gait as theirs. He shovelled supper up, starved, starved +to his toes, and staggered to bed immediately afterward. The +first week he lost five pounds. Thereafter he gained steadily, +and all solid muscle.</p> + +<p>After a time he mastered the mill-hand's basic axiom, "Never +lift a plank if you can slide it," his hands stopped blistering +and hardened, and he grew muscles in various places up +and down his back, where he had never had any before, so +that the boards became singularly lighter in his hands.</p> + +<p>And then, just when he had mastered his job, the water-god +took a hand in the game. Since the spring rains, there +had been nothing but the gentlest showers. The mill-pond +had shrunk to a pool, and grass began to show far down its +dried-up sides. The water no longer ran over the mill-dam. +One day about five o'clock the mill stopped, with a log half-sawed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No water," said Silas, "got to shut down till the pond fills +up." They sat down instantly, hanging their empty hands +over their knees, in an ecstasy of idleness. They managed +to finish that log by supper time, but the drought held.</p> + +<p>Soon they could saw only by pondfuls. A couple of hours +in the early morning, a scant hour after lunch, and somewhat +less after supper, in the twilight. Between times Si patched +belts, or hoed corn, or sat and smoked, Grandfather pottered +around the garden, or sat and smoked as he waited for the +pond to fill.</p> + +<p>This was delightful—just enough work for exercise, and +lots of blameless leisure. But with so many hours to read, +Neale ran through at an alarming rate the books he had +brought with him. Even "Vanity Fair" didn't hold out forever, +and with Dobbin and Amelia finally united, Neale was +at the end of his literary resources. Boredom settled down +heavily. Si's reiterated anecdotes lost all savor; he had read +all the books on the sitting-room book-shelves, or had given +them up as hopeless. He felt bound by his contract to be +on hand whenever the mill could be run, so that long walks +were out of the question.</p> + +<p>At last as he sat gloomily killing time trying to whittle a +wooden chain, and making a botch of it, he seemed to remember +one rainy day when he was a little boy, wandering into +a room with another book-case in it. Not being a little girl, +he had had small interest in exploring the inside of the house, +and where that room was he had forgotten; but if there had +been any books in it, they were there still; no single decade +ever made any change in that house. It was worth having +a look.</p> + +<p>Anybody but a Crittenden, dealing with Crittendens, would +have gone to Grandfather or Grandmother and asked where +that book-case was. But it did not occur to Neale to do that, +and if he had thought of the possibility, he would never have +done it. That would have meant talk about his wanting to +read, about what books he liked, and why he liked them ... +all sorts of talk from which Neale shrank away as he did +from physical pawing-over. He set off silently, with a casual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +air, upon his search, looking first into the darkened best-room, +and going from that to the garret, the attic over the ell, and +the woodshed loft. There were scattered books in all these +places; in the best-room a few big, illustrated, show-off books, +with gold on the bindings, like the Doré Bible he had so +often looked at, and the big Pilgrim's Progress that he had +opened only once. In the garret were dusty old school-books +of past generations, and in the attic over the ell, piles of well-bound +black books, with gold lettering, which turned out to +be, desolatingly, nothing but by-gone Congressional Records +and Census Reports. But he had not found the little brown +book-case which he dimly remembered. Perhaps it wasn't +here at all. Well, he'd try the chambers, mostly vacant now, +which had been so full in the days Grandfather liked to tell +about, when he was a little boy, one of fourteen children all +growing up tumultuously together in this big old house.</p> + +<p>Neale went down the attic stairs and began to open doors. +Nothing doing. Everywhere the same sparsely furnished +room, with painted floor, braided mat, dark old bed and +battered dresser, and ladder-back, flag-bottomed chairs. Their +vacancy struck cold even on Neale's not very impressionable +mind. "A room that hadn't been lived in for a long time was +the limit, anyhow," he thought.</p> + +<p>But at the other end of the hall from his own low-ceilinged, +little boy's room, he found one like it, rather more cheerful. +The sun came in through a dormer window as it did in his +own room. He remembered now that this was the room +Father had always had, till he went away to college and after +that to New York to live. And there, sure enough was the +little book-case. Of course. He must have seen it lots of +times, going by when the door was open. Now, what was in +it? Maybe, after all, nothing to his purpose; probably this +had been used like the shelves in the attic as a place to put +volumes that nobody wanted to read.</p> + +<p>Mather's Invisible Providence—sounded religious. Neale +did not even take it out. A big, old book with the back off +proved, when he opened it, to be Rollin's Ancient History. +With a true Hadley horror for learning anything out of hours,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +he slammed it shut, and took down the next one, Butler's +Analogy. Seemed as though he had heard of that one. He +sat down on the edge of the little four-poster, and opened it +at random, skimming the pages. Oh, awful! Fierce! <i>Worse</i> +than religious! He put it back, discouraged, and ran over the +titles on that shelf. A name struck his eye. Emerson. +Wasn't there a poem by Emerson at the beginning of "The +Children of the Zodiac?" Neale like every one else at that +time had read a good deal of Kipling, although he was vague as +to Emerson.</p> + +<p>He took down Volume I, and opened to the first page.</p> + +<p>"But thought is always prior to the fact; all the facts of +history pre-exist in the mind as laws."</p> + +<p>"Pretty rough sledding!" thought Neale, "bad as +Butler."</p> + +<p>He turned over a page. His eye was struck by a thick +black pencil-mark along the margin; a passage that had interested +somebody. Neale read, "I have no expectation that +any man will read history aright, who thinks that what was +done in a remote age, by men whose names have resounded +far, has any deeper sense than what he is doing to-day."</p> + +<p>An idea knocked at Neale's head. He looked up from the +book to take it in. It echoed and re-echoed in his brain, the +first idea about history which had ever penetrated to fertilize +the facts piled up by Hadley. Gee! there was something <i>to</i> +that! Neale began to walk around it speculatively. Wonder +if that's true? Sounds good.</p> + +<p>Were there perhaps more passages marked? He turned +over the pages again and came on another of the black pencil +lines in the margin.</p> + +<p>"When a thought of Plato becomes a thought to me—when +a truth that fired the soul of Pindar fires mine, time is no +more."</p> + +<p>"Time is no more...." The grandeur of those four words +unrolled a great scroll from before Neale's eyes.</p> + +<p>Say, who was it who had marked these places, anyhow? +Who was it, who, before Neale, had sat in this low-ceilinged +room and had caught that glimpse of timeless infinity? Neale<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +turned back to the fly-leaf and found written in a familiar +handwriting, "Daniel W. Crittenden, Williams 1876."</p> + +<p>Why, that was <i>Father</i>!</p> + +<p>Neale stared at the name. Could it be Father? Yes, he +had gone to Williams and although 1876 was incredibly long +ago, that might have been Father's class. And this was +Father's room! He looked about him, astonished.</p> + +<p>For the first time in his life it occurred to Neale that his +father had not always been a father and a successful, conservative +business man of forty-something, but that long, long ago +he had also been a person.</p> + +<p>The idea made Neale feel very shy and queer as though +through the pages of this chance-found book he were spying +on the privacy of that unsuspecting person. But all the same, +it was too strange that <i>Father</i> should have ... what else +had he marked? Intensely curious, Neale turned the pages +over. What else had struck the fancy of that young man, +so many years ago, before he dreamed that he was to be a +business man and a father. It was like looking straight into +some one's heart; the first time Neale had ever dreamed of +such a thing.</p> + +<p>There they were, those glimpses of what had fed his father's +spirit. Neale read them because they were marked. Some he +understood, others he only felt.</p> + +<p>"In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected +thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty."</p> + +<p>"There is a time in every man's education when he arrives +at the conviction that he must take himself for better, for +worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full +of good, one kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but +through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is +given to him to till."</p> + +<p>"Life only avails, not having lived." Good enough!</p> + +<p>"For every stoic was a stoic, but in Christendom, where is +the Christian?" every word underlined in ink.</p> + +<p>"Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment +is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the flower of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +pleasure which concealed it." On the margin the note was, +"True, think of E. B." "Wonder who E. B. was," thought +Neale, "but the old man's right."</p> + +<p>Ah, this is bully! "Life itself is a bubble and a skepticism, +and a sleep within a sleep. Grant it, and as much more as +they will ... but thou, God's darling, heed thy private dream; +thou wilt not be missed in the scorning and skepticism; there +are enough of them...."</p> + +<p>Why, this was not marked! The old man must have been +asleep at the switch.</p> + +<p>Neale stopped turning the pages and jumping from one +marked passage to another. He began to read for himself, a +deep vibration within answering the organ-note which throbbed +up at him out of the page.</p> + +<p>"This," he said to himself, after a long, absorbed silence, +"this is my meat."</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>There was a good place on top of the plate-beam of the +mill, dry and safe. One morning before Grandfather and Si +came down to work, Neale climbed up to this, dusted it clean +of the litter of a century or more and put the three volumes +there. Whenever the water got low, and the mill shut down, +and Si went off to oil the harness and Grandfather to have +a visit with Grandmother in the kitchen, Neale clambered +up and clinging with one hand, reached in and took out a +volume ... any one of the three. From there to the top of +the highest lumber-pile outside, in the clean sunlight.</p> + +<p>The pungent smell of the newly-sawed wood, the purifying +wind, wide space about him, solitude, silence, and this deep, +strong voice, purifying, untroubled, speaking to him in a language +which was his own, although he had not known it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TO-DAY_SHALL_BE_THE_SAME_AS_YESTERDAY" id="TO-DAY_SHALL_BE_THE_SAME_AS_YESTERDAY"></a>"<i>TO-DAY SHALL BE THE SAME AS YESTERDAY</i>"</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +March, 1902.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Flora Allen found she was not following the words on the +page, and let the book slowly fall shut. As it lay there among +her hair-brushes and cold-cream pots, she looked at it with +a listless distaste. How sick she was of reading instructive +books! She never wanted to see another! She turned sideways +in her chair with the gesture of a person about to stand +up, but the motive power was not enough, and she continued +to sit, one arm hanging over the back of her chair. Why +get up? Why do anything more than anything else?</p> + +<p>How horribly lonely she was! How horribly empty her +room was!</p> + +<p>The emptiness echoed in her ears. It was an echo she often +heard. She always heard it more or less. She told herself +that it was like the emptiness of a long stone corridor along +which she seemed to be always hurrying, hoping to come to a +door that would let her out into life—the warm, quivering life +that other people—women in books for instance—seemed to +have.</p> + +<p>Now she was tired. She had almost worn herself out in the +long flight down the empty passage-way that led from birth +to death. She began dreadfully to fear that she would never +find a door. Wherever she thought she saw one ajar, it was +slammed in her face.</p> + +<p>Looking back, how she envied her earlier rebellious unhappy +self, bright with the animation of her naïve hatred for Belton +and America; quivering with her aspiring cry of "Europe" +and "culture!" She had been married almost sixteen years—was +it possible! A life-time! A life-time filled with nothing. +A life-time spent between Belton and Bayonne! Oh, it +wasn't fair! She had never had a chance—never! And soon +it would be too late for her chance!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p> + +<p>How hideously fate always discriminated against her. She +was always thrown in the dreariest places with the dreariest +dead-and-alive people, flat and insipid and tiresome.</p> + +<p>Other women encountered big and moving things in their +lives, knew adventure and excitement, had something to look +forward to, something to look back on. But she had nothing +but stagnation. And nobody to care <i>what</i> she had, because +they all assumed that if sawdust and chips were good enough +for them, that diet ought to be good enough for any one.</p> + +<p>The days, that might be so precious, slid by, one like another, +and there were not so very many days left to her, when +vivid personal life might be possible. Where was she to find it, +where, where? She was so <i>tired</i> of stagnation.</p> + +<p>She was reduced to envying the exciting life of the women +of the demi-monde of whom she was aware here as never +before in her life, of whom everybody was conscious. It was +indeed precisely to avoid resembling their bright colors and +gaiety that all the appallingly respectable women wore such +ill-fitting dark clothes and heavy shoes on the street, never +broke their solemn silence in a public place, and never laughed +freely anywhere except safely behind walls. The women they +were so determined not to resemble seemed from a distance +to Flora Allen the only people in France who openly enjoyed +life as she thought people in Europe did, the only ones who bore +the slightest relationship to the vivacious, animated picture of +European existence as she had imagined it in Belton. Except, +of course, such dusty, vulgar excursion-train crowds of common +people as you saw at Lourdes. Flora hated vulgar people.</p> + +<p>And yet—ugh!—life couldn't be all gaiety and brightness +for the women of the "half-world." That evening last year, +when she had tried to lighten the deadly dullness by a little, +playful flirtation with M. Fortier, such as any American would +have answered by half-sentimental banter—she had never forgotten +how frightened she had been by his instant misunderstanding—the +horrible spring he had made at her in the dusk +of the carriage; his brutal hands on her shoulders, his flabby, +old face suddenly inflamed; the terrifying weight of his obese +body against her hands as she pushed him furiously away!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +For months afterwards she had been afraid to smile at any +man, as she said "good-evening"; and she read in their eyes, +in all their eyes, what they would think of her if she but +looked squarely and frankly at them.</p> + +<p>But wasn't there <i>ever</i> to be anything for her, between the +deadly flat propriety of things like those awful progressive-euchre +parties in Belton and <i>that</i> sort of thing?</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Isabelle came into the room now, floor-brush and cleaning +cloths in hand. She was surprised to find her mistress still +before her dressing-table at half-past ten in the morning. To +herself she made the comment, not by any means for the first +time, "Well, the good God certainly never created a lazier +good-for-nothing." Aloud she said respectfully, "I beg Madame's +pardon for not knocking. I thought the room was +empty. Do I disturb Madame by coming to clean?"</p> + +<p>Madame got up hastily, murmured a "no, oh no," and disappeared +down the hall. Isabelle opened the windows, fell +on her knees and set to work with energy, suppressing +(lest her mistress still be within earshot) the lively +dance-air which came to her lips, as she rattled the brush +against the furniture and base-boards. She would be nineteen +at her next birthday. What a lovely spring day, how +sweet the air was, Jeanne had promised to let her walk out +beyond the city-walls next Sunday afternoon with Pierre, and +she had a new pair of shoes, real leather shoes, to show off +there. Perhaps Pierre would take her to a confiserie and buy +her some candied chestnuts! Her pulse beat strong and full, +the dance-tune jigged merrily inside her head, she reached far +under the bed with her brush, and enjoyed so heartily the +elastic stretch and recoil of the muscles in her stout shoulders, +that she reached again and again, although there was no need +for it. "Jig! Jig! Pr-r-rt!" went the dance tune in her +head ... new shoes ... sunshine ... candied chestnuts +... Pierre ... kisses.</p> + +<p>Her mistress, detesting the sight of Isabelle's broad, vacuous +face had walked aimlessly away, anywhere to escape the slat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>ternly +flap of her heelless sandals, and the knock of her brush +as she went through the never-varying routine of the morning +cleaning. Around and around, every slow dawn brought exactly +the same sequence of tiresome, insignificant events. Only +stolid, vegetable natures like Isabelle's could endure it. Flora's +small, thin, white hands fluttered piteously out into the air +as though trying physically to lay hold on something else. +There <i>must</i> be something else. The tears stood for a moment +in her blue eyes, not so blue now as they had been—oh, she +knew how they were fading!</p> + +<p>She went through the corridor into the salon, and pulling +the curtains aside, stepped into the alcove where her writing +desk stood. But she had no intention of writing a letter. To +whom? If she wrote what she really felt, there was nobody +to understand her. She did not now, as had been her habit in +the first days, go to the window and amuse an idle hour by looking +down on the crowd below, the ox-drivers, the fish-women, +the soldiers, the Spanish peddlers, all the bright-colored, foreign +throng that had seemed to her like a page out of a book. Not +for nothing had she lived four years in Bayonne! That first +simple candor of hers was darkly dyed with new knowledge. +She knew now that people talked about a woman still young +enough to be desirable, who showed herself at an open window. +She knew they talked, and she knew what they said. That +hearsay knowledge had been sharpened by her gradual perception +of the way certain men among the passers-by had looked +up at her; and it had been driven deeply home one day, by +one of those men. As she leaned out, her fair hair bright in +the sun, a passer-by, a well-dressed man with a walking-stick +in his hand, had stared hard at her, caught her eye, hesitated +and looked again. Flora had not avoided his eye. Why +should she? It was early in her life in the half-Spanish town. +She did not fear men's eyes. When he saw this he turned +and mounted the stairs to ring at the bell. Isabelle had let him +in, not knowing him from any other caller. He stepped quietly +to the salon, where the lady of the house, not dreaming that +any one had entered, still stood before the window. When +she turned in answer to a discreet little cough on his part, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +had seen him standing there, hat in hand, waiting, with a +singular little smile on his lips, a smile she never forgot.</p> + +<p>Oh, he had been perfectly polite, indeed quite desolated at +having made a mistake, and had speedily bowed himself out +of the place, apologizing gracefully to the moment of door-closing. +But that very day, Flora Allen had the swathing lace-curtains +put back in their original position, covering every +inch of the glass; and when dusk fell, she was always the first +to think of drawing the heavy damask curtains over them, so +that there seemed to be no windows at all in the room.</p> + +<p>That seemed to her to express her life—no windows except +these opening on what was physically sickening and coarse; +no doors save those leading back and forth between the deadly +familiarity of the imprisoning rooms.</p> + +<p>What was it she had not done which other women did to let +them into the center of life, while she was exiled to the outer +fringes? How was it that while other women's arms seemed +to close about warm, living substances, hers grasped at shadows. +Or did other women only pretend to be satisfied, for fear of +facing the emptiness which echoed in her ears more and more +loudly?</p> + +<p>Did they really and honestly find the absorbing joy in their +children, which was the sentimental tradition? And if they +did, how did they manage it? She loved Marise, nobody had +a nicer little girl, nor a prettier. But the plain facts were that +a little girl and a grown woman were very different beings, with +very different needs and interests. There was nothing she +would not do for Marise, she often told herself, if Marise +needed it. But Marise apparently did not need a single thing +her mother could do for her, any more than any healthy little +girl absorbed in her school and play. There was no sense in +doing uninteresting things for people when they were just as +well off without them. She often looked at Marise across the +dinner-table, fresh and well-groomed by Jeanne's competent +hands, and wondered with a sincere bewilderment how any +one could expect her to make an occupation out of loving a +very busy, self-centered, much-occupied little girl, who left the +house before her mother was out of bed, was gone all day,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +spent most of her few free hours with her music teacher, and +in the nature of things went to bed just at the beginning of the +evening.</p> + +<p>From time to time, when they had first come to Bayonne, +she had made various attempts to connect her life with +Marise's, annoyed by the affection Marise showed to Jeanne +and to that singularly unattractive Mlle. Hasparren. Breaking +through the tyrannical regularity of the child's hard-working +life, she had carried her off, now for a day on the beach +at Guéthary, now for a day in the shops at Biarritz, once for +a week-end at Saint Sauveur. But she had come home after +such attempts, mortally weary and depressed. What was the +use of trying to pretend that the things which delighted and +amused a child were not inconceivably tiresome to a grown-up? +Those endless hours while she sat in the sun on the sand +(which got into her Shoes), and watched Marise inanely prance +in the surf, or dig for clams which she did not care to keep +after she had caught them! How could she see anything +but very visible repulsiveness and dirt, and quite probably +diseases in the lank stray dogs and cats which always turned +up when Marise went along a street, and which Marise always +felt an inexplicable and perverse desire to fondle? And those +cheap bazaars, where Marise loved to linger, gazing with +dazzled eyes at the trumpery, papier-maché gimcracks and +playthings...! Of course, as Marise had grown less childish, +walks had been free of hoop-rolling with its inevitable +encounters with irascible old gentlemen's legs, but she had +developed other tastes quite as bothersome. Flora's pretty, +slender feet ached with fatigue at the recollection of the long +hours she had stood beside Marise, who, sucking hard on a +barley-sugar stick, and hooking her elbows over the parapet of +the bridge over the Adour, gazed endlessly down on dirty, +smelly ships being unloaded by dirty, smelly workmen.</p> + +<p>Flora had come to the conviction that the European custom +of sending a servant around with children was based on a +realistic recognition of facts. It was better for both sides; +for she knew that, although she tried to be patient, Marise +felt her lack in interest in chatter about whether the stone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +would hit the tree <i>this</i> time, or how long Marise could walk +over flagged sidewalks without once stepping on a crack. +Good Heavens! What difference did it make! It was inevitable +that a servant's vacant mind should be naturally more +nearly on the childish level.</p> + +<p>And yet, once in a while, when Marise came into the salon +to kiss her mother good-night, Flora's arms caught her fast, +wistfully, feeling an aggrieved, helpless resentment at somehow +being cheated out of what seemed to mean so much more +to other mothers. Marise always felt instantly this special +mood in her mother and always flashed up in an ardent return, +straining her mother to her in a great silent hug. It was a +good moment for them both, but so quickly gone.</p> + +<p>She looked now at her watch and remembered an engagement +at her dressmaker's to try on a new house-dress. It suddenly +made her sick to think of bothering with it. What was the +use of a new house-dress? Who would see it except Horace, +who never saw anything, or perhaps some one like Madame +Fortier or Madame Garnier, who would think it unbecoming +for a married woman to wear pretty, frilly things, or to +think of anything but how to shove their husbands and sons +and daughters ruthlessly ahead of other women's. Heavens +above! How tiresome they were about their families! They +never saw another thing in the world! Except scandalous suppositions +about other people's actions.</p> + +<p>She discovered that she did not feel at all well, not nearly +well enough to go to have the dress tried on. She was always +tired. The enervating climate certainly did not agree with her. +The doctor paid no real attention to her case, and the sulphur +baths at Saint Sauveur had done her no good, for all they cost +so much. How she had hated the dreary little village, full of +sick women, perched on the narrow ledge, from which the sanitarium +and the bathing establishment looked dizzily down into +the frightful gorge where the gave of Gavarnie boiled among +its rocks. It had given her materials for many a nightmare, +that long black cleft in the earth, so full of the wild haste of +the waters that the ear was never for an instant, asleep or +awake, freed from their plunging roar. It had given her night<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>mare; +and the sulphur baths had not helped her worn feeling +of prostrated weakness in the least. And now she feared +there was something else—her heart was certainly not quite +normal. There were times as now (she put her fingers to her +wrist) when sitting perfectly still, she felt her pulse drop almost +to nothing. A muffled, listless beat, like a clock that is +running down....</p> + +<p>"Running down?"—the chance phrase caught her attention. +Was she running down to middle-age, without once having...? +She started up, stung by the thought, frightened, angry—a +way out into life—a way to escape from the stagnant pools +where Fate always cast her—a way to find some vibrant +stirring aim—if it were only for an hour—something to care +about intensely! Other people did—women in books.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Jeanne, passing the door on her way out saw her mistress +standing in the alcove, and paused to ask a question. "... if +Madame wished Mademoiselle Marise to wear a white ribbon +in her hair that afternoon? Because if so, a fresh one was +needed." Her old voice thrilled as she pronounced the child's +name.</p> + +<p>Madame brought her thoughts back from their wanderings +with an effort. "A white ribbon?" she said vaguely.</p> + +<p>Jeanne reminded her, "The annual competition for the prize +in music at Mademoiselle's school. The young ladies are to +dress in white." Madame remembered, "Oh, yes, yes, yes." A +pause, while she seemed to begin to drift away again, and then, +with a perception that Jeanne still stood before her, waiting, +"Why, yes, of course, buy a white ribbon if she needs it."</p> + +<p>Jeanne took her tall, black-clad body off into the hall and +thence into the street, her mistress instantly gone from her +mind. She had no time or strength that momentous day for +anything beyond her passionate absorption in her dear girl's +ordeal, Marise's first step into the battle of life. Her little +Marise almost a young lady, her fifteenth birthday so near, +contending with rival young ladies! Jeanne ground her strong +yellow teeth and prayed furiously that the other competitors +might all have cramps in their fingers, that a fog might come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +before their eyes, that they might have blinding headaches or +at least that their petticoats might hang below their skirts +and disgrace them as they walked across on the platform.</p> + +<p>She went to the best shop in town for the ribbon, the only +detail lacking in the spotless costume which had been ready +for days, pressed by Isabelle and pressed over again by herself. +Jeanne had all the possible shades brought down; +dead white—ivory white—pearl white—cream, she took them +to the door to see how they looked in full daylight, and +withdrawing herself by a swoop of her will power, from the +clattering confusion of the street, she held up the rolls of ribbon +one by one, imagining, as though Marise were there before +her, each one against the gleaming dark head. Not the +dead white—no, that looked like nun's stuff, and there was +nothing of the nun in Marise, thank God! Not the pearl +white—that bluish tinge—oh, no! that was only fit for a +corpse—The cream? No, the white organdie of the dress +would make it look dirty. The ivory—yes, the ivory.</p> + +<p>She carried the others back and looked hard at the ivory +on both sides, making a deft fold or two with her stiff old +fingers, to see how it would tie into a bow. She held it out +at arm's length, her tightly-coifed, gargoyle-head on one side. +She drew a long breath, having been so absorbed in the ribbon +that she had forgotten to breathe for some time. "Well, give +me a mètre and a half," she said finally to the clerk, adding +scornfully, "if that's the best you have!" Cloth-of-gold embroidered +with pearls would not have satisfied her.</p> + +<p>As she came out, she turned her head sideways to estimate +the height of the sun, having a low opinion of the accuracy of +clocks, and was startled to find it so late. If she were to get +across to the river, to the Holy Ghost Church, to set a candle +burning before Our Lady for Marise's success, she would need +to hurry, and of late Jeanne had found hurrying not so easy +a process as it had been. If Marise was older, so was she, +seventy-six her last birthday. It was harder for her to stretch +her long legs to the old stride. Something happened to her +breathing, all the blood seemed to go to her head and a blackness +came before her eyes, so that once or twice she had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +obliged like any weakling Parisian to lean against a wall or +table till the roaring in her ears stopped and the dull heavy +fullness in her head subsided. But Jeanne despised people who +gave way to little notions like that, and had no intention of +putting on any such airs. Certainly not now, when Marise's +welfare was at stake.</p> + +<p>Of course she must make her prayer for her darling's success, +and set a candle burning before Our Lady. The easy +way to do this was to step up the street to the Cathedral but +Jeanne did not care for the Cathedral, where all the heretic +tourists from Biarritz went to stare, and which was as big +and bare as the waiting-room of a railway station. How +could Our Lady notice one little candle or one old woman +there! No, Jeanne was set on lighting her candle in her own +half-ruined, dark Church of the Holy Ghost, where the Basques +go on pilgrimages to pray before the holy "Flight into Egypt." +Our Lady of the Saint-Esprit had already performed many +miracles for good Basques.... Oh, for a miracle now!</p> + +<p>She began to pray as swiftly and violently as she walked, +"Blessed Mother of God, be with her this afternoon! Holy +Infant Jesus! Help her! Blessed little Saint Theresa, help +my darling!"</p> + +<p>She cast herself so vehemently into her supplications that +she felt her heart blazing like a torch. She soared high out +of her body. She was swinging along through space among +the clouds, wrestling with the Saints, clinging to their knees, +dominating them by the fury of her prayers.... No, they +would not <i>dare</i> refuse her.... She would not give them an +instant's peace...!</p> + +<p>"Blessed St. Cecilia, stand at her side! Oh, most Holy +Mother of God, guide her fingers...!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"... a way out into life? How could she find it? Other +people did ... women in books...." Flora Allen's eyes +moving slowly about the room fell on a photograph of the +South Portal of the Bayonne Cathedral. It was framed in +dark wood with a little Gothic arch at the top. It made her +sick to look at it. How much trouble she had taken to get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +that photograph and to find the frame that would suit it. How +eagerly she had hung it on the wall; and then had turned +round to find it had made no difference in her life, or in any +one's life. She looked at it now, her pretty lips set bitterly. +What an idiot she had been! What difference <i>could</i> it have +made? What had she ever thought it could do for her, she and +the other women of Belton, everlastingly studying something +or other, going after culture with such eagerness, bringing it +home, hanging it on the wall, and turning round to find it had +changed nothing, nothing. How silly they were! Nobody +over here cared anything for "culture" or art, or sculptures—except +badly-dressed, queer people with socialistic ideas, +like Marise's music-teacher.</p> + +<p>And they were right not to care. What was there in it for +any one? What could she ever have thought there was? +What earthly difference did the sculptures on the South Portal +make to her, Flora Allen, driven along through life, without +getting out of it a single one of the things women really +wanted? What good did it do any one to go and gape at the +paintings in the Museum, most of them ugly, and all of them +as dead as dead? When what you wanted was to be alive! +To have gaiety and sparkle and cheerfulness in your life, not +to vegetate and mold like the primitive lower forms of life +around you, like Isabelle; not to dry and harden and become +a mere block of wood like old Jeanne!</p> + +<p>There was nothing unreasonable in not wanting to shrivel +and stagnate. It was <i>right</i> to want to have an ardent life, full +and deep, that carried you out of yourself.</p> + +<p>But in her life, as by a fatality, there were never any occasions +for emotion, for fresh, living sensations. Nothing ever +happened to her that <i>could</i> stir her to anything but petulance +and boredom—nothing! nothing! If anything seemed to +promise to—why, Fate always cut it short. Those wonderful +afternoons when Sister Ste. Lucie had taken her to the convent +to talk to Father Elie! From the first of her Bayonne life +she had felt it very romantic to know real Catholics, who +used holy-water and believed in saints, and she had loved to +go round with Sister Ste. Lucie in her long black gown and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +frilled white coif, just like a picture out of a book. But this +was different. When the dark, gaunt, hollow-eyed, old missionary-priest +had given her one somber look and made the +sign of the cross over her, she had felt her heart begin to beat +faster. And as he talked to her afterwards, in the bare, white-washed +parlor of the convent, with the light filtering in through +the closed shutters, he had made her tremble with excitement, +as he himself had trembled throughout all his thin powerful +old body. His deep-set eyes had burned into her, as he talked, +his emaciated fingers, scorched brown by tropical suns, shook +as he touched the Crucifix. How he had yearned over her as he +told her that, never, never would she know what it really was to +live, till she cast out her stubborn unbelief and threw herself +into the living arms of her true Mother, the Church of God. +Flora had not known that she had any belief in particular to +cast out ... she had never thought anything special about +religion at all, one way or the other. She only wanted him to +go on making her tremble and feel half-faint, while Sister Ste. +Lucie clasped her rosary beads and prayed silently, the tears +on her cheeks! And then the very next day the Father Superior +of his Order had sent him off to Africa. Would he +ever come back?</p> + +<p>Perhaps she <i>could</i> become a Catholic. Why not? If it +moved you like this just to be in contact with the Church—what +must it bring you to be intimately of it? She remembered +that in a book Sister Ste. Lucie had given her, stories +were told of women who lost consciousness from sheer emotion, +when they felt the consecrated wafer of Communion on their +tongues; others who were caught up among the saints for +hours, hearing heavenly music and when they came to themselves, +the room was all scented richly with invisible roses....</p> + +<p>Also, without a word spoken she thought she had understood +that the Marquise de Charmières and all that old +aristocratic set would not be so stand-offish if she were converted.</p> + +<p>But as this last idea slid into her mind from behind something +else, there came with it as frighteningly as if she had +seen the walls of her stone corridor closing in on her, a doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +that cast a stale sallow reflection on all her thoughts;—suppose +she were really taken up by the Marquise and all the old +aristocratic set, <i>would things be any different then</i>? Mightn't +that, too, be just something else she had gone out after and +brought home and hung on the wall, only to find that it +changed nothing? She turned away from this idea, cold and +frightened at all it implied ... that life was not deep at all, +anywhere, but a shallow mud-hole, and that she had sunk +far enough down to touch the bottom.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>She heard now the uneven clattering jangle of the bell, heard +Isabelle come out of the bed-room and go down the tile-paved +corridor. Her sandals dragged at the heel as they always did +in the morning before she put on her street shoes. That slatternly +flap and drag of Isabelle's sandals made her mistress +sick. She had spoken about them a thousand times. She had +come to have a nervous hatred of the sound, had actually flown +into rages over it, stamping and shrieking at Isabelle as she +despised French housekeepers for doing. But how much impression +had she made? For one morning, perhaps two, Isabelle +laced up her early morning foot-gear, and after that she +always forgot, slid back, flop, scuff, flop. That was the sort +of sandals all the chambermaids in Bayonne wore for the first +cleaning of the morning; that was the kind they always had +worn; the American mistress might as well make up her mind to +the fact that that was the kind they always would wear. There +was about this trivial matter of the sandals, the same nightmare +quality of passive, inert resistance to the idea of any +change, which sagged smotheringly down on Flora Allen everywhere +she turned in her French life. They called it stability. +She and her friends in Belton had called it a "background of +tradition."</p> + +<p>And yet she knew herself now incapable of going back to +live in Belton where she would not be able always to depend on +an Isabelle, where at times she would have to sweep her own +rooms, and scour her own greasy pots herself. It made her +sick to think of living that way again—nobody to bring her +breakfast in the morning! To get up in a cold house with all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +the responsibility for everything on her shoulders. She felt +weak at the thought of it.</p> + +<p>Isabelle scuffed in, the mail in one rough, strong, red hand, +and flapped back to her cleaning. This time her mistress made +no comment on her laceless sandals.</p> + +<p>What might there be in the mail? Nothing interesting, that +she knew beforehand. She turned the letters over, recognizing +from their very aspect the flatness of their contents. A letter +from America? Oh, yes, only from Horace's old Cousin Hetty, +for Marise. How she did keep up that correspondence! Did +she suppose for a minute that any child could go on remembering +some one she hadn't seen for four years, especially a +child like Marise, so self-centered and absorbed in her own +life, caring really about nothing but her music.</p> + +<p>A bill for Marise's school for the last quarter—to be put +with Horace's mail; a circular from that something-or-other +society Mlle. Hasparren was always fussing over, trying to +raise money to keep some quartet running in Bayonne; a +bill from the dressmaker; another circular—oh, as bad +as Mlle. Hasparren's, that association with the long name, +that took care of foundling babies—they were always wanting +money too! A notice from the school, another bill? +No, the announcement of the music-contest that afternoon. +Heavens! Never again for her! Once was enough, to sit +silently all a long afternoon on a teetering folding chair in +the midst of stodgy, dowdy mothers, whose boring eyes saw +right through the fabric of your dress to the safety-pin with +which you had replaced a missing petticoat button, and who +had no more interest in the music banged out by the schoolgirls +than you had, except to wish ill to every child not their +own.</p> + +<p>There was one letter, addressed to her in the pointed, fine +convent handwriting of Sœur Ste. Lucie. She opened this +with more interest. Ah, Father Elie was coming back. And +wished to see her to-morrow afternoon. She felt a little stir +of her pulse, the first in so long. What dress would she wear +to the convent? Her black voile—and the little close-fitting +hat?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> + +<p>Still thinking of this she turned from the letters to the +printed matter. There were a couple of battered, out-of-date +New York newspapers, weary with their long traveling, and the +deadly little Bayonne paper, with its high-flown, pious articles, +and its nasty hints at scandals. She stood leaning against the +table, looking down scornfully at it, till her eye caught a name, +and her face changed.</p> + +<p>Mme. Garnier's son back from his two year stay in New +York, where he had been studying American business +methods....</p> + +<p>Flora Allen looked up quickly at her pretty blonde smiling +reflection in the mirror, turning her head to get the three-quarter +view which was her favorite. So he was back, was he? +So he was back. His dear mama must have decided that he +was now old enough to protect himself from golden-haired +American ladies. So he was coming back to perch on the front +edge of his chair and look volumes out of those great soft eyes +of his that were so shy and yet could be so expressive. He +was coming back to be so nervous and moved that his shaking +fingers could not hold his tea-cup, and yet so persistent that he +came week after week whenever she was at home to visitors; +so timid that he hadn't a word to say for himself but so bold +that he often spent the entire evening, romantically sitting on +the bench across the way, staring up at her windows.</p> + +<p>He was coming back after his exile in America, was he? +And two years older. Well, we would see what we would see. +And in the meantime Father Elie could wait.</p> + +<p>She had a singular little smile on her lips, as she turned from +this item to a card from Horace, saying that business would +keep him longer in Bordeaux than he had thought and he would +not be back till a week from Saturday. She tossed this card +with the letters on the table, and began to turn over the canary-colored +books scattered on her desk. No, the volume was not +there. She must have put it back long ago in the book-case. +She ran her finger along the titles on a shelf near her, found +it, pulled it out. With it in her hand she sank down on the +chaise-longue. But before she began to read, she sat for a +moment, her lips curved, remembering what was in it, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +remembering how more than two years ago she had looked up +from it to see Jean-Pierre Garnier for the first time. Yes....</p> + +<p>She opened the book, fluttered the pages, read a little here +and there; and then, as if slowly drawn by an undertow, sank +into the book, with a long breath.</p> + +<p>After a time Jeanne let herself in, stood for an instant in the +door, despising her mistress, and passed on to Marise's room. +But the novel-reader heard nothing, drowned deep in the book, +reading very slowly, her eyes dwelling long on every word. +"... I wakened, thinking I heard my name called, slipped +out of bed and went to the window. The moon poured liquid +silver upon the garden, and there in the midst of it stood +Urbain, slim and young as a lady's page, his soft eyes glittering +like jewels. With a bound he leaped up towards me, and +found a foot-hold on the rough stones of the old wall, so that +he stood beside me with only the low window-sill between us. +He took my hand in his. He was trembling like a leaf. He +looked at me imploringly."</p> + +<p>"'Go! Go! Urbain!' I whispered, trying to steel my +heart against his youth and ardor, 'Go, I am like an old woman +to thee, a mere child.' His answer was to put one trembling +arm around my bare shoulders and gently lay his velvet cheek +upon my breast. I felt myself melting, melting in a delicious +languor. After all, why not? Where would the dear boy +find a more devoted and delicate initiation into life.... +Think into whose hands he might fall if I repulsed him!</p> + +<p>"He raised his face adoringly to mine, drew me down to his +lips ... his young, firm lips ... sweet as the petals of a +rose ... perfumed with youth. I closed my eyes...."</p> + +<p>The only break in the intense immobility of the reader was +that occasionally she moistened her lips with her tongue, and +once in a while she drew a long, sighing breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + + +<p>"There!" said Madame Garnier, scanning the chair-filled +assembly-room from the back, "up there in the second row +there are three seats. We can take two and hold one and +perhaps after Danielle has played, she can come and sit by +us."</p> + +<p>They were in plenty of time, long before the contest began, +so that she gave herself the pleasure of walking slowly down +the aisle, stopping wherever she saw a familiar face to exchange +greetings and to say proudly, "Yes, Jean-Pierre is returned +from America. Looking very well, isn't he? Yes, that's the +style in America, neither beard nor mustache. But I think +after a while he'll let his mustache grow again. I tell him +he looks like a priest."</p> + +<p>But she did not think that he looked in the least like a +priest. She thought him the most beautiful young man in +the world, and she was so ecstatically happy to have him +back again after the rending anguish of the two years' separation, +that she forgave him all the anxiety he had caused them +by that foolish infatuation of his. That was in the past now, +she hoped. Perhaps he had outgrown his foolish idea, as they +had hoped he might when they had sent him away. He had +certainly said nothing about it in any of his letters. But +even if he hadn't forgotten, if he but knew it, she was more +than ready to yield the point to him, to yield anything that +would end his alienation from her, that would bring him +back to live in Bayonne. She had grown old during those two +endless years. They had broken her resolution. He was too +precious. She could deny him nothing. If he still wanted it, +why, let him <i>have</i> his little American girl, as soon as she +was old enough to marry. She might be made over into a passable +wife for Jean-Pierre. There was no doubt she was pretty +and fine, with nice hands and feet; and she seemed gentle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +and quiet. Once get her away from those impossible parents, +into a decent home...!</p> + +<p>Her heart was rippling full with joy to feel Jean-Pierre +there beside her. At times it overflowed, and she all but +opened her lips to tell him she would sacrifice anything for +him, that she would put no obstacle in his way. But for the +moment a prudent thought restrained her. She would wait and +see whether perhaps Jean-Pierre had not forgotten that curious +infatuation with a mere child. There was no use putting the +idea back in his head, if his exile and two years' time had +blotted it out.</p> + +<p>They sat in a decorous silence, waiting for the beginning of +the program. Madame Garnier moved nearer to Jean-Pierre, +for the pleasure of feeling his arm, a man's arm now, inside +a very well-cut masculine coat-sleeve. She remembered what +it had been, the rosy translucent flesh of her first baby, then +the little thin, white arm of his long ailing boyhood—how +she had fought with ill-health to keep him—all those years, +never an instant's relaxation of her care, her prayers, her piercing +anxiety! Oh, well, it was all over now. There he sat, +a splendid young man, still a little delicate, but sound and well. +Her reward had come. How goldenly the years stretched out +before her! Perhaps it was just as well to have him marry +young, to have his wife come to him intact in the first bloom +of her early girlhood. He himself was so unworldly, he would +never be able to manage an older woman. A fleeting picture +came to her of a rosy baby's face—Jean-Pierre's first +child. The thought flooded over her, rich with pride and joy.</p> + +<p>She continued to gaze at a certain spot in the curtain, her +face framed in her heavy velvet hat, composed in decorous +vacancy.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Beside her Jean-Pierre also fixed his eyes on a certain spot +in the curtain, and composed his face to quiet. But he was +afraid of the silence. He wished his mother had gone on +chatting, or that they had sat down near acquaintances with +whom he would have been forced to talk. Then he would not +have been so conscious of the dryness of his mouth, of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +roaring of his pulse in his ears. He stared hard at the curtain, +trying to interest his eyes in the design of the tapestry. But +they could see nothing but what they had seen for two years, +liquid dark eyes looking straight into his heart, his poor heart +that he could not hide from them; dark eyes that seemed +to be looking wistfully for something they did not find, something +that he knew he could give, something that he longed +to give with such an abandon of desire that he felt now, as so +many times before, the sweat start out on his forehead.</p> + +<p>He shifted his position, folded his arms, looked away from +the curtain and down at the floor. Come, come, this was +becoming nothing more than a fixed idea, a mania! It was +idiocy to let it master him so! Good God, what had she been +but a little girl! What was she now but a little girl! A girl +of fifteen was no more than a child. His heart sprang up at +him with a tiger's leap—"only three more years to wait—perhaps +only two more—." He frowned, cleared his throat, +and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, passed it +across his lips.</p> + +<p>And then she might be totally changed by this time; +girls often did change. Suppose she had grown very stout—or +were gawkily thin like his sister Danielle, or bold and +forward, or dull. He rolled himself in the hair-shirt of all +the possible changes for the worse, and felt his passion burn +hotter. Well, he would see. In a few moments he would see. +He looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>"It must soon begin," said his mother anxiously, leaning +towards him, evidently fearing that the delay might bore him.</p> + +<p>He smiled at her reassuringly, and put his watch back. +Dear Maman! How she did spoil him! How he had missed +her, missed his home, those two years in America. He thought +of the boarding-house on 59th Street with a qualm. How good +it was to get back to a real home.</p> + +<p>But there were fine things in America, too, even if they +did not know how to create real homes, even if the men +did not know how to love their mothers, or cherish their +wives. He had learned a great deal there, a great deal even +beyond the revelation of new business methods. What he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +had learned commercially was enormous! He faced his future +here in France, sure of success.</p> + +<p>But he had taken in other things too—he was thankful +that he had been to Marise's native country and had learned +something about the attitude towards women there—not that +he would ever, ever treat Marise as American wives were +treated, with that rough-and-ready, cowboy lack of ceremony, +nor would he ever neglect her, leave her out of his life, as +American husbands did. He would know how to combine the +American honesty and sincerity with what no American ever +felt or showed, with what no American woman ever experienced—tenderness, +cherishing tenderness. He would be tender for +Marise as no other human being could be; he would find the +most exquisite ways to surround her with tenderness, to protect +that sweet mouth of hers from bitterness or sorrow, or knowledge +of the world's evil.</p> + +<p>He looked down steadily at the floor, a knot in his throat, +his heart aching, and swallowed hard.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Three wooden thumps sounded from the platform, and the +curtain drew itself aside, showing the stage decorated with +a stand, two potted palms, an armchair, and a sprawling +black grand piano with two cane-bottomed chairs before it.</p> + +<p>From the wings trudged in a red-cheeked young girl, with +a large bust, and brawny rough arms, hanging down over +her starched white dress. Behind her trotted a short withered +elderly woman, a black silk waist crossed over her flat chest, +her scanty gray hair smoothed down in thin bandeaux over +her ears. They sat down before the piano, opened the music, +carried by the older woman, waited till she had adjusted +drooping eye-glasses on her high thin nose, and had peeringly +found her place. Then the young girl began to pound out +the Raindrop Prelude while the other turned over the pages.</p> + +<p>The audience preserved a respectful silence, bestowing a +minute attention on the hang of the player's skirt, the fit of +her bodice, the crimped waves of her light brown hair, her +over-plump hands, and the bulging patent-leather shoes, which +she pressed nervously up and down on the pedals.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> + +<p>Something seemed to break and clear away in Jean-Pierre's +head, like fumes drifting away from a shattered retort. So +this was a school-girl, this solid, unformed lump of human +flesh, neither child nor woman, who had lost a child's poetry +and had not yet come to woman's seductiveness. He looked +coolly at the girl (his mother whispered her name, the younger +sister of a lycée friend of his), dissecting her with his eyes, +immeasurably relieved. Was it for an amorphous creature +like this, too old to kiss on the cheek, too young to kiss on +the mouth, that he had suffered? Why, it was nothing; a +mere morbid whim of his ignorant boyhood. How right +Maman had been in making Papa send him away from it! +He had grown to be a man without realizing it, a man of +the world, in no danger of losing his head over chits.</p> + +<p>The Prelude was finished. The player got to her feet, and +bowed self-consciously to the muted thuddings of gloved palms +on gloved palms which greeted the cessation of her activities. +She got herself off the stage, walking heavily in her too-tight +slippers. Jean-Pierre, who sat at one side could see a little +behind the scenes and observed that as soon as she thought +she was out of sight of the audience, she gave way to childish +relief that the ordeal was over, and skipped forward, running. +He suppressed a supercilious smile of æsthetic scorn. Her +body, as large and heavy as a woman's, no longer expressed +the impulses of the child she still was. She skipped clumsily, +with an inelastic energy of gesture like a cow capering in a +spring-time pasture. Jean-Pierre felt the keenest pleasure in +his ruthless perception of her lack of grace. This was emancipation!</p> + +<p>"She plays very nicely," murmured his mother, on the general +chance that some member of her family might be sitting +within earshot.</p> + +<p>"Yes, very agreeably," he concurred.</p> + +<p>Neither of them had heard a note of the music.</p> + +<p>They continued to sit in decorous silence, looking with +vacant faces straight before them, till the next performer +appeared. This was Elise Fortier, whom they were both prepared +to detest because of her father and mother and brother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> +They did detest her, everything about her from her thin, dry +hair, frizzed out to imitate abundance, to her shifty eyes exactly +like her mother's, from her stooping shoulders, to her long +bony hands, which clattered out loudly the Schubert Marche +Militaire. When she had finished, "Really quite a talent," +observed Mme. Garnier taking pains to be audible; and, "Remarkable +for her age," agreed Jean-Pierre.</p> + +<p>He was relaxing morally, in an inexpressible ease at finding +his head clear, his heart at rest. To own yourself, to look at +life from behind a stout wall of critical cynicism—it was +to be in safety at last! He barely glanced at the next player, +a nondescript, precocious child, who murdered a Moment +Musical, her short thin legs dangling from the stool. And +the next, the one who played the Liebestraum, a tall young +lady with the self-admiring graces and manners of an opera +singer on the concert platform. He looked at his watch again +and wondered how long it would be before the stupid school +performance would be over, and he could get away for an +apéritif at the Café du Grand Bouleau on the Place d'Armes +and an evening with——</p> + +<p>He saw that another player was coming forward, a slim +tall girl with thick shining dark hair held back by a white +ribbon like the others. She stood for an instant to bow to +the audience before sitting down at the piano, and he could +look up full into her unconscious face, gazing out over his +head impersonally with shy, liquid, dark eyes. She was breathing +a little rapidly, her young breast rising and falling under +the filmy white of her dress. A timid propitiatory smile +curved her sensitive mouth and arched her long, finely-drawn +eyebrows.</p> + +<p>Not a muscle of Jean-Pierre's face changed; every line of +his careless, confident attitude froze taut as it was. And +underneath this motionless exterior, he felt his heart hotly, joyfully +weeping in a passion of thanksgiving, like a frightened +lost child who has come into the right way. He lost all sense +of connection with his body and yearning, worshipping, clamoring, +imperiously calling, humbly beseeching, he gazed out +from the bars of his immobile, well-dressed external self at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +girl sitting before the piano. Two years, two long years of +exile, how could life ever make up to him for those two lost +years? How he had starved! His famished eyes fed ravenously +on what they saw, the supple, elastic slimness of the +young body, the fine, thin ankle and shapely foot, the creamy +forearm, the agile, strong, white fingers, so bravely flinging out +harmonies beyond the comprehension of the smooth broad +brow, inviolate, intact, innocent, ignorant, which bent its full +child's curve over the keys.</p> + +<p>Jean-Pierre looked and looked, prostrating himself in awe +before the revelation of divine, stainless youth. Never till +that moment, he told himself, had he understood the meaning +of the holy word, virgin.</p> + +<p>And he had thought, those two long years, that he had always +held her before his eyes! He had remembered nothing, +nothing of what she was. Yet, how could he have divined +what she was becoming—that mouth, her pure girl's mouth, +cleanly drawn in scarlet against the flower-like flesh perfumed +with youth. Would he—would he know the first cool touch +of those young lips ... he found that he could see her no +more, for a mist before his eyes, and yet he continued to strain +his eyes through the mist towards where she sat.</p> + +<p>Some one touched him on the arm. It was Maman—Maman +who looked at him in tender sympathy. As their +glance met, she smiled at him, and nodded her head once, +reassuringly. She looked as she had when he was a little +boy, and she had yielded at last to some desperately held +whim of his. Dearest Maman! It was a promise she gave +him silently, a promise to help him towards his happiness. +She too had succumbed to Marise. Who would not? He +pressed her hand gently, and smiled in return. A calm peace +came upon him.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Madame Garnier knew very well beforehand when the little +American girl was to come on the program, and after that ill-bred, +over-dressed Yvonne Bredier had wriggled and grinned +her way off the stage, she felt an anxious, nervous expectation. +Jean-Pierre had no idea what was coming. She could feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +that. Although she dared not change her position to look at +him, she was acutely aware of the relaxed careless pose of his +body, and of the nonchalant turn of his head as he glanced +at the girl who now came forward on the stage.</p> + +<p>And then she felt with that sixth sense of her passion for +Jean-Pierre that he had been struck, had been pierced, as +though a knife had thrust him through and through. Although +he had not moved—because he had not moved, had +not changed a line of his careless attitude, she divined that +he had been stricken into immobility. What was it? Was +it the shock of disillusion, of disappointment at prosaic reality +after a long, romantic dream? Or did he still find in the +girl whatever strange sorcery had so bewitched his boyish +fancy?</p> + +<p>She herself sat as stiffly motionless as he, suffering so exquisite +a torture of suspense that she dared not bring herself +to end it by a look at his face.</p> + +<p>Some one back of her coughed, and the sound broke the +spell. She drew a long breath and resolutely turned her head +towards her son.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my Jean-Pierre, oh, my little boy! is it so you feel? +Oh, my darling, do you want her, do you want anything in +the world like that? My little boy, a man! To think that it +is my little boy, thus burning with a man's desire! Oh, yes, +Jean-Pierre, you shall have her ... what is your mother +for but to help you have what you want? Oh, poor boy, +poor boy, to look at any woman so.... Oh, Jean-Pierre, if +you knew women, how they only live to fool men ... no +woman on earth is worth...."</p> + +<p>She saw now that his flaming young eyes were veiled with +tears. She touched his arm, she smiled at him, closer to him +than since his early childhood. And he took her hand, he +smiled back, he looked at her as he had not once since his +infatuation began—like her son, her only son once more +letting her into his heart. She held tightly to his hand, now +happy and at peace.</p> + +<p>Thus together, hand in hand, they were looking up at the +stage when the girl struck the final chord, and rising, turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +once more towards the front to make her bow in acknowledgment +of the applause. The excitement, the effort, had brought +a shell-like color into her subtly modeled cheeks. Once more +she looked out into the audience impersonally and then, as +she turned to go, unconsciously drawn by the intense gaze of +the couple in the second row, her dark eyes dropped to them +for an instant's glance of friendly recognition. Madame Garnier +felt her son draw a sudden, gasping breath through half-open +lips and tighten his hold on her hand.</p> + +<p>During the rest of the program her thoughts and plans rose +in a busy circling swarm. After all, there were advantages. It +might be much worse! Impressionable, sensitive, inexperienced +as Jean-Pierre was, it might very well have been some mature +married woman in search of a new sensation who had thus +caught his first young passion. Or even not his passion at +all. Even if he himself had felt nothing, any woman could +have victimized him by working on that foolish sensibility +of his. If she could make him think—and his mother always +had a scared sense of how easy that would be—that she was +in love with him, he would never know how to retreat, as more +brutal men knew so well how to do. She had always been +afraid of some such entanglement as that, in which Jean-Pierre's +weakness (in her heart she called it plainly that, and +not chivalry or sensibility) would make him a helpless victim +of a woman either an old fool herself or a calculating sensualist. +Heavens! How many dangers there were in the world for +one's son! And sons could not be guarded like daughters, +by keeping them under your thumb. There were also, for such +a romantic, unworldly boy as Jean-Pierre, all the variations on +the Camille theme. How easily some shrewd woman of the +demi-monde could have pulled the wool over his eyes! Madame +Garnier had no doubts that Jean-Pierre knew such women. +Her son was a man like all other men, for all his poetic, high-strung +ideas, and had certainly had his part of an ordinary +man's life, especially those last two years away from home, +irresponsible and alone. Oh, yes, the more she thought shudderingly +of the dangers he had escaped, the more harmless appeared +this fancy for a school girl. And if his fancy was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +light on a young girl, in some ways it was more convenient to +have her a foreigner with no family, so to speak, rather than +a girl of Bayonne society, whose family would expect to +have much to say about all the arrangements of Jean-Pierre's +life. Heavens! suppose it had been Elise Fortier—think of +Jean-Pierre saddled with Madame Fortier as a mother-in-law! +Not that that worthless idle American mother-in-law was much +better; except that those people <i>must</i> go back to America some +time! Everybody did go back to his native country ultimately. +And too, she was a weak, foolish thing who would never have +the force to make trouble. Look at the way she let herself be +run by her servants. Also, until now, she had paid precious +little attention to her daughter; there was no reason to think +she would develop any more interest in her later on. And +the child herself seemed malleable material. There was no +doubt she would be a pretty woman, and marrying very young, +she would certainly assimilate the standards of the Garnier +family.</p> + +<p>When the concert was over, she said to Jean-Pierre, "If you +like, we will wait till the girls come out, and walk home with +Danielle and her classmates." As she spoke she nodded to +old Jeanne Amigorena, the cook in the American family, who +stood there, also waiting, her young mistress' cloak and hat on +her arm. It occurred to her that one of the first things to +do would be to eliminate that servant. She probably knew +altogether too much about Marise's family. It would not be +prudent to have her around a young ménage; and anyhow, old +servants were an intolerable nuisance with their airs of belonging +to the family.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Behind the scenes where the girls were waiting for the concert +to begin, there had been a deal of giggling and whispering and +rustling. Mademoiselle Vivier, chosen to turn the pages for +the players because she was so severe it was thought she could +keep them in order, was "gend'arming around" as the girls +called it, pouncing on one group for laughing too loud, and on +another for making too much noise as they executed grotesque +caricatures of the way they intended to make their entries on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +the stage. The moment her back was turned, they whispered +and giggled and pranced more wildly than ever, turning deep +bows into pirouettes, shaking out their full skirts and whirling +about like dervishes. Everybody took care to lose her music +and get it all mixed up with everybody's else, just to see Mlle. +Vivier go into the air.</p> + +<p>"Here's that missing sheet from your Schubert, Marguerite! +Oh, no, it's Gabrielle's Chopin!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, all the scherzo pages have gone from my Delibes!"</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, I feel so faint, I don't believe +I <i>can</i> play."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mademoiselle, I forgot to bring my—oh, yes, here it is, +right under Danielle! Get up, Danielle! Get up! <i>Mademoiselle!</i> +Danielle Garnier won't get off my music! Oh, Mademoiselle, +can't I play my Nocturne instead of the Autumn +Leaves! I <i>feel</i> like a nocturne; just ready to go to sleep."</p> + +<p>Poor Mademoiselle Vivier, single-handed as she was, grew +more and more frantic, rushing about, a dark red flush on her +thin face, crying, "Sh, <i>sh</i>!" much more loudly than the girls +were whispering, exhorting them angrily to have some manners, +not to behave like so many barbarians, and to realize the +seriousness of the occasion, the Gambert music prize at stake!</p> + +<p>But one of those flint-like school traditions originating God +only knows how, and utterly impervious to exhortations from +any faculty, decreed in that school that the Gambert music +prize was a joke, a scream of a joke. The girls would kill themselves +with work and worry to win any other prize, for dramatic +recitation, for dancing, even for French composition, much +as they hated that, but care who won the music prize they would +not; although, of course, it was exciting to have no classes +that afternoon, to wear your best white dress and parade +out on the stage. They had handed down from one school +generation to another the fixed idea that M. Gambert had +been short, red-faced and ridiculously fat, and they enraged +their teachers by drawing on the margins of their music, impudent +sketches of a paunchy, bald little man ceremoniously bestowing +a huge wreath on a knock-kneed, scrawny girl. +Whereas, as a matter of historic fact, M. Gambert had been a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +very good-looking bourgeois, who in his youth had been a +dashing lieutenant under Napoleon I. Also the Gambert prize +was not a wreath at all but an album of piano music, beautifully +bound in bright red leather, which, because the Mother +Superior feared arousing the vanity of the winner, was privately +bestowed behind the scenes. But historic facts have +no bearing on a cherished school joke of long standing. For +the girls, the Gambert prize continued always to be one gigantic +lark, one of those perennial farces, the indestructible quality +of which so endears them to fourteen and fifteen year olds.</p> + +<p>This year they had a new variation on their usual fooleries. +Elise Fortier told them that her grown-up young lady cousin +had discovered something as good as the rouge which was so +strictly forbidden to them by the Sisters, that its very name +was not allowed to be pronounced in school. If you bent over +double and hung your head upside down, way over, thus, till +it was on the same level with your knees, and held it there till +you felt as though you'd burst, you'd have the loveliest color +in your cheeks, just like an actress.</p> + +<p>Of course they all wanted to look like actresses. What +could be more delightful than to look like an actress!</p> + +<p>In an instant the horrified Mademoiselle Vivier was treated +to an appalling spectacle. All of her charges utterly forgetting +their manners or even decency, were stooping double, their +full starched skirts sticking out at acute angles behind, and +to the tune of muffled shrieks of laughter were dangling and +shaking their heads, like so many lunatics, their carefully +dressed hair sweeping the floor. She rushed at the nearest +one, Marise Allen, and forced her back to an upright position. +But this did not improve things. When Marise caught a +glimpse of the others, like great white mushrooms, stooping +and shaking, she burst out into anything but a muffled shout +of laughter, which brought them all up, one after another, to +gaze and scream, and lean, convulsed and hysterical, against +the walls.</p> + +<p>It was a critical moment. The curtain was due to go up, +and the girls were really out of hand. Mademoiselle Vivier +could do nothing with them. They had lost control of them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>selves; +her experienced eye knew the signs. In a moment +more, one of the more high-strung ones would begin to cry +and then.... Good God! what a mess! What diabolically +infernal creatures girls were to handle! How sick she was of +their imbecility!</p> + +<p>She ran hastily around to the side door and beckoning in +the Mother Superior told her what was happening. The nun +nodded understandingly, meditated for an instant, casting +about in her mind, and then, her aged face taking on an expression +of majestic calm, she swept back to the little room +behind the stage. The girls were startled to see her and +alarmed by the intense gravity of her face.</p> + +<p>"My children," she said quietly in the clear, gentle, masterful +voice which had kept the Community in whole-hearted +subservience to her for thirty years, "my children." She bent +her wasted old face on them, raising one thin white hand, +peremptorily. Her long flowing black sleeve gave a commanding +amplitude to this gesture. "My little children, lift up +your hearts...." She waited an instant, till she held every +eye, and then she said reverently, "My children, at every +important moment of our lives we must turn to Our Very +Holy Mother, to bless us. Before you go on the stage to-day, +to represent your school in public, and to do honor to music, +which God has blessed as an instrument of good, let us pray +Our Mother to be with you, and guide you."</p> + +<p>She bowed her head. Hypnotically, all the young heads +bowed with hers. She began in a low murmur, "Ave Maria, +sancta tu in mulieribus...." All the young voices murmured +with her, discharging in the reverenced words, the +nervous tension of their excitement and frolic. When they +finished, they were all quiet, with serious faces. The Mother +Superior raised her hand over them, murmuring a short, inaudible +prayer of her own. There was an instant's silence.</p> + +<p>"Go tell Mathurin to raise the curtain," said the Reverend +Mother hurriedly in a low tone to Mademoiselle Vivier; a command +which Mademoiselle Vivier lost no time in executing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + + +<p>Marise had noticed as she left the stage, that Madame +Garnier was there with her son,—oh, yes, Danielle <i>had</i> said +her brother was back from America. Now he'd be tagging +around everywhere, tied to his mother's apron-strings, as Papa +said all young Frenchmen were. Yes, they were holding hands +this minute. How Papa would laugh to see that, as much as +he did when Frenchmen with beards kissed each other. And +now he'd be everlastingly coming in with his tiresome mother +on Maman's days at home, to fidget and stammer and drop +his teaspoon. Oh, well, she thought with a superior condescension, +he had been hardly more than a boy, just out of +the lycée, only twenty-one. He might be better now. Perhaps +he had got rid of a little of his shyness in New York; although +twenty-three, for a <i>man</i>, was of course no age at all.</p> + +<p>The fashion at school just then, was to look down on boys +and young men as green and insipid. The ideal of all the girls +was an <i>old</i> man of forty, with white hair, and black eyebrows, +a little pointed gray beard, and such sad, sad eyes! Every +girl was waiting for such a chance to devote herself to healing +the wounds made by other women, faithless, heartless creatures +who had ravaged his youth and destroyed his faith. To +prove to him what a woman's fidelity and love could be, and +then die in his remorseful arms, of slow consumption brought +on by his neglect...! Or, as the pious ones had it, to bring +him back to the Church, and have him become a monk after +your death. Or, perhaps, as some of the more dramatic ones +imagined the matter, to find a plot against his life, and to +sacrifice yourself to defeat it, throwing back at the last moment +the hood of your long dark cloak, and showing a beautiful +white satin gown, stained with your heart's blood, as you +gasped out, "For you, for you, adored Réné."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<p>The books from which the girls got these ideas, and many +others not so harmless, were kept in a hole hidden behind a +big loose stone in the end wall of the school garden. Though +they were religiously wrapped in oil-cloth, the damp did more +or less penetrate. But spots of green mold and limp damp +pages which tore unless you held your breath as you turned +them, only added to their charm as you read them, two or +three heads bent over the page, while a friend kept guard at +the turn of the path by the magnolia tree.</p> + +<p>Marise had read them with the others, and although neither +Father nor Maman paid the slightest attention to what she +read, and there were lots of places in Maman's novels ever so +much worse than these, she naturally felt an agreeable thrill +at the thought of what an explosion there would be if they +were ever discovered, reading love-stories at school. It was +the fashion with the girls to do it. So she did, and as dramatically +as any of the others. But far down, deep under +all this, was a hermetically sealed chamber where she kept a +secret disgust for the whole subject of falling in love, a secret +distaste for men, old or young, and a furiously held determination +never to have anything to do with them. It was all very +well to carry on against the rules and to play-act with the girls +about something in a book, but the faintest approach of the +same thing in reality, froze her stiff with indignation and +repugnance. When, walking on the street with Jeanne, some +well-dressed young man cast a glance of admiration at her, +or some half-tipsy workman called out a rough compliment +she shrank away from them, hating them and herself; a feeling +which old Jeanne zealously fostered.</p> + +<p>She did not often think about the gray cat now, but she had +never forgotten it, and she had picked up a great deal more +information than she had had, about what made people like Isabelle +snigger and grin, when there was talk of getting a husband. +She intensely loathed all that she had seen and learned, +whether it were the shocked, nauseated expression on the face +of one of the older nuns at school, when she forbade any talk +among the girls over the gossip that one of the kitchen-girls +had let a young man into the kitchen at midnight; or a pas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>sage +in one of Maman's novels, which she had found lying +open on the salon table, and read before she could stop herself. +Every such experience was like a blow on a bruised +spot, deep under the surface of her life, which was so sore +now that it ached at the slightest touch, ached and made her +sick. She had learned that she must protect it at all costs, +and she fought off blindly whatever seemed to threaten it, +fought it off with indignation, with brusqueness, with stiffness, +with silence, using any weapon she could snatch up. At school, +if she found a group of older girls with their heads together, +and a certain expression on their faces, the weapon was often +simply to run away into another part of the playground. "I +can run away faster than they can run after me!" she told +herself, fleeing away to where the little girls were playing +hop-scotch and "chat-perché."</p> + +<p>There were times of course when you couldn't run away +literally, but Marise had other methods of running away, the +best one being a sudden change of subject—"Oh, Isabelle, your +chignon is coming untied!" or "Gabrielle, isn't Sister Ste. +Marie coming down the hall?" "Jeanne, you're pulling my +hair!"</p> + +<p>And she had found, too, that to head people off from beginning +on the sort of thing you had to run away from, there +was no better device than lively spirits. If you kept joking +and laughing and carrying on, the girls didn't have time to +lower their voices, look over their shoulders and begin to talk +with their faces close to yours.</p> + +<p>She was still flushed from laughing and talking and carrying +on, when she emerged from the side-stairs into the half empty +assembly-room, looking for her wraps, and saw beside Jeanne, +Mme. Garnier and her son evidently waiting for Danielle, for +Mme. Garnier had Danielle's hat and cloak on her arm. "Oh, +zut! What a bore!" She'd have to speak to them; the young +man would fidget and make her nervous, and she did think +Mme. Garnier the tiresomest of all the frumps who came to +call on Maman. She was an old snake-in-the-grass, too,—to +use one of Papa's expressions. She pretended to say such sweet +things to Maman, and really they were all different ways to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +slight poor Maman, who didn't understand half the time. But +Marise did, and resented it for her. Poor Maman!</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Madame Garnier," she said with a little +bow, coming up to them, and, "Good morning, Monsieur +Jean."</p> + +<p>She remembered to drop her eyes, following the precepts of +the teacher of deportment, and profited by the gesture to despise +Mme. Garnier's shoes, stuffed lumpily full, like badly +made sausages.</p> + +<p>When Mme. Garnier finished a long speech, she didn't mean +a word of, about how nicely Marise had played, "Oh, thank +you very much, Madame Garnier," she answered, looking up +for a moment.</p> + +<p>Jeanne put her hat and coat on now, as Danielle romped in, +talking at the top of her voice. Madame Garnier, with the +perfunctory air of one attending to a familiar duty, savagely +reproached her for boisterousness, and general heathenishness +of manners. Danielle took this as it was meant, and paying +not the slightest attention to the rebuke, went on talking at +the top of her voice, telling her mother and brother all about +the foolishness back of the scenes. "It was simply <i>killing</i>!" +she shouted, laughing so that no one but Marise had any idea +what she was talking about, "I thought I'd die, didn't you, +Marise? You never saw anything in your life so funny! All +of us wrong side up, with our heads ... oh, ha! ha! ha!"</p> + +<p>She and Marise went off into peals of laughter which they +immediately suppressed to giggles and then to smothered +muffled gasps, as they saw the Reverend Mother's dignified +black draperies moving down the side-aisle. They'd hear from +it at school if Reverend Mother caught them in such a breach +of manners as <i>laughing in a public place</i>!</p> + +<p>"Who won the prize, my darling?" whispered Jeanne, in +Marise's ear, as she smoothed down the collar of her coat.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I did," Marise whispered back casually. She had left +the big red album of Morceaux de Salon with Mlle. Vivier, because +she knew if she tried to carry it home and passed by a +school-mate she would be greeted with howls of jeering laughter. +She would bring some paper to-morrow, to wrap it up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We may as well walk along together," said Mme. Garnier +now. "Our road lies your way."</p> + +<p>Jeanne dropped respectfully behind, Mme. Garnier walked +with Marise, Danielle with her brother. Marise shot one +sideways glance at Mme. Garnier as they started along the +sidewalks. "Sapristi," as Jeanne said, "what an ugly hat! +How could anybody not just drop dead to be seen with such +a horror on!" "Yes, Madame," she answered politely, at +random, not paying any attention to Mme. Garnier's drone. +How vulgar it was to let your dress wrinkle across the back +where the top of your corset came. And it was worse to let +it cave in in front, at the same place. When she was grown +up, she would never let <i>her</i> dress do that! Marise reflected +with the utmost satisfaction on the excellent cut and hang of +her own dress. There hadn't been a better one there, and +she had silk stockings while most of the girls had clumsy cotton +ones, or at best lisle thread. Jeanne certainly did know +how to buy clothes, and Papa never said a word against paying +the bills. Well, she could wear them too! She had style. +She cast a pleased sideways glance at her slim straight silhouette, +reflected in the large window of a shop, saw in the same +mirror Mme. Garnier's uninteresting middle-aged figure, and +then surprisingly she also caught a glimpse of Jeanne, behind +the others, her handkerchief at her eyes as if she were crying. +Marise stopped short, and turned sharply to look back. For +mercy's sake, what could be the matter with Jeanne? Why, +yes, she was, she was actually crying, the big tears rolling down +her leathery cheeks. With an unceremonious excuse to Mme. +Garnier, Marise left her planted there on the sidewalk, and +darted back to Jeanne, asking anxiously what had happened.</p> + +<p>Jeanne looked at her fondly, her wrinkled old face bright +with love, "I am thanking Our Holy Mother and all the Saints +for your triumph, my darling!" she said, her voice trembling. +"All this day I have been praying for you, all this day."</p> + +<p>Marise's first impulse was to inquire stupidly, "What triumph?" +and her next was to burst into laughter as she realized +that Jeanne had worked herself up so about that old +Gambert music prize, of all things! But these gusts had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +come and gone before the expression of her face had had +time to change; and when they had gone, all she could see +was the affection shining in the old woman's eyes. Dear, +<i>darling</i> old Jeanne! <i>Let</i> her think it was a triumph! She +should never know anything else about it, bless her!</p> + +<p>Marise remembered Danielle, the mocking, and glanced uneasily +towards where the Garniers stood, waiting for her to go +on with them. No, Danielle had not heard. Jeanne was safe.</p> + +<p>Marise had grown so that she no longer needed to reach up +to put her arms around the neck of the tall old woman, and +kiss her hard on both tear-wet cheeks. "I owe my victory to +thee, dear Jeanne, to thy prayers," she whispered fervently. +"And I shall never, never forget it."</p> + +<p>All this was a lie, of course, but lies were easy to tell, and +what harm were they, if you made somebody more comfortable +by telling them?</p> + +<p>She pirouetted about on her toes, and ran back to take her +place with Mme. Garnier. "Jeanne had bad news from one +of her family," she murmured pensively in answer to Mme. +Garnier's look of inquiry. "Oh, bah!" she thought carelessly. +"What was one more lie to head off an old cat like that?" Besides, +it was amusing to see how easy it was to lie, how with +one little phrase, this way or that, you could change facts.</p> + +<p>After she had come in, and gone to her room to change to +her usual dark woolen school-dress, with the long-sleeved linen +apron over it, Marise happened to glance out through the lace +curtain over her window and saw that Mme. Garnier's son was +sitting on the bench across the street in front of the Château +Vieux. "Well, that was queer, why hadn't he gone on with his +mother and Danielle?" She looked again, to make sure, herself +hidden at one side behind the heavy tapestry curtain, as +Jeanne had taught her, lest she be seen by men on the street. +"Yes, it was Danielle's brother, sure enough. Well, what could +he be doing there?"</p> + +<p>She turned back to her greenish mirror to take off the white +ribbon from her hair, and found that she had a dim recollection +that before he went away to America, he used to sit on that +bench in the late afternoon and evening. There was some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>thing +unpleasant connected with that vague memory, and after +a time that came to her also. She had heard Anna Etchergary, +the concierge, and Jeanne laughing about it, and had overheard +them conjecture that the young man was no such innocent +mother's boy as he seemed, and then they had seen that +Marise was there, and stopped abruptly, looking at her with +the expression that she hated.</p> + +<p>Before she went in to dinner, she looked out once more to see +if he were still there. Yes, there he was leaning forward, the +light from the street-lamp full on his face. Marise could see +that he was pale, but there was a smile on his lips as if +his thoughts were very pleasant.</p> + +<p>When she stepped into the salon, she did not for a moment +see that Maman was already there, because she stood at one +side of the window, half hidden in the thick tapestry curtain, +looking out through the lace over the glass. By the expression +of her back, Marise knew that she, too, was looking at Mme. +Garnier's son on the bench. For an instant, as though Marise's +fingers had dropped on white-hot metal, the wild idea came to +her that it was at Maman that Jean-Pierre was smiling, that +it was for Maman that he sat there. She jerked herself away +angrily and instantaneously from this thought, ashamed of +herself. She was getting like Jeanne, like the girls at school.</p> + +<p>Maman had heard her move, and now turned sharply around +from the window, with the startled look of some one into +whose bed-room you've walked without knocking at the door. +But Marise never knocked at the salon door before going in. +Why should she have thought of it to-day? Maman drew the +heavy curtain over the window with a sweep of her bare +white arm. For Maman was in grande tenue with her mauve +satin low-necked evening dress on, and a camellia in her hair. +Marise's first thought was that she was to have another solitary +dinner. "Oh, Maman, are you going out?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not, what makes you think I am?" asked Maman +quickly. She added because it was perfectly evident what +made Marise think it, "The belt on this dress has been changed +and I tried it on to see if it was right. And then I saw it +was dinner time."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> + +<p>Marise was about to say something about the flower in her +hair, but her antennæ-like sensitiveness to what other people +were feeling, made her shut her lips. She looked hard at +her mother, who made herself opaque, looking back at Marise, +her face and eyes and mouth firmly closed over what was +in her mind. Being able to see only the surface, Marise +took that in with a fresh impression of not having looked at +Maman for some time. How pretty she was, with her hair like +gold threads, catching the light, and how different from her +crinkly hair like a golden mist around her head, were the thick, +thick petals of the camellia, with their dense, close, fine-grained +surface.</p> + +<p>Jeanne came to the door. "Madame is served," she said in +a correct tone, standing aside as they came out. She did not +look at Marise at all, but Marise knew perfectly well that she +too was wondering about the evening dress and the flower. +Marise began to try to invent some plausible explanation for +it which she could let drop in talk to-morrow as they walked +to school.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Marise had lessons to get that evening, lots of them, and +hard ones, as usual. After dinner, she went back to her room, +opened her history and began. It was very still in the apartment. +No sound at all from Maman in the salon. Of course, +Jeanne and Isabelle were both across the landing in the other +kitchen, doing the work as they always were unless Maman +expected callers.</p> + +<p>Marise leaned over her table and concentrated with all her +might on the rôle played by Colbert in the economic organization +of the seventeenth century. She was trying to memorize +the outline of his introduction of sounder account-keeping in +government administration, when all at once, there in her mind, +instead of Louis XIV and his court, was the picture of Maman +standing beside the window, looking out. If Marise were now +to step quickly into the salon, would she again find +Maman...?</p> + +<p>Marise tossed her head angrily at the possibility of her doing +such a sneaky thing as to go to see.... Like some nasty idea<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +of Jeanne's that was! She drew her history closer to her, +changed her position and went on studying. "Colbert a souvent +répété que c'est par le commerce qu'un pays s'enrichit...."</p> + +<p>Although she had not meant to, she started up and +went to the window, opening the heavy curtains a tiny crack, +to look out.</p> + +<p>Yes, he was still there, two hours after they had left him. +He had not even gone home for dinner. But old Madeleine, the +flower seller must have passed by on her way home, after shutting +up her flower-stand, for now he had a white rose bud in +his hands, looking down at it fixedly, turning it about between +his fingers, once in a while touching a petal delicately, or +holding it up to draw in its fragrance.</p> + +<p>Marise pulled the curtain shut, and hurried back to the improvement +of the French army from 1680 on. She felt very +miserable, as though she'd eaten something she ought not to +... was it a headache? She had heard ladies talk so much +about headaches, and had never had one. Yes, it must be a +headache. That was it, her first headache. By thinking about +it she felt it very distinctly now in the back of her head—like +a great weight there drawing her head back. She tried to think +of Colbert; she looked hard at the familiar picture of Colbert +rubbing his hands in glee over all the work piled up on his +desk, but what she saw was Maman standing at one side of +the window looking out. Was that Maman she heard moving +about in the salon?</p> + +<p>What time was it? Wasn't it time for her to go to bed? +The soapy dark green clock on her mantel piece showed only +half past eight. Too early. She started at a sudden sound, +her hand beginning to tremble. The door-bell rang. Jeanne +and Isabelle were both on the other side of the landing and +would not hear. She listened, her hands and feet cold, heard +Maman go to the door herself and Jean-Pierre Garnier's voice +asking if Monsieur and Madame and Mademoiselle Allen were +at home. Maman laughed and said that Monsieur was away +on business and Mademoiselle was, of course, busy with her +lessons, but Madame was there!</p> + +<p>Marise heard Mme. Garnier's son also laugh nervously and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +say that he would come in for a moment to pay his respects +to Madame. They both spoke English, which Jean-Pierre +had learned so well in New York. Well, why not? In +America anybody might happen to make an evening call +at half past eight. And Mme. Garnier's son had just been +in America. Heavens! How her head ached! She would +go to bed anyway, whether it was time or not. She undressed +rapidly and getting into bed pulled the covers over her head. +It seemed to her that she lay thus for ages, her eyes pinched +shut in the smothering air under the blankets. Then she +pulled them down to breathe and found that she had forgotten +to put out her candle, which was guttering low and +showing by the clock that her "ages" had been less than an +hour. It was twenty minutes past nine.</p> + +<p>She blew out her candle, and decided that Jeanne or no +Jeanne, she must have more air. She was suffocating. She +drew the curtains aside and secure in the darkness of the +room, opened both sides of the window wide. The fresh air +came in like waking up from a nightmare.</p> + +<p>But she had not waked up, for there on the bench across +the street was Mme. Garnier's son again. Had she dreamed +that he had come to the door? How strangely he sat now, +flung down sideways, his face hidden on his arm. As Marise +stared, understanding nothing of what she saw, he started up +spasmodically as though some one had struck him from behind. +Then he collapsed again, his face buried on his out-flung +arm. After this he was perfectly motionless, like everything +around him, the somber wall of the Château Vieux, the +sickly light of the street-lamp, the bench, the rough paving-stones, +the vacant, gray shutters of the department store further +along the street.</p> + +<p>As Marise stood there, shivering in her night-gown, staring, +she heard Maman's quick light step at the other end of the +corridor, and the sound of Maman's voice, humming a little +trilling song. She turned her head, and saw the cheerful yellow +flicker of a candle coming nearer her open door. Maman +was going down to her dressing-room to get ready for bed. She +thought of course that Marise was in bed and asleep by this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +time and when she came by, looking down at the lighted candle +in the pretty little gilt candle-stick she did not even glance +into the dark room where the child stood bewildered. For +the instant she was framed in the square of the open door, +she was brilliantly painted on the darkness, all the bright +colors of her fair hair, her shining eyes, her red lips, softly +gleaming in the warm, golden light of the little flame. The +picture was printed indelibly on the child's wide eyes sensitized +by the darkness; and long after the sound of the gay little song +had died away, long years after the sound of the light footstep +was silent, Marise could see, hung on the blackness +around her bed at night, the shining picture, golden-bright in +the quivering, living flame of the candle, the dense waxy +petals of the camellia against the vaporous blonde hair, the +smiling curved lips, the velvet white of the slender bare neck +and arms, the rich sheen of the mauve satin flowing about the +quick, light feet.</p> + +<p>She got into bed warmed, comforted. Nothing could be +the matter if Maman was smiling so cheerfully. She fell +asleep at once, desperately tired, giving up as an unanswerable +and no longer very interesting riddle, the question of what +was the trouble with Mme. Garnier's son.</p> + +<p>But in the night, without knowing how, she found herself +once more by the open window—she had been dreaming, +she had got up to see about something in her dream—something +about ... why, there he was still on the bench, all +huddled and stooped together now, his face hidden in both +arms crossed on his knees. Perhaps he had dropped asleep +there. Br-r-r-r! he would be cold when he woke up. How +chilly it still was at night! Well, yes, it was evident that she +had dreamed it about his ringing at the door. She plunged +back under the covers, she heard the long sonorous hoot of +a steamer going out to sea, and was asleep before it died +away.</p> + +<p>She overslept in the morning, so that Jeanne, when she +came with the tray, ran to shake her and said she must hurry +to dress or she would be late to school. Marise sprang up, +thinking of nothing but the reprimand she risked, and flung<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> +on her clothes, stopping to bite off big mouthfuls of the buttered +croissants and drink big swallows of the café-au-lait. +Jeanne buttoned her behind while she brushed furiously at +her hair. "Where are my books? Oh, never mind that +last hook, it'll never show. Oh, just <i>once</i> without my gloves! +No I don't <i>need</i> my coat, the sun is so warm." She ran out +to the corridor, snatched her hat, and, her teeth set in the last +morsel of her bread, darted down the hall, Jeanne galloping +stiffly behind her, as anxious as she over the possibility of +being late.</p> + +<p>But at the outer door, she paused, one hand on the knob, +something imperatively urging her to return. What had she +seen as she passed the open door of the salon? Just the +every morning scene, Isabelle with her head tied up in a cloth, +a brush-broom in her hand, all the windows wide open, the +rugs hanging over the sills, the sun streaming in with the +particular clean fresh brilliance it always seemed to have +early in the morning, while the room was still empty of life. +How could there have been anything threatening about that +familiar sight? It was Isabelle's face. She had been standing +perfectly still, the long handle of her brush-broom held under +one arm, looking down with a puzzled expression at something +she held in her hand.</p> + +<p>Marise had wheeled so instantly in answer to the vague +warning of danger, that she was back at the door of the salon, +before Isabelle's position had changed. She still stood there, +looking down at a wilted, white rose-bud. And now her face +was suspicious as well as puzzled. Glancing up she said +meaningly to Jeanne, over Marise's shoulder, "Now, <i>where</i> +do you suppose <i>this</i> came from? I found it on the floor by +the sofa! There were no roses brought into the house by +any one <i>we</i> saw yesterday!"</p> + +<p>Jeanne thrust her long stringy neck forward, and passed her +head over Marise's shoulder to verify the fact. Marise could +see the glitter in her eye. Marise cried out instantly, "Oh, my +poor rose! <i>That's</i> where it was! I looked for it everywhere +last night to put it in water."</p> + +<p>Jeanne and Isabelle turned their eyes on her penetratingly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +She held them energetically at bay, hardening her gaze, defying +them.</p> + +<p>"I didn't see you have any rose yesterday," said Jeanne. +But Marise knew by the tone of her voice that she was not +sure.</p> + +<p>"Well, I did," she repeated, "Gabrielle Meunier gave it +to me out of her bouquet. Oh, I'm so sorry it's spoiled."</p> + +<p>"I believe you, that it's spoiled," said Isabelle carelessly, +dropping it into the dustpan. "Somebody must have stepped +on it to crush it like that."</p> + +<p>Her interest in it was gone. She began to hum her favorite +dance-tune, "jig-jig, pr-r-rt!" and to shake out a rug.</p> + +<p>Marise fled down the slippery waxed stairway, three steps +at a time, and dashed out on the street, Jeanne, purple-faced +and panting, close at her heels. How she hurried, how breathlessly +she hurried that morning; but a thought inside her head +doggedly kept pace with her hurry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p>Now that she was in an advanced class, she stayed all day +in the school and convent, taking her lunch with the "internats" +in the refectory. So that it was always six o'clock +before Jeanne came for her, with the first, thin twilight beginning +to fall bluely in the narrow, dark streets, and sunset +colors glimmering from the oily surface of the Adour. That +evening when Jeanne came for her, she said that Maman had +decided to go back for a day or two to Saint Sauveur for the +sake of the change of air and to try the baths again. Jeanne +never permitted herself the slightest overt criticism of her +mistress in talking to Marise, but she had a whole gamut of +intonations and inflections which Marise understood perfectly +and hated—hated especially because there was nothing there +to quarrel with Jeanne about. Jeanne had told her the news +in the most correct and colorless words, but what she had +really said was, "Just another of her idle notions, gadding +off for more sulphur baths. Nothing in the world the matter +with her. And it's much too early for the Saint Sauveur +season."</p> + +<p>Marise could resent such intimations, although Jeanne was +too adroit to give her grounds for open reproach. She had +her own gamut of expression and attitudes, with which to +punish the old woman. She immediately stopped chattering, +looked coldly offended, and walked beside Jeanne, her +face averted from her, out towards the street, now crowded +with two-wheeled ox-wagons, and donkeys, and men with +push-carts starting back into the country after market day. +She could feel that she was making Jeanne suffer and she +was glad of it.</p> + +<p>As she kept her eyes steadily turned through the tangle of +traffic across to the sidewalk on the other side, not more than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +ten feet away, so narrow was the street, she caught sight +of Mme. Garnier's son. He had a small valise in his hand, +and was idling along as though he were waiting for something. +As she looked, their eyes met. He looked at her hard, and +crossed the street towards her. He came swiftly now, as if, +all of a sudden, he were in a great hurry. How oddly he was +staring at her! Not as though he recognized her, as though he +took her for somebody else. Oh, perhaps he wasn't looking +at her at all! Perhaps there was somebody behind them, +at whom he was staring so hard. The tall school-girl jerked +her head around for a quick glance over her shoulder. But +there was nobody else on the sidewalk!</p> + +<p>The young man had come up to them now, had taken off +his hat and stood there, bowing. How white that bluish light +made people look! Marise and Jeanne slackened their pace +for an instant, thinking that he wished to speak to them, but +all that he brought out was, "Good evening, Mademoiselle," +in a low voice.</p> + +<p>They stood for an instant, Marise feeling very awkward, +as though she had misunderstood something. Then he put his +hat back on, and stooping forward as though he were tired and +his valise heavy, hurried on. Marise looked over her shoulder +again and saw that he was almost running. But he had +plenty of time to catch that train to Lourdes, which was the +only one due to leave Bayonne that evening.</p> + +<p>Jeanne's turn had come, in the little guerilla skirmish between +Marise and herself. "<i>Don't</i> turn around in the street +that way!" she cried in a shocked tone. "Haven't you any +sense of what is proper? Don't you know if you turn around +like that, just after a young man has passed you, he is likely +to think that you are <i>looking after him</i>!" She had no idea +that Marise was really guilty of such a heinous misdemeanor, +and had only snatched the phrase up as a weapon.</p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p>That night Jeanne rolled the little fold-up cot-bed in across +the landing and setting it up in Marise's room, slept there be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>side +her. This was what they had done before, when Maman +was at Saint Sauveur, on the nights when Father had to be +away too. Isabelle hadn't the slightest intention of sleeping +over on the other side by herself, and she always came too, +bringing her own sheets to put on Maman's bed. She remarked +that she couldn't afford to have it said of her that she +had spent the night in the apartment without another woman +with her. Marise did not see in the least why any one should +object to having this said of her, but the tone of Isabelle's +voice as she spoke, and the fact that it had something to do +with passing the night warned her off from asking any explanation. +She had already gleaned from many sources, in and +out of books, that there was something about accounting for +where you were at night, about which she didn't want to have +Jeanne and Isabelle talk. So she began to sing a new satirical +verse to the air of "Maman, les petits bateaux" which one of +the girls had made up that day.</p> + +<p>Everything went exactly as usual the next morning, the +absence of the mistress of the house not making the faintest +difference. Jeanne and Isabelle went through their usual domestic +ritual in exactly the same order, whether Madame +told them or not. Indeed, whatever she might tell them, they +changed no slightest tittle of what they did, as she had long +ago found out. Jeanne brought in the breakfast tray, and did +Marise's hair as usual, and although not a soul had stepped +into the salon since the day before, Isabelle was skating back +and forth on the waxed floor, woolen cloths on her feet, when +Marise passed the door. Outside it was a breathless still day, +with a hazy sun, very hot for so early in the spring.</p> + +<p>As they crossed the Adour, Marise caught the first whiff +of its summer smell, compounded of decaying sea-weed, tar +and stale fish. She and Jeanne said little, although they had +wordlessly made up their tiff the evening before, and had gone +to sleep after exchanging their usual hearty good-night kisses. +Their quarrels although frequent never lasted long.</p> + +<p>Everybody at school was dull, too, from the first heat. The +hours seemed very long, with little in them. Marise felt listless +and rather cross, and dreaded the exertion of taking her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +music lesson, although she usually looked forward eagerly to +those hours with Mlle. Hasparren, the best and happiest of +her days.</p> + +<p>At four o'clock the music-teacher called to take her home. +She also was hot and tired and fearfully nervous, she said, +after a terribly trying day in her class-room, with her forty-five +squirming little Basques. As a rule she and Marise had +a good deal to say to each other, because Mlle. Hasparren +was the only person Marise knew who had any interest in +America. The rest never spoke of it, or if by chance they did, +they only asked about buffaloes and Indians, and evidently +didn't believe her when she said she'd never seen either. But +Mlle. Hasparren knew better, and loved to talk about it, +and actually knew the difference between the Civil War and +the Revolution, and had heard of Abraham Lincoln and thought +he was a greater man than <i>Napoleon</i>! Marise, who was +reading a great deal of Victor Hugo, hardly knew whether to +agree with this startling idea or not, but she felt when she was +with Mlle. Hasparren, that it was safe to open many doors +which she usually kept locked, and to talk with her about things +she never dreamed of mentioning to anybody else. Which +did not, of course, at all prevent her from wishing to goodness +Mlle. Hasparren didn't wear such fearful hats, and that her +skirts would hang better.</p> + +<p>But this hot day of early spring, she thought neither of +America or of hats, as she plodded silently beside the equally +weary school-teacher, through the dusty stone streets. The +depression which had hung over her all day deepened till she +felt ready to cry. Wherever she looked she saw Maman standing +in that stealthy attitude, looking out of the window. Mlle. +Hasparren's worn, swarthy face, under her home-made hat, +was plainer than usual.</p> + +<p>Isabelle let them in to the empty salon, with her usual air +of being cheered up to have something happen, and bustlingly +arranged two seats before the piano. Mlle. Hasparren took off +her hat and pushed her fingers through her graying hair. Marise +fumbled among the music on the piano and pulled out what +they were working on, the Toccata in D minor. She flattened<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +it out with both hands on the music-rack above the keys, +and sat down. She raised her fingers, made sure of the notes +of the first twiddle, and began to play.</p> + +<p>She had not wished to take this music-lesson. She had been +hot and listless and tired; with a secret heartache and a dread +like a black shadow on her heart. She had sat down before a +great black varnished wooden box and,—detached, indifferent, +pre-occupied, had set her fingers to pushing first one and then +another bit of wood covered with white bone.</p> + +<p>And what happened?</p> + +<p>Out of the black, varnished box, like the mighty genii of +the Arabian Nights, soared something beautiful and strong, +something that filled the dreary, empty salon and her heavy +heart with sonorous life, something which like the genii put +its greatness at the service of the being who knew the charm +to free it from imprisonment.</p> + +<p>"Stronger there, as you come up from the bass," said Mlle. +Hasparren, and Marise knew from her voice that she too was +soaring up. And yet, although she sounded no longer dull and +weary, but strong and joyful, she abated nothing of her +exacting rigor. "No, don't blur it because you make it louder. +Don't lean on the pedal. Clean power of stroke, that's the +thing for Bach. Now try again. Roll it up from that lowest +note, like a mid-ocean wave."</p> + +<p>She listened, all her personality concentrated on her hearing, +her head turned sideways, her eyes fixed on a point in the +very far distance. With all her intelligence she listened, and +when the immature intelligence of the pupil faltered or failed, +she came swiftly to the rescue. "No, take care! you're losing +yourself in that passage. You're playing each note correctly +but you haven't the sense of the whole thing. There's a +rhythmic progression there that starts four measures back, and +doesn't end till you swing into those chords. Don't lose your +way in what is only a little ornamentation of the line. See, +to here—all that is half of the rhythmic figure, and here it +is repeated in the bass. Now again! Read it so the meaning +comes out."</p> + +<p>The nimble flexible young fingers went flying at the passage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +again, guided and informed by the ripe soundness of the older +mind, and from a passage which Marise had physically mastered +as mechanically as she would an exercise, she heard the +master-voice speak out again.</p> + +<p>Her teacher leaned forward beside her, working as hard as +Marise, although she did not touch the keys. Four years of +incessant work together had made them almost like one mind. +From time to time, they wiped the perspiration away from +their foreheads with a hasty pass of their handkerchiefs, Mlle. +Hasparren's gesture as hurried as Marise's.</p> + +<p>"Pearly in the treble—clear, clear—try that bar of triplets +again. Again! Again! Once more! There, now start at +the double bar—like running water. No, not so much shading, +ugh! <i>no</i>, that's not classic, let it speak for itself! You +don't need to use those theatrical swells and die-aways here. +You're not playing Gounod. Start that movement over again. +Every note's a pearl, remember, string them together in a +necklace. Don't jumble them in a heap."</p> + +<p>They were still at it, laboring like slaves, putting their backs +into it like ditch-diggers, exalted as young-eyed cherubim, +when Jeanne came discreetly to the door to look in on them. +This was her decorous method of intimating that she was +about to put Marise's dinner on the table.</p> + +<p>"Oh, là! là!" cried Mlle. Hasparren, "is it as late as that? +And my sister told me to be sure to start early enough to +buy some salad for our supper." She slammed on her hat, +took her bag, and darted away.</p> + +<p>Marise got up, feeling numb, flung her arms high over her +head, and stretched herself like a cat, although she knew that +like any other vigorous and forthright bodily gesture this would +call down a reproof from Jeanne as not being "convenable." +But she did not care what Jeanne said to her. She did not +care about anything in the world but the deep-rolling waves +of rhythm, and the clear tinkling rain of pearls which went +on and on in her head as she ate her solitary dinner, and +studied her lessons in her solitary room afterwards.</p> + +<p>When Jeanne came to set up her bed for the night, she remarked +"What a horrid sticky hot day it has been!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Has it?" asked Marise, in genuine forgetfulness of the +weather. Also, caught up into another world as she was, she +forgot for an hour or two all about the white rose-bud.</p> + + +<p class="center">III</p> + +<p>But she was reminded of it as she opened her eyes the next +morning. It was her fifteenth birthday and to celebrate it, +Jeanne had already been out to the market and brought home +a great bouquet of white rose-buds. She was loitering around, +pretending to pick up the room, but really waiting to hear +what Marise would say, so of course Marise must conquer +the nausea that white rose-buds gave her and exclaim that they +were lovely, and kiss Jeanne and thank her and lean over them +and smell them rapturously. What a lot of this sort of thing +there was to do, Marise thought, if you didn't want to hurt +people's feelings, or let them suspect things you didn't want +them to know.</p> + +<p>Jeanne tried to restrain herself to decorum, but her overwhelming +jealousy of any one else who touched Marise's life +was too much for her, "They're nicer than that one wilted +old thing Gabrielle Meunier gave you, hein?" Marise understood +then why Jeanne had chosen white rose-buds. Down +below the surface where she kept her real feelings she heard a +sick sort of laugh. What she said was, with fervor, "Oh, +yes, Jeanne, a thousand times better!" (You might as well +make it a thousand times while you were about it.)</p> + +<p>"Well, I should hope so!" said Jeanne, satisfied at last.</p> + +<p>That morning when Marise stepped into the courtyard at +school a group of older girls had their heads together over +a newspaper, and when they saw her, they all started. Elise +Fortier rolled the paper up rapidly and put it in her leather +portfolio with her school-books. They looked at her very +oddly. Four years ago, Marise would have run up to them, +demanding, "What's the matter? What makes you look so +funny? What is it in the paper?" That was before she became +aware of any mire in the world, invisible, wide-spreading, +into which almost any casual inquiry seemed likely to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +plunge you. Marise knew what it was to have some of that +indelibly staining mire splashed upon her, from a look, an intonation +or a phrase that meaningly expressed much more +than it said. She walked with a desperate wariness now, trying +to pick her way dry-shod, in the dark. So that morning she +was only afraid that the girls <i>would</i> tell her what it was they +had found in the paper that made them look so. She pretended +that she had seen nothing, ran up to them with a funny +story to tell, and went at once to hang up her wraps in the hall +outside the class-room door. Sister Ste. Julie passed her +and said, "Good-morning, my child." It seemed to Marise +that she too looked queerly at her. She reached her hand +over her shoulder to make sure her dress was hooked, and +felt of the ribbon in her hair. No mirrors were allowed inside +the school and convent walls, or she would have stepped +to look in one to see what was wrong.</p> + +<p>At eleven o'clock while the class in advanced geography was +reciting, the street bell rang. Sister Ste. Marie went to answer, +and came back to say that Mlle. Allen was wanted. +Her maman was ill, and the bonne had come for her. All +the girls turned instantly and looked at her without surprise, +as though they had been expecting this. Marise started up, +suddenly very pale, put on her wraps in a great hurry and +ran to where Jeanne was waiting for her. Jeanne looked +just as usual, although everything else seemed to have changed +in an instant and to look threateningly upon Marise.</p> + +<p>"Your maman is home from the baths," said Jeanne, as +though she were saying something she had made up to say +beforehand, "and she doesn't feel very well. Since Monsieur +is not here, I thought we would better come and get +you."</p> + +<p>Marise seized Jeanne's arm and dug her fingers deep into +it, "Jeanne ... Jeanne ... nothing's happened ... Maman's +not...."</p> + +<p>Jeanne said with the very accent of truth, "No, no, no. +Madame is not dead—never fear, my darling. She is only +very ... nervous." She said it with the very accent of +truth, but Marise knew perfectly well that Jeanne could say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +anything she pleased with that accent. She never believed +a thing Jeanne said unless she knew it already.</p> + +<p>But in spite of herself she was relieved from her first wild +panic. Nothing so very bad could have happened, with Jeanne +standing there, carved out of brown wood, just as usual. They +began to hurry up the narrow short-cut by the market, and +Jeanne told her a little more. Maman had come back by +the first train. She must have taken the afternoon train +down from Saint Sauveur to Lourdes, and have waited hours +in the station at Lourdes, till the west-bound train from +Toulouse came along. And she had come in, perfectly worn +out, staggering, and pushed right by Isabelle to go to her +room. And she had locked the door, and wouldn't answer +when they knocked, and wouldn't open when they brought a +tray with some food, only called out to them in a queer hoarse +voice to go get Sœur Ste. Lucie. And they could hear her +crying and sobbing, so they had sent Anna Etchergary to get +the nun, and she, Jeanne, had come of her own idea to get +Marise.</p> + +<p>Marise read into this Jeanne's dislike of the nun and +her usual suspicious idea about poor Maman that it was all +just some new notion of hers. But she also felt that the old +woman had had a real fright and she walked faster and faster.</p> + +<p>The door on the landing was ajar, and inside the hall they +saw a tall old monk, his bare feet in sandals, his bald head +bowed over his clasped hands, his lips moving in prayer. +When he saw the girl and the old servant, he made way for +them to pass, and without interrupting his prayers, motioned +them to enter. His gesture was so imperious that without a +word they tip-toed in past him. Isabelle, her eyes wide, and +not as red-faced as usual, was standing uncertainly in the door +of the salon, her apron up to her lips, looking scared, "Sœur Ste. +Lucie has gone in to Madame," she said to Jeanne in a whisper. +"She said you and Mademoiselle were to go to Mademoiselle's +room and wait until she came."</p> + +<p>Jeanne inquired wildly with a silent jerk of the head who +in the world was the monk who stood praying before Madame's +closed door; and Isabelle answered with a desperate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +rolling of her eyes that she had no more idea of that than +Jeanne.</p> + +<p>They all went down the corridor on tip-toes, to Marise's +room, where automatically Marise took off her hat and coat. +She saw to her amazement that Jeanne had dropped down on +the crimson quilt on the bed. Nothing that had happened +had startled Marise so much as to see this.</p> + +<p>Almost at once Sœur Ste. Lucie entered, and coming up +to Marise put her arms around her and kissed her very +tenderly. Then she turned and motioned the two servants out +of the room, "I must speak to Mlle. Marise alone," she said. +Isabelle was only too glad to go, but Jeanne looked furious +and stood for a moment with darkened face, lowering down +on the nun, as if she were on the point of defying her. But +she finally thought better of it, and followed Isabelle out.</p> + +<p>Sœur Ste. Lucie stood in the open door till they were both +well down the corridor. Then she shut it carefully and came +back to Marise whose heart was beating wildly and whose +knees were shaking under her. Sœur Ste. Lucie sat down, +and made Marise sit down, holding both the child's cold hands +in her soft, kind, old fingers. "Dear child, there are times +in every life when we must ask God for courage. Your +mother is not sick or hurt, but she needs all your prayers. +She has had a terrible shock, a dreadful tragedy that took +place before her eyes, and she will need all the help our +Holy Mother can give her, to recover her calm. It seems +that——" Sœur Ste. Lucie stopped an instant, as if to consider +how to put what she had to say, and changed the form, +"Your dear mother was in Saint Sauveur, and by chance a +person from Bayonne passed through, whom your dear mother +knew. And it seems they went out to walk together, as any +one might, and descended the paths and steps, that lead visitors +down the face of the Gavarnie Gorge, towards the place arranged +so that tourists can look up at the arch of the great +bridge. And then—nobody knows just what happened—the +water was very high and violent, the other person must have +slipped and fallen in, and was instantly killed by being flung +by the current against a great rock. Your dear mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +saw it, and sensitive and high-strung as she is, it ... it +slightly unhinged her. She said a great many wild +things...." Sœur Ste. Lucie stopped, drew a long breath +and began again. Nothing that she had said had made the +slightest impression on Marise. It sounded far off, as though +Sœur Ste. Lucie were reading something out of a book. Marise +could not seem to put her mind on it, and when she did, +she could not understand it.</p> + +<p>Sœur Ste. Lucie went on, "But by the mercy of God, I +had just written her that the holy Father Elie was once more +here; and after they had got the body out of the water and +carried it to the hotel they—your mother remembered about +Father Elie and turning in her trouble to the only source of +strength, she—your mother wishes to make a retreat for a +few days at our convent, and I am sure that it is much the +best thing for her to do. It is a shelter for her—Father Elie +is with her now, I have sent for a carriage...."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but can't I see her? Can't I kiss her good-by? +How long will she be away?" cried Marise wildly, starting +from the fascinated immobility in which she had gazed at the +nun's face.</p> + +<p>Sœur Ste. Lucie laid a quieting hand on her shoulder, her +kind old face yearning over the child. "Dear little Marise, +I think it will be better for your mother not to see you, or +any one just now. She needs quiet, perfect quiet."</p> + +<p>Marise looked at her hard. She had no idea whether she +was being told the truth, or only some kind invention which +they thought suitable for her to hear. "Can't I go to see her +at the Convent?" she asked in a whisper, giving up the first +point.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, yes, my darling, <i>any</i> time ... only a little later, +when your mother is calmer." Sœur Ste. Lucie's face shone +suddenly, radiantly, "God uses all means to His great ends," +she said fervently. "This may be the means of giving your +dear mother in the end, the holy peace of faith."</p> + +<p>She looked so serenely trusting and hopeful that Marise felt +comforted, "I'll do just as you say, dear Sœur," she said +in a trembling voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sœur Ste. Lucie drew a long breath, as though she had +been steering a difficult course. She kissed Marise again, +told her to stay in her room for the time being, to say her +prayers, not to worry, her Maman would soon be all right, +and probably happier than she had ever been in her life. All +this might open the door to salvation for her.</p> + +<p>She left Marise standing in the middle of the floor, and +closed the door carefully behind her. But not so carefully that +Marise could not, a moment later, hear Maman crying and +crying and crying as she went down the hall and out of the +door. Marise began to tremble and cry at the sound. She ran +to her window, and saw down below, Maman, her hands over +her face, with Sœur Ste. Lucie's arm around her, the tall old +monk on the other side, cross the sidewalk and get into the +carriage.</p> + +<p>As the carriage rolled away the weeping child at the window +remembered that Sœur Ste. Lucie had not mentioned who the +person from Bayonne was who had been killed. Well, what +did Marise care who it was!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> + + +<p>It occurred to Marise, and the idea of a responsibility dried +her tears with a start, that she ought to get word somehow +to Papa. Her heart sprang up to think that perhaps if he +knew Maman was so upset he would come back at once. She +did <i>want</i> somebody so much, beside Jeanne and Isabelle.</p> + +<p>But she never knew Papa's address when he was away on +business. Perhaps there was something on Maman's writing-desk. +She went quickly into the salon, drew aside the curtains +which shut off the writing-desk's alcove from the salon, and +began rather helplessly to fumble among Maman's papers and +novels. There were very few letters of any sort. Maman +didn't keep up her correspondence with America very much. +Jeanne had heard Marise moving and through the alcove curtains +Marise saw her now come into the salon with a basin of +water in her hand, pretending that she needed to water a plant. +Marise remembered that she must as usual arrange something +to present to Jeanne that would not reflect on Maman's fancifulness. +But perhaps Sœur Ste. Lucie had told her something. +She inquired cautiously but Jeanne said stiffly, still outraged at +having been shut out of the room, that she knew nothing. +Everything about her except her words, said forcibly that +she cared less, and that all this foolishness was a part of the +usual nonsense.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Jeanne, a terrible thing has happened to poor Maman—she +saw somebody swept away in the Gavarnie and killed +right before her eyes, and it's upset her fearfully."</p> + +<p>Jeanne's sulkiness vanished in the delight of her kind at +having any inside information about a violent death or a +scandal. Marise remembered how absorbed and excited Jeanne +had been when somebody in the apartment overhead had +taken an over-dose of morphine and how proud she had been to +have everybody in the market stop to ask her details.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Killed?" said Jeanne with a greedy eagerness, her eyes +shining, "how killed? Drowned? or knocked against the +rocks? Man? or woman? Have they got the body out?"</p> + +<p>Marise did not, as a rule, enjoy Jeanne's interest in murders +and deaths and kidnappings, but this time she welcomed +it and passed on to the old woman all she could remember +of what Sœur Ste. Lucie had told her. Jeanne was much disappointed +that Marise had not heard the name of the dead +person, but Marise promised to tell her as soon as the paper +was out, the next morning, since it would probably be printed. +And with the mention, there came back to her, with one of +those sickening lurches, the recollection of the girls putting +their heads together over the newspaper at school, and then +looking at her so oddly and hiding it away. "It was probably +in this morning's paper," she said to Jeanne. "If you'll get +it, I'll read it to you."</p> + +<p>But Jeanne came back in a moment with an astonished face, +saying that Isabelle reported that, of all queer things, Mlle. +Hasparren, the music-teacher had stopped in that morning and +asked to borrow the paper. Jeanne's astonishment never on +any occasion remained more than an instant untinged with +suspicion, and Marise, who knew the old face so well, saw the +suspicious expression begin slowly to color the surprise. +"What in the name of God did the Hasparren want with +our newspaper?" she asked herself aloud, obviously snuffing +around a new scent. Marise hated Jeanne's face when it +looked like that,—crafty and zestful, as though she were licking +her chops over a nasty smell.</p> + +<p>They were still standing in the alcove, beside the writing-desk +when the door-bell rang. Jeanne turned to go, heard +Isabelle open, and standing between the half-open curtains +turned her head to listen. Marise heard nothing but a man's +voice, and Isabelle answering, "Oui Monsieur, oui Monsieur, +oui Monsieur." But Jeanne started, stiffened, and darting +on tip-toe to the door, looked around the corner. The door +shut, steps were heard at the other end of the long hallway. +Isabelle was evidently bringing the visitor to the salon. Jeanne +looked around wildly at Marise, her face suddenly the color of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +lead, her eyes panic-struck. The steps were nearer, there +seemed to be more than one man. Jeanne ran back, pushed +Marise into the chair in the corner of the alcove, motioning +her violently but without a sound, to keep perfect silence, +and noiselessly drew the curtains together before the alcove. +Marise heard her step quickly back to the stand where the +plant stood and the click of her tin basin against the earthen-ware +of the pot. And then she heard her say in exactly her +usual voice, only with a little surprise, "Good-day, Messieurs, +what can I do for you?"</p> + +<p>"We have been sent," said a man's deep voice and not a +"monsieur" but a common sort of man, Marise could tell by +his accent and intonation, "to see and question Madame +Allen." Jeanne evidently went through some pantomime of +astonishment for he explained, "a part of the inquest over the +death of M. Jean-Pierre Garnier, but the maid tells me she +is already not here."</p> + +<p>Jeanne answered, and if she caught her breath or flinched, +there was not the smallest external sign of it, "No, M. l'Inspecteur, +our poor lady was so terribly upset over seeing such +an awful thing, that the doctor has just sent her for a few +quiet days' retreat at the Holy Ghost Convent. What a terrible +thing, to be sure, M. l'Inspecteur."</p> + +<p>The man answered wearily, "Eh bien, we shall have to +see her, retreat or no retreat. We have the blanks to fill out +by all witnesses, and she is the only witness. This is the +inspecteur from St. Sauveur."</p> + +<p>"Oh, the poor lady is in no state to be questioned," said +Jeanne with an affectionate warmth in her voice. "She is as +tender-hearted as a child, and besides had been a great invalid. +She took the whole course of baths at Saint Sauveur +last season, and was starting in again."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said the man as if surprised, "she had been at Saint +Sauveur before? For the baths?" and then as if speaking to +some one else, "it would be harder then, to establish that she +was there to meet the young Garnier."</p> + +<p>Jeanne seemed so astounded at this idea, that she could +scarcely get her breath to protest. "Oh, M. l'Inspecteur, oh!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> +Who ever heard of anything so wild! Is <i>that</i> what people +are saying? Oh, why!" she laughed out in her amazement, +"she hardly knew him by sight."</p> + +<p>"Why," said the man evidently not speaking to Jeanne, +"didn't you say that she ran down along the bank of the +river, screaming that he had killed himself for her sake?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I said that," answered another man's voice, astonished +and on the defense, "and she <i>did</i> too! and when the body was +pulled out she flung herself down on it, and shrieked that she +wanted to die with him."</p> + +<p>Jeanne broke in now, at the top of her voice, calling Heaven +and earth and all the saints to witness that she never heard +of anything so preposterous in her life, and that anybody +in Bayonne could tell them so, and what crazy stories would +people be making up next out of whole cloth? "Some one +is trying to play a joke on M. l'Inspecteur from Saint Sauveur. +Nobody <i>could</i> have heard our Madame say such things, +because she couldn't possibly have said them, any more than +she could about a clerk who sold her a yard of cloth over the +counter. For she didn't know any more about the young man +than that! Why, she <i>never</i> knew him except as the son of one +of her friends. He never came to the house, and more than +that she hadn't even laid eyes on him for more than two +years. He had been in America and is only just returned, +day before yesterday. <i>Any</i>body you ask here can tell you +that."</p> + +<p>"Nom de Dieu!" said the first man's voice in extreme surprise. +"Hadn't seen him for two years!"</p> + +<p>"No, he hasn't even been in France since he was a little +young boy!" The first man laughed as though the joke were +on his comrade.</p> + +<p>The second man's voice said, still defending himself, but now +uncertainly, "Very queer his following her right up there, if +he scarcely knew her—what was <i>he</i> doing in Saint Sauveur at +this season, I'd like to know, if not...."</p> + +<p>"Oh, as to that," said Jeanne carelessly, "I happen to know +why he was there. I saw the young monsieur day before yesterday, +just as he was about to take the seven o'clock train,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +valise in hand, and I had a talk with him, our young mademoiselle +and I."</p> + +<p>"Why, I thought you hardly knew him by sight in this house +and he never came here," broke in the second policeman suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"I didn't say it was here we saw him," said Jeanne, "and +I said it was Madame who hardly knew him. But he is the +brother of a little girl classmate of our mademoiselle. They +are all children together. Well, every evening at six, except +the days when Mademoiselle takes her music lesson, I go +to the school to fetch her home, and that afternoon, as we +were coming up the rue Port Neuf, we met the young man +going towards the station, and when he saw our mademoiselle, +he stopped for a moment for a chat, as young folks will. +He was in high good spirits and said he was off for a fine +business trip to the mountains and expected to have a good +time as well as do business, and would be in Cauterets the +next morning. Well, you know Cauterets is just over a ridge +of the Pyrenees from Saint Sauveur and Mlle. Marise said, +'Why, is not that queer, my maman is at Saint Sauveur just +now! Why don't you take the other train at Pierrefitte-Nestalos +and run up to Saint Sauveur for half a day and take +Maman a message from me, something I forgot to ask her +before she left,' and the young man said he had been half +planning to go to Saint Sauveur on business anyhow, and to +tell him the message and if he saw her maman, he'd repeat +it. Only he said, 'I don't believe your maman knows me,' and +Mlle. Marise said, 'Well, you tell her you are Danielle's big +brother, and she'll know. She knows all about my school-mates,' +and the young man asked which sanitarium it was in +Luz and Mlle. Marise reminded him, 'No, it's at Saint Sauveur +where Maman is,' and told him the name of the sanitarium, +and then he said he hoped he'd get a little fishing in the +Gavarnie, and I said the water would be too high, and he said +he'd go and have a look at it anyway. And then he went +along with his valise. Mlle. Marise is at school or you could +ask her all about this too."</p> + +<p>"Eh <i>bien</i>, my friend from Saint Sauveur!" said the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +man's voice, in a rallying tone of jocularity. "This sounds as +though some of you country-people must have lost your heads +a bit. Come now. Did you yourself <i>hear</i> her, saying all +that?"</p> + +<p>"No, of course I didn't," said the other man stiffly, "I was +in the office at Luz. How could I know anything was happening? +But the men who got the body out said she was awful +to hear."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't doubt," agreed Jeanne, "that she was. Any +woman would have been driven half crazy by such an awful +thing, the only son of a friend, killed before your eyes. And +she is terribly nervous into the bargain, the least little thing +sends her off into hysteria. Some nights I have to rub her +back until eleven o'clock to quiet her. And the doctor has +warned her against the least excitement. Why, two days ago +there was an important prize-contest at our mademoiselle's +school and the poor woman, although she would have given +anything to go, was forbidden by the doctor. He said the +excitement would be too much for her, and she would feel it +so if her daughter were defeated. You can ask any one +whether she was there! And that evening, although Mlle. +Marise had won the prize, she was so worked up, I had +to give her a sleeping draught to get her a little rest, poor +thing...."</p> + +<p>"Were they <i>sure</i> of what she said?" asked the first man +of the other. "Would they swear to it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't see how anybody could hear anything!" put in +Jeanne. "In ordinary weather the gave of Gavarnie makes +such a noise down there in that gorge, you can't hear your +own voice even if you yell. I remember last summer when +Madame was taking the cure, when we went to see her ... +and now in flood...."</p> + +<p>"They'd certainly swear to her being in a terrible state of +agitation," said the other in a rather nettled tone. He went +on, "You saw for yourself what was put in the paper about it +this morning, how they had met there by design and spent +the night together at the hotel and all."</p> + +<p>"You won't get far in an inquest, my young friend, if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +take what a newspaper says. Newspapers are always wrong," +said the first man pityingly, in a tone of experienced scepticism. +"If this happened at ten in the morning, they can't have been +together more than an hour. If he was seen here in Bayonne +at six o'clock the evening before, he couldn't possibly have +reached Saint Sauveur before nine the next morning. You +know you wait three or four hours for the connection at Lourdes. +To my mind there's nothing in it. I will take you to +the convent to see her, if you insist, but I have no liking for +scenes with hysteric women."</p> + +<p>"Oh, messieurs!" said Jeanne shocked at the idea, "you +couldn't possibly expect to see her <i>now</i>! Not for a week, at +least, the doctor said."</p> + +<p>"A <i>week</i>!" cried the second voice, dismayed, "sacrebleu, I +can't kick my heels for a week, waiting."</p> + +<p>"Well, suppose we go through the usual routine?" suggested +the other. "Go to see the family of the young man, and if +they confirm all this ... there's no use going further. There +is plenty of time for you to get all the facts you need for +your report, and catch the one o'clock train back to Saint +Sauveur."</p> + +<p>Jeanne said now jocularly, with a change of manner to the +intimate knowing tone of a servant-girl speaking to a policeman, +"If you're not in a hurry, you must stay to have a glass +in honor of the house. We have an excellent white wine, and +the patron never counts the bottles."</p> + +<p>Marise heard her lead them down the hall and across the +landing to the dining-room, and then in an instant heard her +come back and run on tip-toe up the hall. She thrust her head +through the curtains, showing a haggard gray face, glistening +with sweat, and whispered, "Don't move, don't speak +to a soul till I get back. I must see the Garniers before they +do."</p> + +<p>Even without this, Marise would have been incapable of +moving hand or foot. Half an hour later, she was sitting +in exactly the same position frozen and deathly sick, when +Jeanne let herself in cautiously. From the gust of sounds +that came in from across the landing, as the door was opened,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +the two policemen seemed to be greatly enjoying both Isabelle +and the white wine.</p> + +<p>Then Jeanne shut the door on the loud voices and laughter; +and in their place Marise heard the sound of dreadful hoarse +gasps as Jeanne tried to get her breath after running. It +did not sound like the breathing of a human being, but like that +of some large animal, like a horse or cow, exhausted and +panting.</p> + +<p>Jeanne came up the hall, fighting thus for her breath, and +dragging her feet. She shuffled heavily into the salon, and +across to the closed curtains, where locked in her nightmare, +the child waited for some one to come to the rescue.</p> + +<p>The old woman drew the curtain a little aside. Marise +caught one glimpse of her face, now swollen and darkly congested. +She saw that Jeanne was nodding reassuringly at her; +she heard Jeanne say in a whisper, "They understood, it's all +right, they...." Then, without the slightest warning, she +turned to one side and fell headlong inside the curtains.</p> + +<p>For an instant she lay as if dead, her ghastly face at Marise's +feet. But almost at once she opened her eyes and tried to +smile and to speak. Only a guttural sound came from her +lips. A look of terrible anxiety came into her face. She motioned +with one hand passionately, that the curtain should be +drawn shut to conceal her.</p> + +<p>Marise, frightened out of her palsy, was kneeling by her +sobbing, "Jeanne, Jeanne."</p> + +<p>She thought of what Jeanne had done for her mother, and +flinging her arms around her as she lay, she kissed her furiously, +the tears coming in a flood and pouring down on the +dreadful face, now strangely twisted to one side. Jeanne put +one arm around her, and tried again to say something. But +her tongue moved senselessly in her distorted mouth; the +sweat stood out on her forehead as she struggled to speak.</p> + +<p>Finally she gave up her desperate attempt, and put her +finger to her lips, exhorting Marise to silence. Such a wildness +of apprehension was in her eyes, that the girl muffled her sobs, +hiding her face on the inert breast, clinging with all her might +to the half-dead body.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p>She thought that Jeanne was dying. She thought that she +herself was dying. She longed to die, there, that instant, +and escape the shame and sorrow and misery that buried her so +deep, so much deeper even than Jeanne knew.</p> + +<p>The sound of laughter and voices chimed out merrily again. +Isabelle had opened the other door. Marise held her breath, +her face buried on Jeanne's breast. The old woman tightened +the clasp of her arm. They strained their ears.</p> + +<p>Then they heard the men's feet clatter down the stairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p>It was Mlle. Hasparren who found them so, Mlle. Hasparren +with her shabby coat buttoned crookedly, who ran up the +stairs as the sergents de ville went down, who came in without +a word of explanation to take charge of things.</p> + +<p>She expressed no surprise at finding Marise where she was, +nor at Jeanne's condition. She acted as if nothing she found +could have surprised her. She lifted Marise up with strong +loving arms, led her into her own room and made her lie down +with a handkerchief soaked in smelling salts under her nose, +and a cold bandage across her forehead, while Isabelle stayed +with Jeanne. She did not pet Marise or kiss her, but from +all her quiet presence breathed an assurance that she was +there to take care of her, and when she said, "I'll stay right +here, dear, till your father comes," Marise fell into a fit of +quiet thankful weeping that washed away the nervous trembling +of her hands and lips. She lay, turned on her side, sobbing, +the tears running fast from her eyes, and thought of +nothing, except the steady look on Mlle. Hasparren's face. +"Now I must leave you here, dear child. I will send Isabelle +for the doctor, and I will stay with Jeanne."</p> + +<p>Presently Mlle. Hasparren came back and sat down again by +the bed. She looked perfectly self-possessed and exactly as +usual, which gave Marise the most inexpressible comfort. +She said that the doctor was there, had seen Jeanne and that +she was not dying at all, not likely to, but had simply had a +partial stroke of paralysis, such as often happened to people of +her age—nothing in the least unusual about it. Jeanne was +so old, that any little thing might bring on a stroke of this +sort and she had worked so valiantly all her life, she was really +older than her age. She and Isabelle and the doctor had +got Jeanne undressed and in her own bed, and now she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +be all right, only she had made them understand that she +wanted to see Marise. The doctor had told her that she +mustn't see any one, but she had become so agitated that he +thought it best to humor her. "Only, of course, poor thing, +she can't say a word that any one can understand. It's just an +old woman's whim." Marise thought to herself that it might +be more than an old woman's whim, and getting up at once +went with Mlle. Hasparren into the room where Jeanne lay on +the bed. The doctor was on one side; on the other was Isabelle, +half frightened and half delighted with the excitement; +a visit from gallant sergents de ville, and from the doctor all +in one day!</p> + +<p>Jeanne motioned them all out with her one arm, and only +when the door had closed after them, did she beckon Marise to +her. She did not try to speak now. She only looked at the +girl, with a terrible concentration, and put her finger to her +lips.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean, Jeanne?" whispered Marise, her lips trembling, +"that I am not to tell any one?"</p> + +<p>Jeanne closed her eyes rapidly in assent.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, no, <i>no</i>," cried the poor child. "Of course not, +never, never, never!"</p> + +<p>But the old woman was not satisfied. She reached out for +Marise's hand and drew her close, her eyes burning in her +disfigured face. She struck her lips repeatedly with her fingers, +as though, try as she might, she could not express the +urgency of her command.</p> + +<p>"No one—no one at all?" asked Marise, and then with +a gasp, "Not even Papa?"</p> + +<p>At this Jeanne's eyes leaped up to a hotter flame of intensity.</p> + +<p>"No! no! no!" they cried to Marise. "No!"</p> + +<p>Marise thought she understood, and hanging her head she +said in a low shamed voice, "Oh, no, of course, I see."</p> + +<p>With the words and the acceptance of their meaning which +Jeanne's passionate eyes thrust upon her, Marise sank for +many years into another plane of feeling and saw all the +world in another perspective, very ugly and grim. That was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +the way Jeanne saw things. With all her immature personality, +with the pitiably insufficient weapons of a little girl, Marise +had fought not to accept Jeanne's way of seeing things. That +had been the real cause of their quarrels. But now the +weapons were struck from her hands. Jeanne had been right +all the time it seemed. That was the way things really were. +Now she knew. With a long breath she admitted her defeat.</p> + +<p>"No, <i>specially</i> not Papa," she whispered.</p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p>It was four o'clock that afternoon. They had had something +to eat, talking quietly about indifferent things, and they +had found Papa's address in Bordeaux and sent a telegram to +him, before Marise thought to ask, "But, Mademoiselle, how +is it you can be out of your class-room to-day?" She had +often known the teacher to drag herself to work when she was +scarcely able to stand, and knew how the stern discipline of +her profession frowned on an absence from duty.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I arranged this morning to have a substitute come. I +heard—I heard your maman was not well, and I knew your +papa was not here, and I wasn't sure that any of your +maman's friends might be able to come to look out for you."</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, Marise never saw one of her mother's +callers again.</p> + +<p>That evening, Anna brought up a blue telegram from Papa, +which since it had been sent in English, as Papa always insisted +on doing, was perfectly unintelligible, reading:</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Com inga nmorninjtrain ta kigo adca rof Maman."</p> + +<p> +Papa.<br /> +</p></blockquote> + +<p>Marise who had with Maman puzzled over many other similar +telegrams from Papa, made out "morning-train" and that +was enough.</p> + +<p>The doctor had sent in a nursing sister to take care of +Jeanne during the night, and Isabelle had gone off to a tenement +near the Porte d'Espagne where some relations of hers +lived and had brought back an old cousin to help her with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +the work and marketing and to sleep with her in the other +apartment.</p> + +<p>Mlle. Hasparren slept in the folding-bed beside Marise's +so that every time Marise, with a great scared start, realized +anew that what had happened was not a bad dream, she felt +the other's hand reaching for hers in the dark, and holding +firm. She said very little and Marise was glad of that, but +the clasp of her muscular musician's hand pulled Marise out +of the black pit many times that night.</p> + +<p>Later on Marise fell into a real sleep, deep and unbroken, +and when she woke up, much later than usual, to find Mlle. +Hasparren all dressed, the folding-bed put away, the window +open and the sunshine coming in, she found that she seemed to +have grown stronger since yesterday, that the black pit was not +so fathomless. She felt infinitely older and as though she +would never laugh again. She lay in bed, looking up at the +ceiling, thinking fixedly about what had happened, and found +that she could endure it now without crying out or bursting +into tears as she had done yesterday. She could stand up +under her burden, because there was no other way. But she +felt her shoulders bowed and aching with the weight.</p> + +<p>Mlle. Hasparren heard her stir in bed, and sensed the +awakened quality of the movement. She came to look anxiously +down at her. Marise looked back and remembering +that, so far as she knew, Mlle. Hasparren knew nothing beyond +the surface of the happenings of yesterday and so might +expect her to be able to smile, she produced a faint smile.</p> + +<p>"I overslept," she said, in order to say something. "Has +somebody brought your breakfast?"</p> + +<p>"No, I waited for you," answered Mlle. Hasparren. "I'll +ring for Isabelle now."</p> + +<p>When Isabelle came, very self-important at taking Jeanne's +place, she reported that the Sister said Jeanne had passed a very +good night and was perfectly comfortable, with no complications. +"She says Jeanne may get all over it and be as good +as ever. All old people have these seizures, she says," chattered +Isabelle, setting down the tray and pouring out Marise's +café-au-lait. She was full of her new dignity, and bustled off<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +to give orders to her assistant, leaving Marise and Mlle. Hasparren +to eat their breakfast. Mlle. Hasparren did not seem +to feel like talking much, and neither did Marise. She was +trying to think what it was she was to tell Papa. She +must remember now just what it was that everybody was to +be told.</p> + +<p>An hour later, as they went down the hall, on their way +to the station to meet the morning train, they saw the salon as +usual at that hour, the chairs pushed about, the rugs hanging +over the window-sills, the fresh, clean, new morning sun +streaming in through the wide-open windows on the familiar +spectacle of Isabelle on her knees, a brush-broom in her hand +reaching under the piano for dust. The alcove curtains were +drawn back, the cheerful sunshine poured in, glittering on the +dark polished wood of the desk, on the yellow-covered books, +on the pretty little inlaid chair which stood beside the desk.</p> + +<p>Was it only yesterday that Jeanne had flung her into that +chair? She stood in the door, as she put on her hat, looking +steadily at the alcove. No, that had been somebody else ... +a little girl, a lucky, lucky little girl, who had no idea what +things were like.</p> + +<p>"Come, dear," said Mlle. Hasparren, looking at her watch.</p> + +<p>It had been agreed since there were so few trains in and +out of Bayonne and since as yet no news had been sent to +Jeanne's family, that if Marise's father did come on the train +from the north, Mlle. Hasparren would board it as he left it, +and go on down to Midassoa to tell the Amigorenas about +their mother's illness. "But do tell them, Mademoiselle," +Marise said over and over, anxiously, "that we will take care +of Jeanne, that we will do everything for her that anybody +could, that they needn't worry. I know Papa will see that +she's taken care of. I <i>know</i> he will, if I ask him." But really +she was not as sure as she said. She did not know Papa so +very well, after all. She had very little idea what he would +feel or say about anything. And then everything depended +on the way things turned out...!</p> + +<p>They stood there in the smoky dusk of the station, a long +ray of sunshine thick with golden motes striking the ground<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +at their feet. They still said very little, Marise not daring +to talk for fear of making a mistake, for fear that she would +not remember just what and how much Mlle. Hasparren knew. +The music-teacher held the girl's slim fingers close. Marise +answered their pressure with a nervous fervor, inexpressibly +grateful to the other, loving everything about her from her +steady face and kind, shadowed eyes, to her heavy, badly-cut +shoes, dusty now, which would be dustier later after they had +trudged along the hot white road at Midassoa. Never, so +long as she lived, was she able to forget how Mlle. Hasparren +had looked to her, when she came quietly into the salon and +lifted her up from Jeanne and said in a plain matter-of-fact way +as though nothing were the matter but Jeanne's sickness, that +they must get a doctor and probably Jeanne wasn't as sick +as she looked. She had just taken Marise by the hand and +showed her how to go on living ... when it seemed to Marise +that she had come to the end.</p> + +<p>They heard the train whistle shriekingly in the distance, +and the somnolent porters roused themselves. Marise tightened +her hold on the strong fingers which held hers. Her +heart ached with longing, with confusion. Suppose Papa did +not come ... what <i>would</i> she do? But suppose he did ... +wouldn't it be impossible not to make mistakes, not to forget +what you were to say and what you weren't?</p> + +<p>But when the train came in, and Marise saw at the other +end of the long platform her father's massive bulk heavily descending +from a compartment, and saw his eyes begin to +search the crowd for her face, all her confusion melted away +in a great burst of relief.... Papa was there, something of +her very own in the midst of all those strangers! Her heart +almost broke with its release from tension.</p> + +<p>And yet before she ran to meet him, she put her arms around +the music-teacher and kissed her hard on both swarthy cheeks.</p> + + +<p class="center">III</p> + +<p>Then she ran with all the speed of her long legs, and flung +herself upon Papa's broad chest and tried to put her arms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +around him, as she had around Mile. Hasparren, and began +to cry on Papa's great shoulder. How good it was to feel +him, to feel him so entirely as Papa always felt! It would +not have seemed like Papa if there were not more of him than +she could get her arms around.</p> + +<p>Her tears, her agitation gave Papa such a turn that he +set his satchels down hastily and looking alarmed, shook her +a little, and asked what had happened to Maman.</p> + +<p>In the hurry and noise and bustle of the crowd it was easier +than Marise had feared to get over that first moment when +Papa must be told. It all came out straight, just what she +had planned to tell him, that nothing had really happened to +Maman, she wasn't sick or anything only she had had a +terrible nervous shock, had seen somebody killed right before +her eyes, and it had pretty nearly driven her wild.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Papa, evidently relieved, and caring as little as +Marise had about the person who had been killed. He picked +up his satchels again (by this time the porters at the Bayonne +station were resigned to his strange mania for carrying his own +hand-baggage), and said, "Well, yes, that's too bad! I remember +I saw a brakeman killed once, and it made me pretty +sick, too."</p> + +<p>They walked out of the station together. Not two minutes +had passed since his arrival, and already Marise's joy that he +had come, had faded to a frightened sense that he had not +come at all, that he was still very far away, that he would +never really come, as he used to.</p> + +<p>And yet Jeanne had been right of course; whatever else +she did, she must not tell Papa.</p> + +<p>"When did it happen?" asked Papa now, as they turned the +corner and were finally escaped from the last of the clamorous +cab-drivers, who had not yet accepted, as the porters +had, the eccentricities of the American gentleman.</p> + +<p>As they crossed the bridge, Marise told him the version she +had prepared, the version Jeanne had presented. She had +had a good deal of practice in saying something different +from what she thought, and she got through this without +any hesitation or mistake. But every word of it set her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +further away from Papa, raised a wall between them, the +wall of things she knew and Papa must never know.</p> + +<p>"Well, to be sure," said Papa, when she finished, "you +certainly have had goings-on, for sure."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Papa," went on Marise earnestly, "you <i>will</i> have +Jeanne taken care of! It was when she was working for us, +she got her paralysis. <i>Don't</i> you feel we ought to—for always, +for always? It was for us...."</p> + +<p>"Oh, as to that," said Papa, "anybody of Jeanne's age, who +rustles around as Jeanne does, is apt to get a stroke, whether +she was working for us or not. It might have happened just +as easily in her own home."</p> + +<p>Marise's heart went down.</p> + +<p>Papa added, with a change of tone, "I don't like her lying +very well, but the old woman has been awfully good to you, +Molly, awfully good, more like your grandmother than the +cook, and I guess we'll see that she's taken care of, all +right."</p> + +<p>Marise squeezed his arm hard, and said nothing. After +all, wall or no wall, Papa was there, good old Papa, so broad +and solid, her very own Papa; somebody who, even if he +didn't understand much of what went on, would look out for +them all, Maman, Jeanne, herself.</p> + + +<p class="center">IV</p> + +<p>Papa went in at once to see Jeanne and told her through +Marise—for Jeanne had never learned to understand his brand +of French—that he would see that she was well taken care of +till she recovered. Jeanne contrived with her one living hand +and her eyes, to convey her respectful thanks, and to conceal +everything else which Marise knew she must be thinking.</p> + +<p>Then Papa wanted to go at once to the convent, and bring +Maman home. What had he come back for, if not for that? +As a matter of fact, Marise was not very sure why he had +come back, or why she had felt it so necessary to get word to +him at once. Now that she had had time to think about it, +she realized that she dreaded very much having Maman see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +Papa just now, right after ... after all that. It would have +been better for her to have had a little time to get over it, +and like Marise, to think what to say.</p> + +<p>But, of course, this was one of the things she could not +speak to Papa about. All she could do was to find out that +lunch was nearly ready and they would better eat that before +they went to the convent.</p> + +<p>Isabelle, her head turned with the sudden removal of Jeanne's +heavy-handed authority, had prepared a gala luncheon with +the best silver and linen, and "What a pretty bunch of flowers," +remarked Papa.</p> + +<p>Marise looked silently at the white rose-buds, now opening +into roses. Was it only yesterday morning that Jeanne had +given her those? Was it only two days before, that she had +been walking along with the Garniers, with nothing in her +head but mockery of Madame Garnier's shoes and hat? No, +that must have been somebody else, some one she had distantly +known, that girl who had laughed with the others so, +over their foolishness behind the scenes.</p> + +<p>"Let me see," remarked Papa, "you must be almost fifteen, +aren't you, Molly?"</p> + +<p>"Yesterday was my birthday."</p> + +<p>"Funny kind of celebration."</p> + +<p>Marise looked at him across an immense chasm, and said +nothing. She couldn't ever remember having a meal at a +table alone with Papa before.</p> + +<p>"Don't you want to go with me?" he asked later, as the dessert +was served. "I don't know how to find my way around +a convent—of all places! Whatever possessed your Mama +to go there anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"She and Sœur Ste. Lucie are such good friends," explained +Marise. She decided not to say anything about the old monk, +because she didn't know whether Papa knew about Maman's +going to see him before; but after thinking for an instant she +decided that it would do no harm to add, "Sœur Ste. Lucie +wants Mama to be a Catholic, you know."</p> + +<p>Papa said quickly, "What's that?"</p> + +<p>Marise was surprised at his tone. Perhaps that <i>was</i> one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +of the things she oughtn't to tell about. "Why, would you +mind if she did?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Papa thought for a moment, and dropped back into his usual +slow casual comment, "Oh, no, I guess not, if she wants to." +There was a silence broken by Papa's saying something else, +in an earnest tone as though this time he really wanted +Marise to listen to him. "All I <i>ever</i> want, Molly, is for Mama +to have things the way she wants them."</p> + +<p>Marise's heart was nervously sensitive that day, in a sick responsiveness +to the faintest indication of what was in other +people's hearts.</p> + +<p>She could not put another morsel of food to her lips. She +sat looking down at her plate, trying to master or at least +understand the surge of feeling within her. "<i>All I ever want +is for Mama to have things the way she wants them.</i>" There +was so much to think of in that, that she was still lost in +thinking, when Papa pushed back his chair and got up, pulling +down his vest, with his usual after-dinner gesture.</p> + +<p>"I'll have a look at the mail while you get your things on," +he suggested. Evidently he was still set on going at once to +see Maman. Perhaps more than he admitted, he really didn't +like her being in a convent.</p> + +<p>Marise went to get her hat, and with it in her hand, went to +join her father, standing by her mother's writing-desk in the +alcove. He had an American newspaper in his hand, his fore-finger +inserted in the wrapper.</p> + +<p>He tore it open and stood looking at the headlines, while +Marise put on her broad-brimmed sailor-hat and, tilting her +head forward, slipped the rubber under her hair behind.</p> + +<p>"All ready?" said Papa, and they set out.</p> + +<p>How much less <i>exciting</i> everything was, now that Papa was +home. But would it be—if he—but he never would! Who +would tell him? Not Maman certainly, although Marise +wished that poor Maman could have had a few days more +without seeing Papa, to get over being excited so she could +be surer of what she was saying. Not Jeanne. Not herself. +Nobody else knew him well enough to tell him anything. If +Maman could only get through to-day all right....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">V</p> + +<p>At the convent they waited in the usual bare, white-washed +convent parlor with the shutters drawn, with the usual little +rush-bottomed chairs, so light that the one Papa sat down on, +groaned and creaked under his great weight. The usual black-walnut +book-case displayed the usual Lives of the Saints. +Through an open door they could look down a long, long, +gray stone corridor, very empty, till they saw Sœur Ste. Lucie +hurrying noiselessly down it towards them.</p> + +<p>As she came near, Marise saw that her sweet face looked +anxious and worried. She told them at once that Madame +Allen had been taken very ill, that they had been up all night +with her and had sent for the doctor early that morning.</p> + +<p>Papa was startled by this unexpected news, and apparently +never dreamed of what occurred to Marise at once, that this +was just something they had made up to prevent anybody's +talking to her. Marise thought it a good idea. She had hoped +something like that could be arranged ... in case those +horrible sergents de ville came back again. She was not alarmed +by Sœur Ste. Lucie's worried face, because this was by no +means the first time that she had observed how easy it was +for people's faces to look anything they wished to have them.</p> + +<p>Papa was asking rather sharply, "What is the matter? +What did the doctor say? Is it the effect of nervous shock?"</p> + +<p>All the same, it was too bad, thought Marise to have Papa +worried for nothing.</p> + +<p>Sœur Ste. Lucie shook her head hurriedly, "Oh, no, something +much more acute than that, a terrible, terrible chill +which has gone to her lungs. The poor lady must have been +in soaking wet clothes, for nobody knows how long. Monsieur +has been told of the...." She hesitated and paused.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I know she was with some one who fell into a +river somewhere and was drowned. But did she fall in, too? +How did she get wet? Why <i>weren't</i> her clothes changed?" +His voice rose as he asked the questions.</p> + +<p>Sœur Ste. Lucie explained in a low, hurried, agitated voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +"Nobody knows of course just what happened. Perhaps she +tried to save the poor fellow. Perhaps she slipped as he did. +In any case she was too distraught to think of herself or to +realize the danger of going so long in wet clothes. And every +one there was so absorbed in the tragedy...! She was all +alone among strangers, the poor lady. She must have sat +in her dripping garments in the cold train all the way to +Lourdes, and then half the night in the unheated station there, +waiting for the train. It was terrible. The doctor said it was +terrible to think of—weakened with the shock, as she was, +and no food!"</p> + +<p>Papa now said ungently and impatiently, yet as though he +were restraining himself, "Well, we must get her home at once, +where we can take care of her!" Marise could see that he +believed every word that Sœur Ste. Lucie said.</p> + +<p>But of course Sœur Ste. Lucie hadn't the least intention of +letting Papa take Maman away. "I'm afraid that is impossible," +she said, "the doctor came back this afternoon, is here +now in fact, and says"—her voice broke—"he says she is much +too ill to be moved."</p> + +<p>At this Papa burst out angrily, his face very red, "Why under +the heavens didn't you send word of this to her own home? +Here I have been there, ever since the morning train, eating +my lunch ... with no <i>idea</i> that...."</p> + +<p>The nun defended herself reasonably, sadly, showing no resentment +at his anger, "No one knew you were come back, +Monsieur, and I was just starting to fetch our dear little +Marie."</p> + +<p>Marise saw over the nun's shoulder a gentleman with a +bald head, a great brown beard and very white hands coming +down the corridor, "Here is the doctor, now," said Sœur Ste. +Lucie, drawing in her breath quickly. Taking Papa and motioning +Marise to stay where she was, she stepped down the +corridor. Marise watched them, her eyes on the doctor's +serious, spectacled eyes. Something about the way he looked +at Papa made Marise for the first time wonder if Maman +really were a little sick after all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> + +<p>They all came back to where Marise stood. Papa's face +was no longer red. He said to Marise in a queer voice, "The +doctor says that Maman must not be disturbed, but we may +go in to see her for a moment if we will be quiet and not +talk."</p> + +<p>They turned, all of them, and started down the long, gray +stone corridor. Marise tip-toed along beside her father. She +was a little frightened in spite of herself, at a loss to know +what to think or feel or believe. The emptiness of the corridor +echoed around them. Marise's ears rang with the emptiness +of it! And how long it was. It took them forever to +walk through it. Marise looked up at the small windows set +high in the wall, and wondered when they would ever come +to a door that opened out.</p> + +<p>But the only door was at the very end, and that opened into +the white-washed room where Maman lay in a narrow bed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>As soon as she saw her mother, Marise was sure again that +she was not really sick because she looked even better than +usual, with a deep shell-pink in her cheeks. She did seem +a little tired and sleepy, however, for her eyelids looked heavy +and kept dropping down over her eyes. They stood there +for a moment, looking at her, till she should open them again.</p> + +<p>When she did, and saw Papa there, she flung out her arms +towards him. As he stooped over her she clung to him +with all her might just as Marise had at the station.</p> + +<p>She did not look at Marise at all, only at Papa. He patted +her shoulder, and smiled at her, and Marise saw the tears run +out of Maman's eyes in a gush.</p> + +<p>Papa sat down on the little chair by the bed which creaked +under his weight, and leaned forward, his arms around Maman, +his cheek against hers. She said to him in a hurried, frightened +whisper, "Horace, I want to go home. I want to go home."</p> + +<p>He answered steadily, "It's all right, Flora ... we'll have +you home in a few days."</p> + +<p>She closed her eyes again, all the expression dropping out +of her face. The doctor stepped to the other side of the +bed, and his fingers on her wrist, his eyes on his watch, mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>tioned +them silently to leave, with a sideways jerk of his +head.</p> + +<p>They tip-toed out and down the long, gray, empty corridor.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Marise's mother died that night, without seeing them again.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="AN_EDUCATION_IN_THE_HUMANITIES_AND_THE_LIBERAL_ARTS" id="AN_EDUCATION_IN_THE_HUMANITIES_AND_THE_LIBERAL_ARTS"></a><i>AN EDUCATION IN THE HUMANITIES AND THE LIBERAL ARTS</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +September, 1900.<br /> +</p> + +<p>The first weeks of Freshman year were like a return to the +formless impersonality of little boyhood. Just as Neale had +felt himself an amœba-like cell among the finished, many-membered +adults of his parents' circle, so he was now again +only one more wriggle in the mass of Freshmen. Nobody +could tell him apart from any other Freshman. He could +scarcely tell himself apart from the other Freshmen.</p> + +<p>This did not afflict him as it might a more sensitive, self-conscious +boy. Indeed he rather enjoyed the anonymity of his +condition, the space and vacuum about him which it created, +where he floated free from any threat of the handling or +pawing-over which was his especial fear when he entered into +relations with other people. There was so much that was new +to him in college life that it was occupation enough to look +on without taking any part. He enjoyed the variety of his +experiences, from the Greek-and-Roman feeling that came with +walking up the Library steps, to the fairy-cave enchantment +of floating on the shimmering water of the electric-lighted, +marble-lined swimming pool. And he enjoyed most of all his +aloof spectator's scorn of footless classes like Rhetoric A, +or class-meetings where a few loud-mouthed blow-hards ran +the show, while the real scouts like himself preserved a cautious, +sardonic silence. He discovered the perilous secret, +always a temptation to natures like his, that if you attempt +nothing, share in no effort, you are automatically freed from +any blame for the inevitable foolishness and blunders; you +can stand on your safe little hillock and scorn the poor fools +who try to do things and fail. The lone-wolf motive sang +seductively in his seventeen-year-old ears. Nothing in any +of his classes, nothing in the Library or in any of the books<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +in it gave the seventeen-year-old a hint of any valid, compelling +reason for his assuming the heavy, distasteful burden of responsibility.</p> + +<p>Then one day, word was passed around that the Flag Rush +would be held that afternoon; the Flag Rush unanimously deplored +by the directing forces of the University; the Flag Rush, +that out-burst of meaningless brutality so shocking to all the +European members of the Faculty, secretly contemptuous +of the prosperous, illiterate, childish country where they +taught.</p> + +<p>Neale never dreamed of staying out of the Flag Rush. +There was a row on, and his class needed his muscles and +his head. He went to the Gym. at the appointed hour, where +all the Freshmen were assembled. Gathering confidence at +being all together for once, they marched in a body over to +South Field. There they found the Sophs. gathered about a +tree, from a branch of which fluttered a 1903 flag. Juniors +took charge of the affair, coaching and urging on the Freshmen. +Still buoyed up by their mass, by being together, they +advanced to the charge. They were uncertain, and for the +most part, amiable big little boys, who really cared nothing +about that flag, who really cared only about doing what was +expected of them. As they advanced, they began to hurry, to +rush forward nervously. Several detached Sophs. dived in at +the leaders' feet and broke up the formation, but there was mass +impetus enough to carry the rush forward. The Freshmen +crashed into the defenders of the flag, pushed them back, circled +them round ... at the first physical contact with the enemy +they were no longer big little boys doing what was expected of +them, they were young Berserk fighters, blind and furious +with the delight of battle. A roar went up, a roar from their +very hearts, like the yell which had burst up from their little-boy +game-centers. Except for a few rare and artistic natures, +who were suffering horribly from shock, every one of them +was twice what he had been two minutes before. A Freshman +somehow shot up through the crowd, hoisted on his classmates' +shoulders, and laid his hands on the sacred branch; +but defenders spouted up around him, grabbed his legs and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +pulled him down. With this, all semblance of organized purpose +left the rush. It broke up into a disorganized mêlée, +rolling and tumbling, panting and struggling in a hundred separate +encounters.</p> + +<p>Neale rolled and tumbled, panted and struggled with the +rest, far, far from any cool Olympian detachment. He was +one of the biggest and strongest of the Freshmen and felt his +responsibility. He did what he could. But that was not +much. The Freshmen did not know one another, and had +no plan. Sometimes Neale collared his own classmates by +mistake; sometimes a couple of Sophs. tackled him together, +ran him back and dropped him on the grass.</p> + +<p>A half-hour later the flag was still in the tree, and the furious +boiling over of insensate young life had cooled to a simmer. +The Juniors called the rush off, the Freshmen began to stream +back to the Gym. Neale was surprised to find one sleeve to his +jersey missing and innumerable rips and tears all over his +other garments. He was bruised from head to foot and spat +blood from a cut lip. Calmed, appeased, exhausted, he made +limping for the gate.</p> + +<p>As he passed through it, he passed through another and +invisible gate, opening into quite a different path from the +solitary, self-satisfied way of aloofness which he had been +following. He did not, as a matter of fact, pass through the +invisible gate. He was shoved through by a vigorous hand +that slapped him on the shoulder. Turning, Neale looked into +the masterful face of the Varsity Coach. "Report for football +practice to-morrow!" was the order. "I'm Andrews!"</p> + +<p>The information was unnecessary. Neale would not at +this date have recognized President Low or Dean Van Amringe, +but he knew the football coach. The next twenty +hours were beatific. His mind refused to grasp facts. It +wandered off into gorgeous day-dreams. He was on the Varsity +... no, he was a sub, called in at the last minute ... +a long run! ... better, a recovered fumble ... then down +the field, shaking off one tackler after another.</p> + +<p>He would wake up to real life, blushing, swearing at himself +for a condemned fool. And yet a few minutes later, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> +fancy he was the last defender between the goal line and a +rushing Yale back...!</p> + +<p>Not the faintest hint of any of this appeared on the surface. +At home he preserved his normal appetite which was +his mother's gauge for his health and spirits, and although he +told them, not unwillingly, about the Flag Rush, he preserved +the sacred secret of his summons from Andrews, as though +it had been his first sentimental rendezvous. The next day +dragged endlessly, filled with the paper-like silhouettes of talking +professors. But three o'clock was finally there, and he +was at the Gym., silent, his face composed, his heart given to +sudden swelling bulges, which made it hard for him to hear +what was being said.</p> + +<p>They gave him a suit. He trotted with the squad, <i>with the +Squad</i> over to South Field!</p> + +<p>"Ever played?" asked the scrub quarter.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Neale. He did not feel obliged to tell how little.</p> + +<p>"What position?"</p> + +<p>"Half-back," he lied brazenly, having made up his mind that +he hadn't the weight to aspire to the Varsity line.</p> + +<p>They ran through signals. Then a scrimmage started but +Neale was not in the line-up. A scrub back had his wind +knocked out and didn't get up quickly enough for the coach. +"Put in that Freshman bean-pole. Jump in, what's your +name?"</p> + +<p>Neale jumped and floundered for five minutes, then the +peppery scrub quarter consigned him profanely to the side-lines. +For two days after that he moped without a job, +although still in a suit, out in the field. Then he had another +trial.</p> + +<p>Gradually he made sure of his place as right-half on the +scrub—not that he was any good, as they told him plainly: +but because in those days the whole squad, including hopeless +dubs, seldom numbered over thirty men, and thanks to the +work in the mill at West Adams, Neale was physically fit.</p> + +<p>With this place, minor though it was, came the great privilege +of dinner, after practice, at the football house. There +he picked up a little of the theory of the game from the black<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>board +talks; there after the Pennsylvania's guards-back had +battered through for thirty points, he heard the coach, white +and shaking with emotion, pour out his biting post-mortem. +"You, Jackson," shaking his fore-finger at the left-guard, "did +you shoot your body in low and spill them in their own territory? +No, you <span class="smcap">Stood Up</span>!"</p> + +<p>Neale's flesh crept, he was almost glad that he had escaped +the fearful responsibility of being on the Varsity. It was terrible, +such a weight on your shoulders. He shrank from it, and +with all his being, aspired to it.</p> + +<p>He made no impression on the football world, but his own +interior world was transformed. He was no longer an isolated, +formless Freshman, dumped down into the midst of the most +callously laissez-faire of Universities, he was no more a forgotten +molecule with no share in, or responsibility for the +ultimate reaction. He had a shelter for his personality against +the vast, daunting indifference of the universe. He was on +the football squad.</p> + +<p>He had feared he might have some trouble in explaining +his absence from the supper-table at home, but that proved +unexpectedly easy. The second evening after he began to play +on the scrub, he found Father in the library at home, reading +the sporting sheet of the Evening Telegram.</p> + +<p>"Any other Crittendens in college, Neale?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Not that I know about."</p> + +<p>"That's you on the football team, then?"</p> + +<p>"Only on the scrub, yes, I'm trying. We have dinner together +after practice. You don't mind, do you?"</p> + +<p>"Me? Of course not," said Father.</p> + +<p>Mother heard all this, apparently had known it before, and +did not ask him to take care of himself and not get hurt. +Neale looked over at her gratefully. Mother was all right.</p> + +<p>The football season slid along, the Varsity improving every +week. Neale glowed with caste-loyalty as Saturday after +Saturday he watched the prowess of his big brothers. Every +day he felt himself stretching up, broadening out, nearer to +their stature, though nobody else gave him a thought. Life +was full of big and generous and absorbing matter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then came Thanksgiving Day, the climax ... and oh, after +that, what a vacuum! Nothing in life but classes! Holy +smoke! It was fierce! What did the fellows do who hadn't +had anything but classes! How could they stand it? But +of course, it wasn't such a come-down for them.</p> + +<p>Going home as Neale did every afternoon, he had none of +the scanty, ill-organized college social life. Sliding into college +as he had, with no introduction from the right kind of +Prep. school, and with a noticeably colorless personality, he was +not thought of as a possibility for any fraternity. Time hung +heavy on his hands. Lectures took up but three hours a day, +on the busiest days. To fill in the rest of the time there was +the swimming pool, the Gymnasium and the Library. He +swam, practised the overhand racing stroke, dived; in the +Gym. he fooled awkwardly on the parallel bars and side-horse; +he tossed medicine balls with any pick-up acquaintance; +what he really enjoyed was the line of traveling rings which +hung in front of the visitors' gallery—but one day he heard +an upper classman refer to these as "Freshmen's Delight," +and thereafter he avoided them.</p> + +<p>The Library, the first one to which he had had access, +wasn't so bad. Neale went there first to look up a reference +for Comp. Lit. A. Of course you ran the risk of being thought +a grind if you spent too much time there, but you could +kill the hours very pleasantly with the bound volumes of the +magazines in the shelves about the general reading-room. +Neale and most of his friends wasted an unconscionable number +of hours on those magazines: but little by little the library +habit began to form itself, by slow, infinitesimal accretions. +He found it a good place to study, wrote English A. themes +there, finally even got into the way of running through the +card catalogue, and drawing books with titles that sounded +good.</p> + +<p>Christmas came. Father, recognizing manhood achieved, +gave him a box of a hundred Milo cigarettes. Mother—poor, +dear, ignorant Mother!—gave him a white sweater decorated +with a light blue C! Even more than by smoking Father's +cigarettes, Neale proved that he had begun to outgrow the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +cruel egotism of adolescence, by kissing Mother and thanking +her, without telling her that almost any fool finally gets his +diploma, but only the chosen few—and these as Juniors or +Seniors—win the right to adorn themselves with the proud +insignia of their Varsity letter.</p> + +<p>After Christmas came the mid-year exams. Neale went into +them confidently enough—and to his astonishment emerged +with passing marks, but with no great credit. D in German +was the worst, and he'd studied German since he was a little +boy! Greek, English and Latin marked him as mediocre with +a C. Comparative Literature alone rated him B—and +every one knew that Comp. Lit. was a snap course. Neale had +never thought of himself as a grind, but he had been used +to high marks at school, and the low grades nettled him. +He began to see that there was more to this college work than +he had understood. The studies themselves were not unlike +those of high school; indeed they were easier than the science +and mathematics that had been hammered into him at Hadley. +But the point of view was different, and that had fooled +him. There was a "take it or leave it" attitude about everything +at college; the professors did not, as at Hadley, hold +their jobs only because they were able to drive the bright, +the dull, the scatter-brained, the sluggish, all through passing +grades for the next year's work. No, these college professors +and instructors gave themselves no such trouble. They +set out their wares. If the students helped themselves, so +much the better: if they didn't, so much the worse—for the students. +Neale mis-called the professors for lazy time-servers: +but he wasn't going to let them put it over on him that way +another time. He would read everything they suggested and +more! They would be astonished by the brilliance of his +finals. But just then baseball practice started in the cage +and Neale forgot all about his vendetta against the professors.</p> + +<p>At baseball he expected to shine. This he had really played +before coming to college. April saw the Freshman baseball +squad practising on South Field. It was a terrible jolt to +Neale to find himself in the discard. His vacant-lot, light-of-nature +game had not compared favorably with the play of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +graduates of well-coached Prep. schools. He was thrown back +on the Library. Perhaps it was just as well, he told himself +with sour-grape philosophy. After all he was there, among +other things, to get an education.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + + +<p>The event of that summer, the only one that counted for +him, was a long, timber-cruising trip which he took, as chain-boy +and camp-helper, up into the mountains of southern Vermont. +Grandfather's whole life had been spent in handling +timber in one way and another and all his old friends +and associates were in that world. Every one had the greatest +respect for old Mr. Crittenden's "timber-sense" even now +when he was so old that he could do no more cruising, engage +in no more active speculation. Sitting around on the lumber-piles +at the mill, or on the porch of the Crittenden house, +Grandfather somehow had a finger in many a timber deal. +People came to consult him, and to get him to go halves on buys +bigger than they had capital for. From the time he had been +a little boy, Neale had been the unconsidered witness of +innumerable such interviews, and had laughed inwardly with +considerable family pride to see how completely Grandfather +in his baggy old country clothes held his own and better against +the smartly-dressed younger men who came to talk business +with him.</p> + +<p>The summer after Neale's Freshman year, the proposition +was a big buy of wild land from which Grandfather himself +had skimmed the cream thirty years ago and sold for nothing +afterwards, but which old Mr. Crittenden opined, cocking a +shrewd old eye in reflection, must have again come to some +exploitable value. Three men were to go up unobtrusively, and +timber-cruise through it, back and forth, zig-zag, till they could +make a fair report on what was there. The plans were being +made, one evening, out on the porch where they all sat in the +long, clear summer twilight. Grandfather had not seemed +to notice Neale's half-wistful interest in the talk of camp +outfits and compasses and packs, but suddenly, looking down +to where the boy stretched his long, gaunt body on the porch-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>floor, +he said, "What say, Neale? How'd you like to go +along? You could carry chain when they had to run a line, +and I guess you're smart enough to keep a fire going and +help make camp, ain't you?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>That had been a great month; full of discomfort and hardship +and fatigue and deep, deep satisfaction. Neale was the +only boy with three men, hardened, wiry woodsmen, who +had spent their lives in forests, not at all in the loafing irregular +manner of sportsmen, with occasional spurts of nervous +effort, and with long periods, in unfavorable weather, of idling +around a camp-fire. Neale's three companions had always +worked in the woods as regularly as his father worked in his +office. Rain and heat and cold and insect-plagues were nothing +to them. The main business of every day was work: and +camp-life was organized sketchily (without much regard for +comfort), not to interfere with work. Neale found that his +gymnasium-practice, athletic-sports, college-life had left him +as soft as dough beside these lean, iron-like men. He doggedly +sweated himself into a hardness that made it possible for him +to keep pace with them. At first when they turned in under +their blankets at night as soon as dark came, Neale had been +too exhausted to sleep and had lain awake aching, every one +of his big bones bruised by the roughness of the hastily-made +balsam-bough bed. But inside a week, he was able, as his +companions did, to stretch out with one long, deep breath, and +to know nothing more till morning came, and the light woke +him to roll over and open his eyes to the unimaginable freshness +of dawn, filtering through the thick-leaved branches over +his head. He drew in a chest-full of the sweet, new air, a +heart-full of immaculate beauty, and fell heavily asleep again, +till half-an-hour later one of his companions kicked him awake +to take his share of getting breakfast and packing up for the +day's tramp.</p> + +<p>The three timber-cruisers talked very little of anything, +most of their prodigious capacity for effort going into their +work, and they never talked at all of the beauty which was the +background of their lives; but they occasionally paid a silent,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> +offish tribute to that beauty by going a little out of their +way to some "look-out" evidently, from their talk, familiar +to them since boyhood. This was generally the top of a +cliff or rocky slide, where there were no trees to obscure the +view. Arrived there, they never did anything but sit and +swing their feet over emptiness, pitch stones into the void below +them, and quarrel with each other about the identification of +different peaks and hollows in the vast wooded expanse of +mountains before them. But they were always more than +usually silent after such a glimpse of the spaciousness of the +world and, for one, Neale found a greatness in his heart to +match the greatness which had filled his eyes.</p> + +<p>Once as they sat thus on a crag, throwing stones and smoking, +the head timber-cruiser, old Martin Hoardman, remarked +to Neale, of whom they usually took little notice, "See that +high range ... and then that other beyond it, the one with +the three-peaked mountain in the middle?"</p> + +<p>Neale nodded.</p> + +<p>"Wa'l, you'd never guess it, but there's a valley down in +between them two, with a sight of folks in it, and farms and +everything."</p> + +<p>Another man said, "Why, old man Crittenden's got a brother +lives there. Ain't that the Ashley valley? He runs an old-fashioned +water-power mill there."</p> + +<p>Martin observed, "Yep, I've drawed many a load of logs to +the old man's mill."</p> + +<p>Neale remembered the sharp-spoken old man who had +visited Grandfather's mill one day when he was a little boy. +He had said then, he would go up to Ashley some day and +make Uncle Burton a visit. Well, if he were a crow or a +hawk, he could do it now, in about half an hour. He sat +dreaming, his eyes fixed on the two hazy blue lines of mountains +which stood up so high and so close to each other that +they entirely hid the valley between. It must be a quiet, sheltered +spot, that valley.</p> + +<p>"Time to be movin' on," said old Martin, getting to his +feet, and striding off into the woods, with his strong, unelastic, +never-tiring gait.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p> + +<p>At the end of five weeks they were plodding back up the +road to the Crittenden house, Neale not to be distinguished +from the other men. The road seemed hard and narrow and +foolish to them, the house and barn like toys, the world about +them on so small a scale that their widened eyes could scarcely +distinguish one thing from another. Neale had the distinct +impression, when he stepped into the kitchen that if he stood +up straight, he would put his head through the ceiling. And +what a comical, trifling thing a chair was! He felt afraid to +let his whole weight come down on it and expected it to go +to pieces in his hand, it felt so flimsy.</p> + +<p>But his bed was good—oh, very good. He slept till noon +the next day and was wakened by Grandfather coming up +to see what the matter was. He scrambled up, half-awake, +rubbing his eyes and staring, his pyjamas open upon his +broad chest, his long arms bare. Grandfather stood looking +at him for a moment before he went back downstairs. +He did not say a word except, "You're going to eat breakfast +and dinner together, I guess," but Neale knew that +Grandfather was very well pleased with what he saw. Grandfather +was a pretty good old scout, anyhow, he thought, as he +washed gingerly in the white earthen-ware basin, which seemed +appallingly breakable to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + + +<p>And then it was time to go back to college. Sophomore year +was <i>entirely different</i>. What a change from his cat-in-a-strange-garret +sensation of a year ago! Now he was blatantly +sure of every step in the elaborate and illogical ritual that +makes up undergraduate life. He stood between College Hall +and the Library all one happy afternoon, wringing the hands +of Sophomores, as uplifted with their status as he. There +Griswold the Assistant Manager hailed him and carried him +off to the football house on 117th Street. He found the office +on the first floor crowded with all the leaders and hangers-on +of the football organization.</p> + +<p>Andrews shook hands with him and actually remembered his +name instead of calling him "Freshman Bean-pole"—it was +great to be a Soph.! "Report in the Gym. at three," said +Andrews, "you'd better live at the house this season; fix +him up with a room, Charley." He turned and went on talking +with McClurg, something about officials for the Fordham +game.</p> + +<p>Bixby reached over and picked up a paper from the welter +on his desk, "Top-floor, Crittenden, you'll find a lot of cots in +the front room; take any one that's loose."</p> + +<p>"I haven't any clothes with me," explained Neale. It had +never occurred to him that he would be accepted into the very +center of things this way.</p> + +<p>"Never mind, bring 'em to-morrow; but you'd better beat +it up and stake out your claim to a cot now...." The telephone +rang and Bixby snatched it up, "Columbia football +house, yes, this is Bixby speaking. No, that <i>won't</i> do! Those +shoes were promised for this afternoon. Yes, yes, you can +make it if you send them right away. See here, there are lots +of sporting-goods firms who want our trade...."</p> + +<p>Neale went upstairs and found a room, with six cots made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +up. Four of them had suit-cases or books on them to show +occupancy. Over by the window he saw Billings, last year's +full-back, sitting at a table with a thin, slight upper classman. +Neale thought he recognized him,—Grant his name was—one +of the college leaders, debating team, Spec. Managing +Board, Phi Beta Kappa; that sort of chap. Billings' big +body was hunched miserably forward over a book, his forehead +wrinkled. As Neale looked at them, Grant reached forward, +shut up the book and pulled it towards him.</p> + +<p>"No use, Billings. It'd only ball you up to keep on with +that math. Not a chance! Don't try the exam. Anyway +they can't keep you off the team with only one condition. +But, God, how <i>did</i> you manage to flunk Comp. Lit.? Any +child of three ought to pass Comp. Lit. But don't you worry! +We'll get you through. Have you learned those pieces I gave +you?"</p> + +<p>Billings straightened up and recited in a stumbling sing-song, +"As Shelley beautifully says, 'I could lie down like a sick +child and weep ... and weep ... and weep!...'"</p> + +<p>"'Away this life of woe,'" prompted Grant. "And it's like +a 'tired child.'... No, don't change it! It'll look less as if +you were copying a crib if you don't get it quite right. All +right for that. Now, let's have the other ones."</p> + +<p>At this point, Billings said violently in very forcible language, +that poems were all such damn silly rot he couldn't +learn them. And Grant, unsurprised and peremptory, answered +that it didn't make a damned bit of difference how silly and +rotten they were, they could be learned. "You've got brains +enough to get a racing-dope sheet by heart, you can memorize +poetry too. Now, your time's up. Beat it over to the Library +where you can't talk and learn all <i>three</i> pieces! Remember +you're to work 'em in, no matter what he asks. And if you +have a chance, praise Shelley and knock Matthew Arnold. +That's his line."</p> + +<p>He turned to Neale, "You're Greenway, aren't you, with +two years' conditions in French B?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Neale, "I'm Crittenden."</p> + +<p>"Oh, are you? Not on my list. You ought to have re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>ported +before. I can't do everything at the last minute. No +matter, I'll give you till Greenway shows up. He's only a +sub-end anyway, and we're lousy with ends. What did <i>you</i> +flunk?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't flunk anything," Neale admitted, half-ashamed +that he might be considered a grind.</p> + +<p>Grant jumped up. "What, <i>nothing</i>! And on the football +squad, too." He stared hard at Neale as at a strange animal, +and conjectured aloud, "Well, you must be a dub, of course. +Never knew a Varsity man whose brain-cavity wasn't stuffed +with cabbage-leaves."</p> + +<p>Neale apparently showed some of the alarm this caused him, +for the upper-classman added, "Oh, you'll get your chance just +the same. Judging by the number of boobs Alpine and I are +coaching, any dub who is eligible will have a smell at the +Varsity, at least for the early games, till we can shove the +regular Varsity men through their conditions."</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Everybody over to the gym.</span>," roared a voice from the +lower hallway.</p> + +<p>Neale tossed his derby on one of the unpreëmpted cots and +ran downstairs. As he bounded down flight after flight he +could hear Grant leaning over the top banister yelling to the +Manager to have Greenway found and delivered to him at +once.</p> + +<p>It was great to breathe the sweaty air of the dressing-room +again, to strip and pull on your rough jersey and feel it rubbing +the skin of your shoulders, great to hail the men you +knew and have them slap you on the back.</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">All over</span>.... On the jump!" The squad clattered out, +their cleats scraping and slipping on the marble steps.</p> + +<p>Practice that afternoon was what the coaches called light—that +is, no bones were broken: they fell on the ball, and +it gladdened Neale's heart to see the new men hop into the air +and bang down on one hip, just as he used to last season. +They tackled the dummy, they went down under punts +that sultry September afternoon—all of them, even the line +men, time after time, till the sweat soaked even through their +elbow-pads. Neale was dog-tired as he hobbled back to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +dressing-room and pulled off his dripping jersey. What luxury +to slip under the shower, hot first till the dirt was all off, then +turn the handle, cool, cool, cooler, cold—to lean forward +and feel it patter on your back, lean backward and feel the +cold hard drops sting your face and chest. As he lay in Pompeian +ease on the rubbing table, Josh went so far as to tell +him that his muscles were in pretty fair shape compared to +some of them. That was the timber-cruising trip. And how +he tore into the roast-beef that night! It was good to be +alive—to be a Soph.—to be on the football squad!</p> + +<p>Grant's prophecy turned out correct. Four of the regular +Varsity men were debarred by the faculty committee and the +eligible subs made the most of their opportunity. One of the +vacant places was left half-back and Neale, who that summer +had grown some flesh and muscle on his lanky limbs and now +weighed a hundred and sixty-three stripped, put his whole soul +into the quest and nosed out Biffy McFadden for the job. +McFadden knew more than Neale (the coach made no secret +of Neale's lack of sophistication) but he weighed less and +was only a little faster.</p> + +<p>So Neale was given, although grudgingly, his chance and +took it as though it had been his one chance to save his soul +alive. He played against Rutgers, proud, half-scared, yet +reassured at lining up by the side of big Tod McAlpine, and +was fairly translated when he went over the line (just as +easily as if it had been in practice) for one of Columbia's +five touchdowns. Against Williams a week later, he played +again and did nothing either very good or very bad. Just +before the Harvard game, Garland was squeezed through a +special examination in Latin and after that Neale had no +chance for the Varsity. But he <i>was</i> considered about neck and +neck with Biffy as first sub for the back-field, and he and Biffy +grew together in a loyal comradeship, as brothers-in-arms.</p> + +<p>Like a young tree which suddenly puts out a long new shoot +in a new direction, Neale learned a lot of things that autumn, +different from anything he had learned before. In the first +place, living in the constant unrepressed society of thirty other +young men, he acquired a good deal of social ease of a rough-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>and-tumble +sort, learned much profanity, many foul and a few +funny stories by the aid of which he was able to piece together +the isolated facts he had already picked up about sex, and +appear to his brothers a great deal more sophisticated than +he was.</p> + +<p>He also learned much technical football: to pick openings in +a broken field, to jump from a crouching start the instant the +ball began to move, to find his stride and be going at top +speed in three paces, instinctively to hurdle when the defense +was on the ground, to bull over it with churning knees when +it was waist high, to lower his head and ram through when it +was standing up, and always to kick, crawl, squirm the ball +forward even if it was only a half an inch.</p> + +<p>He learned a great deal more than that. All that autumn +he played football, thought football, dreamed football, lived +football. The savage Spartan football code was his code: to do +anything, everything for a team-mate, for the team; to fight as +hard in midfield with the score hopelessly against him as half +a yard from the enemy's goal-line; to endure the agony of +being tackled on muscle-bruised thighs, to get up and drive +back as hard as ever into the line to the same certain torment; +to go to any length to put an opponent out of the game—any +length except being caught and having his team penalized by +the officials; and no matter to what outbreaks of emotion +his exhausted body and over-strained nerves might give way +in the dressing-room, to walk out of it with his jaw set, his +face impassive and never let an enemy rooter see a tear in +his eye. It was by no means the education in the humanities +and liberal arts with which the University was supposed to +be providing him, but an education of a kind, it certainly was. +Above all, at a period when his raw new personality was +all one huge void, clamoring for something to fill it, football +filled his life full to the brim. There was no vacuum left +to be filled either by culture or deviltry.</p> + +<p>All through the rest of that in-and-out season he played +regularly at left half-back on the scrub, relishing to the full +those afternoons when the scrub, with all the best of the decisions, +scored on a crippled Varsity; rejoicing even more (for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +it meant power to the team) when the Varsity struck its gait +and pounded rough-shod over the bleeding and prostrate scrub.</p> + +<p>After the season Neale found himself entitled to wear the +"Varsity stripe" and monogram. This gave him a certain +position in his class. He was somebody. Two fraternities +made discreet overtures to him. Neale considered, encouraged +Lamma Kappa Pi, which seemed to have more athletic men +than the other, was duly pledged and initiated.</p> + +<p>And now came a change in his manner of living. The +chapter needed roomers to help pay the rent for the Frat. +house. Couldn't Brother Crittenden move into a top-floor +bedroom? Neale broached the subject to his father and +mother, pointing out how much more time he would have for +study if he lived near the University. They surprised him by +treating the matter with unexpected solemnity and delaying +decision for several days; but in the end they gave their consent.</p> + +<p>It did not occur to Neale as he slung his clothes into a +trunk that he was saying good-by to his home-life; and if it +occurred to his mother, silently helping him pack, she kept her +thoughts to herself. An event that seemed of much more importance +to Neale was a move that Father made on his own +initiative. After a long homily on responsibility and learning +the value of money, he proposed to grant Neale an allowance +of fifty dollars a month to be paid on the first of the month +in advance. Out of this Neale was to buy food, shelter and +incidentals. Father was to go on paying college fees.</p> + +<p>So Brother Crittenden installed himself in the top-floor hall +bedroom, and according to fraternity practice, decorated it +with pennants, foils and masks (although he did not fence), +and sword bayonets, because they looked impressive and were +cheap at Bannerman's. To make a real college room, he knew +by comparing it with others, it should have a dozen girls' +photographs, but Neale knew no girl well enough to beg photographs +from her. He excused this lack by telling himself that +he had no use for women, he was at college for the stern man's +business of making the football team. Nothing that might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +interfere with the pink of physical condition or the singleness +of mental resolution should have a place in his life.</p> + +<p>And indeed for the six weeks which separated the end of the +season from mid-year examinations, he stuck to a monastic +schedule. The mandate had gone forth that football men must +somehow manage to pass a majority of their subjects, and +Neale's fraternity brothers never tried to coax him away from +the table where he sat wrestling with Cicero's Letters or the +Carolingian Empire, not even to play poker, or go night-hawking +around little Coney Island.</p> + +<p>But after mid-years it was different. Nobody could possibly +start worrying about the finals for three months yet. The +basket-ball season began and with it the informal Gym. dances +after each game. "Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero" was +in the air, not only in Latin classes. Neale went to the first +games in the cap and sweater he wore about the campus, and +when the dance began, sneaked out, dodging behind pillars to +avoid compromising those of his chapter, resplendent in evening +clothes with girl partners more resplendent still. But +such seclusion was not to last. Other fellows, the "fussers" of +his chapter were caught with extra girls on their hands, sisters +or cousins, or ex-girls, and Neale in spite of his avowed +principle of dancing only when he couldn't run away fast +enough to escape, was hauled in to be the necessary extra +man for the more or less anonymous out-of-town girl to be +provided for.</p> + +<p>Logically enough, other advances followed. Finding that +they had landed not only a promising athlete in Brother Crittenden, +but a passable social member, the rest of the chapter +hastened to count him in. He learned to play poker; to drink +more beer than he wanted; to keep a pipe going without burning +his mouth; he learned where to go for chop suey; to sniff +at a cigar, and look wise before he bought it; to pretend to +like his cocktails dry, although as a matter of fact, he did not +like them at all; he learned to rattle off a line of bright, +slangy compliments at college dances or Frat. teas, and to take +a flashier line with chippies at the dance halls; he added to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +his store of oaths and smutty stories ... the chapter thought +well of him and he thought even better of himself.</p> + +<p>By the time spring came Neale felt happily sure that he was +seeing life without making a fool of himself, which was, according +to his latest philosophy (borrowed from Horace) the +right thing to do. He would be nineteen in a few months now, +time to attain a calm, mature, unsurprised acceptance of the +world. No half-baked enthusiasms about anything. Except +football, of course. That was far above all philosophies of +life. In the spring of his Sophomore year Neale was consuming +pipefuls of tobacco and meditating on what he called his +"past life," censuring or approving his actions by the newly +acquired yard-stick of the "golden mean." What a youthful +idiot he had been about Don Roberts! That was so long ago +that he could smile cynically at both his enthusiasm and his +disillusion, each equally far from balance. Balance. Poise. +That was the right dope for a man of the world.</p> + +<p>And yet, spring was in the air, and it was hard, even for the +ripe maturity of nineteen to be perfectly balanced. Neale had +no girl at hand, and was betrayed into working off the excitement +of spring days by writing an English theme on the tulips +in Union Square. So much early May, both of style and +personality seeped into this, that the jaded, discouraged young +professor of English felt his heart leap up with incredulous +hope and pleasure. To encourage the writer he read parts of +it aloud to the class, while Neale's very soul scorched with +shame. One of his non-athletic classmates, a brilliant, precocious, +foreign-born fellow, with literary aspirations, came +up to him afterwards and congratulated him enviously on his +success. It was a terrible experience all around. Neale vowed +furiously to himself that never again would he let any real +feeling slip into a college theme.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + + +<p>West Adams and Grandfather's house looked queer and +countrified and old-fashioned. It was a long, long way from a +Frat. house on 113th Street to that plain bedroom so full of +his little-boy and prep-school personality that Neale felt ill +at ease and restless there. How could you live up to your +ideal of Horatian calm and sophisticated tolerance towards +human life in the presence of people who had known you +when you were in short trousers, who only a few years before +had been giving you hot lemonade for a cold and tucking +you up in bed? No, West Adams was impossible! He looked +inside the Emerson one day, remembering what an impression +it had made on him, and found it like West Adams, +very dull. "The man is so terribly in earnest!" he told himself +and was enchanted at the superior, Oscar Wilde tone of +his dictum.</p> + +<p>The next day he thought of Billy Peters and knew that he +was saved. Billy was the most amusing of his Frat. brothers, +the one now nearest to him, for he remembered that Billy spent +the summers in the Berkshires. He wrote to Billy asking him +to come up for a couple of weeks and go camping with him, +somewhere up the Deerfield. Neale would meet him at whatever +station Billy could make and they would start at once. +He didn't invite Billy to Grandfather's, not because he was +ashamed of Grandfather's—not at all—he just didn't think +it would interest Billy there. In due time Billy's answer +came, asking Neale to cut out the wilderness project and +come down to make him a visit in the Berkshires. Neale +considered, he liked Billy; and West Adams was deadly dull. +Why not? There was no good reason why not; he packed +his suit-case and went.</p> + +<p>Billy met him and drove him to the Peters' cottage, a remodeled +farm-house several miles from town. Mrs. Peters was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> +cordially polite, Billy's little high-school kid sister turned blue, +admiring eyes on her big brother's friend, who was presented +as a most prodigious athlete. After supper, at Billy's suggestion +they walked over to the hotel, two remodeled farm-houses +with shingled sides joined by mission-furnitured piazzas. +Billy introduced him to the "finest little girl ever" and Neale +was only half-surprised (knowing Billy fairly well) to find she +wasn't the same as the "finest little girl" of the winter before. +But that was nothing to Neale; there were plenty of other +girls, all delighted to buzz around him, to have him dance +or play ping-pong, to make fudge, or walk in the moonlight. +Some were pretty and some were not, some were bright and +some just boisterous. And it was all the same to Neale. The +Horatian pose was a great success. He was delighted with +himself.</p> + +<p>At the end of a week he prepared to leave. But Billy +couldn't see it that way. It was true that Polly was going to +have a couple of girl friends at the house next week, and would +want Neale's room, but then they'd want Bill's room too. If +Billy was to be exiled to a tent, why couldn't Crit keep him +company? They'd move the tent up into the Glen, and really +camp out, cook their own grub and everything. Crit had +said he wanted to camp out! Why not? After all there +wasn't any real reason why he should go...! Next week +there was the coaching parade, and all sorts of fun, decorating +the hotel three-seater, with ferns and daisies. Then there was +a boating excursion to Long Pond where Sarah Davis fell +overboard and Neale pulled her out.</p> + +<p>Then there was a fateful straw-ride in the August full moon, +very near to Neale's nineteenth birthday, and there he met +Miss Austin, a new arrival at the hotel. She was almost as +tall as Neale, which was very tall indeed for a girl, and she +looked to Neale as though she might have stepped right out of +a Gibson illustration. This utterly superlative impression of +beauty and good form was not lessened even in broad daylight +the next morning, when he saw her again on the tennis-court, +where she said good-morning with a special look for him in her +very fine gray eyes. She did not play tennis, she sat on a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +bench at the side, under a purple silk parasol, her long, full, +white skirts frilling out in a plaited cone, her pretty, fluffy, +brown hair arranged in a high pompadour, which stayed impeccable +as the tennis-playing girls grew hot and red, their +hair straggling in straight wisps across their shining wet foreheads.</p> + +<p>Had Neale ever thought he scorned girls who sat cool and +dressed-up on a bench while others played tennis? As soon +as the set was over, he went to sit beside her. She glanced +at him out of her gray eyes and looked away again. Neale's +pulse beat more quickly and he looked hard at the curve of +her cheek. Then they began to talk. Before she went in +to lunch, she had told him with a wistful note in her voice, +that she was glad she'd met him, because most of the people +at the hotel bored her so. Neale answered (the truth striking +him for the first time), that <i>most</i> of the people bored him +too.</p> + +<p>If other people were what bored them, they certainly must +have been free from ennui for the next few days, for they saw +little of any one but each other. Neale's days and evenings +were good or bad, according to the extent of his success in +monopolizing Miss Austin. On the whole the evenings were +the best, the evenings when they sat in a far corner of the +hotel piazza and compared notes about their views on life +and literature. Miss Austin paid Neale the compliment he +most appreciated. She affected to consider him as well-read as +she was—what did he think of Meredith, and Ibsen? She +discussed Bernard Shaw and "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray." +Neale had to trust to copious bluffing: to confide heavily in his +taciturnity, letting her run on, till she expressed opinions tangible +enough for him to agree with her.</p> + +<p>The climax of the season was the fancy dress dance at the +Prospect House. Everybody went; Billy in a blanket, woodchuck +skins and turkey feathers considered himself a passable +Uncas. Neale who had caught the early morning +train up to West Adams and the milk train back, wore his +football suit, with his white sweater like a cloak, the arms +tied under his chin—hot but very becoming.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p> + +<p>With Billy he started conscientiously to dance in rotation +with all the girls from their hotel. His second dance was +with Miss Austin. She was in black with a black lace mantilla, +and pinned in her hair was one of the roses Neale +had ransacked Pittsfield to buy—he forgot the others—forgot +everything but the rhythm of their steps together—they +danced, sat out on the verandah—danced again.</p> + +<p>It was pointed, shameless—the chaperon, whose daughter +was sitting a disconsolate wall-flower, glared at them—and +they danced on. Had this red-blooded young blade, giving +himself up wholly to the glamor of the moment, had he ever +taken the cold, dry, heartless doctrine of Horace as a guide +to life? He danced on—had he said he only danced when +he was caught and had to?—he danced on, thrilling to the +rhythm, like the swinging beat of hearts in young bodies. +At last, the piano, violin and cornet (the "orchestra" imported +from the city of North Adams), broke into "Home, Sweet +Home," and the last waltz began; slow, languorous, the climax +of the wonderful evening for Neale.</p> + +<p>Then Miss Austin staged her dramatic effect. As the party +broke up, she said, putting out one hand to Neale and resting +the other on her mother's arm, "Good-night, Mr. Crittenden, +and ..." she looked down at the roses he had given her, +"and good-by. Mother and I are leaving on the morning +train. I only waited to have that last dance." She waited an +instant to let this have its effect, and added in a lower tone, +"Thank you—thank you for—for making my stay here so +pleasant."</p> + +<p>Now there was, under Neale's skin, neither a calm Horatian +philosopher nor a dashing red-blooded young blade. There +was only a shy, awkward boy of nineteen, taken entirely unawares, +struck dumb by the surge of emotion within him. +Helpless and inarticulate, except for a muttered "good-by" he +shook Miss Austin's hand and walked away with apparent +steadiness.</p> + +<p>But afterwards...! When Billy was snoring inside the +tent, Neale sat on the platform outside, and wrestled with +Destiny. What a stiff, frozen lump he had been, not to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +been able to speak out what was in his heart. She was <i>going</i>! +And he had no photograph of her...! What an idiot never +to have thought to ask for one! Not a keepsake! Not even +a kiss! It was too hideous. No man with any virility would +let Destiny ride rough-shod over him like that. He would +be masterful. He would take the same train with her in +the morning, he would be reckless, follow her up.... Great +Cæsar's ghost! But it was cold out there! The night dampness +pierced through even his thick sweater. He staggered to +his cot, rolled up in the blankets and fell instantly asleep.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>He half-wakened once at dawn with the first rays of sunlight, +rolled over, looked out into the breathless, pure beauty of the +new day dropping slowly in a rain of golden light through +the great trees, thought hazily that he was timber-cruising +in the Green Mountains again, and fell asleep more profoundly +than ever. He was really very tired and his old faculty for +prodigious sleeping reasserted itself.</p> + +<p>When he finally awoke, the day was ripe, and the light had +a late look. Sure enough, his watch said a quarter past eleven. +He sat up and stretched, and rubbed his hands back and +forth through his frowsy hair. Billy had eaten his breakfast +and gone. But he must have brought up the mail and left it +for Neale to find; for a letter now fell off Neale's cot to the +floor.</p> + +<p>The letter was typed, brief and direct like the writer.</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Dear Crittenden:</p> + +<p>"We have a hard schedule ahead of us this season. I want +all last year's squad to report at the football house for practice +on September 1st. I can count on you not to be late.</p> + +<p class="right"> +"R. McAlpine, Capt."<br /> +</p></blockquote> + +<p>Neale read it over and over, stupidly at first and then with +growing excitement. Alone in the tent, he allowed a broad, +childish, unrestrained smile of pure pleasure and pride to +shine all over his face.</p> + +<p>Then the date struck his eye. He was to report on Sep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>tember +first and this was August twenty-fourth. Gosh! Less +than a week to get into condition! Not a single minute to +lose. His chance might depend on his being in condition.</p> + +<p><i>His chance...!</i> He tossed the blankets off and sprang up, +making plans rapidly. The coffee-pot left by Billy was still +warm in the banked ashes, but Neale put it aside. No coffee! +After his breakfast of oatmeal and toast, he looked longingly +at his pipe, but did not light it. No tobacco! He remembered +that this was about the time for Miss Austin's train, but he did +not change his clothes to go down to see her off. No girls!</p> + +<p>Still in his football togs, just as he had danced the last waltz, +he set off for the first of his training, a two-mile jog-trot over +the hills.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +September, 1902.<br /> +</p> + +<p>After the first day's practice Neale and Biffy McFadden +were jogging back to the dressing-room together.</p> + +<p>"Great, isn't it?" grunted Biffy, rubbing his jersey sleeve +over his sweaty forehead. "Looks like a job for either you or +me."</p> + +<p>"I'll have to step lively, if I get the job. Just you wait +till I get some of the fat off me. I'm soft yet." He thought +bitterly of time wasted on the hotel piazza.</p> + +<p>"Soft? Hell!" cried Biffy. "All I'll say is I hope you never +tackle me when you're hard—thought you'd slapped me with +a piece of lead pipe just after I caught that punt."</p> + +<p>McAlpine and Andrews were standing outside the Gym. door. +Neale stopped to shake hands with his Captain whom he had +not seen before practice. McAlpine punched him appraisingly +in the abdomen.</p> + +<p>"Not so bad. Some fat but there's muscle behind it."</p> + +<p>Neale made way for Atkins of the '99 team, an alumnus always +hanging around the squad every season. He was supposed +to be devoting his heart's blood to bond-brokerage, down +on Wall Street, but, a wistful exile from the world to which +he had given the passion of his youth, he always came uptown +in the fall to watch football practice. Also, which was +of much more importance, he spent his summer vacation looking +up available football material, "out in the bushes" as he +expressed it. He now stopped in front of the Captain with +a grin of pride, and jerking his head towards an approaching +player, he inquired, "Well, how about him?"</p> + +<p>McAlpine replied with enthusiasm, "Built like a piano, isn't +he? Where'd you raise him?"</p> + +<p>Neale followed their eyes and saw a squat, swarthy, two-hun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>dred-and-fifty-pound +linesman rolling past them towards the +Gym. door.</p> + +<p>"Where'd I raise him? Stole him from the U. of P. +Father's something or other up in the coal-fields—oodles +of money. Son was all set up to go to Pennsy, but we got +him down here and led him up and down the Great White +Way a couple of nights. Nobody could coax him away now—unless +there's a University at Paris."</p> + +<p>McAlpine stared after the powerful back and shoulders +filling the doorway. "God, what a brute! Baby hippo walking +on his hind legs. What's his breed anyway?"</p> + +<p>"Some sort of hunky. I'm not up on their stud book, but +I'd say off-hand he's a cross between a Slovak cart-horse and +a Ruthenian wild boar—lots of space in his garret, but +you can't hurt him with a pick-ax."</p> + +<p>"But, how in merry hell, are we going to keep him eligible? +What courses did you get him entered for?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, assorted snap courses—English Lit. mostly. And +he has a tame tutor that lives with him and does the studying. +How'd you suppose he ever got through High School?"</p> + +<p>Neale left them talking and stepped into the Gym., admiring +enviously the massive bone-structure of the new student +of English Literature.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>There were horribly emotional ups and downs in the Junior +football season for Neale, ups and downs that ploughed and +harrowed his young soul, planted many seeds in his heart, and +left him at the end of the season with so much new knowledge +of himself and others to digest, with experiences so rich and +varied, dark and brilliant, to look back on, that he needed the +entire rest of the year to grow up to them. The other students, +those who did not play football, seemed to him like +little boys, fooling around with marbles and kites, so little +did they know of the black depths of depression and despair, +and the hard-won heights of exultation which crammed his +own personal life full, and gave him a premature maturity +of experience, like that of a boy who has been through a +war.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> + +<p>The day after his third game on the Varsity, Father called +him on the telephone and asked if he couldn't come home +and have dinner with them to celebrate his success—would +that be breaking training? Oh, no, Neale answered, not if +he got back to the house at nine. So he went home to a +specially good dinner, just the kind he remembered as a little +boy, when there was company. They talked football mostly: +that meant he and Father talked and Mother saw to it that +the plates of her two men were filled. After dinner they went +into the library, the library where he had first plunged into +the world of books, and there he and Mother sat on the sofa, +while Father sat in his own chair, and they visited some +more. Neale found it surprisingly easy to talk to his parents +now, almost as easy as if they were strangers. During the +last year he had lived away from them except for week-ends +and short visits. In that time he had acquired a little perspective; +and the new shell to his personality had set hard enough +so that he no longer felt an irritable, shame-faced distaste of +being looked at by people who had known him as a little boy. +Great Scott! Had he <i>ever</i> been a little boy? The college +Junior looked around on the walls, books and furniture that +had not changed a hair and remembered with difficulty that he +had once been a care-free child in these surroundings.</p> + +<p>When he went away, he shook hands with his father, as he +always did, and stooped from his great height to kiss his mother +as he always did. Why not? It did not occur to him that +he might not kiss his mother.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>But apparently it had occurred to her, for when she felt on +her lips the cool, fresh, boyish, matter-of-fact pressure of his +lips, she gave a sob and flung her arms around him, holding him +close and crying a little on his shoulder.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Why, dear old Mother! What was the matter with her? +Neale put both arms around her and gave her a great hug, as +he used to when he came home from West Adams.</p> + +<p>It had done him good to see his folks, he thought, as he +strode off down the familiar, but not much-loved city street.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +He thought affectionately about his father and mother for +quite a time thereafter, as far as the ferry-house indeed, when +the build of a deck-hand reminded him of the new Swede on the +team. After that he thought football intensively, a strong +color of Junior cock-sureness tinging all his thoughts. He was +making the team! He wasn't so worse! How green, how incredibly +green the thumb-fingered Freshies were who came out +to try for the squad. And he had beaten Biffy to it, although +Biffy had almost killed himself with trying.</p> + +<p>The weak opponents of the preliminary season were easily +swamped. McAlpine, Rogers, Neale, with one of the tackles +back, the big Swede, Gus Larsen, or Atkins' coal miner (whose +name, Vaclav Blahoslav, stumped the squad till it was shortened +to "Mike") tore over Rutgers, Fordham, Hamilton +and the other small fry. True, the battering-ram machine +broke tragically down before Princeton's even stronger attack, +but none of the blame for that attached to Neale. He was +kept out of that game by a wrenched ankle, and Biffy's rotten +luck let him into the line-up for the first defeat of the season. +Neale really had luck on his side, he thought with some complacency. +By next Saturday his ankle was all right again and +he trotted out on Franklin Field supremely confident, trotted +out to fall straight into the black depths of the bottomless +pit.</p> + +<p>For after that swelling supreme self-confidence came a +queer slowness of mind. He found it hard to keep his thoughts +on his work as they ran through signals. His eyes kept straying +to the rioting, flag-waving grand-stands. The whistle blew, +the kick-off came straight to Neale. For the first time since +Freshman year he felt a sinking dread that he might fumble. +The ball hit him on the chest and bounded off. Tod McAlpine +fell on it and the rushing game began.</p> + +<p>For the first half it was anybody's game. Either team when +it got the ball could gain but could not score. Something was +the matter with Neale. He wasn't all there. He knew he was +playing mechanically, but couldn't seem to summon the energy +to do better.</p> + +<p>He sat listless, almost sullen while Andrews harangued the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +team between the halves. He was hardened by this time to the +Neapolitan frenzy of emphasis which marked exhortations to +play your best football or die. He'd do his best, he told himself, +looking down at his feet. Nobody could do any more.</p> + +<p>The second half began with an exchange of punts. Playing +behind the cyclopean Mike, Neale hadn't much work to do +on the defensive, but once Mike was boxed out on a straight +buck, Neale shot his body in to plug the hole and turning, +caught a bony knee in the back, right over the kidneys. As +he lay on the ground gasping for breath, he could see that +he hadn't even stopped the play. It had gone over him for +two yards. Oh, Hell! What was the use? How his back +ached! The Penn. quarter seemed to know he was feeling +wobbly. All the plays were coming at him and Mike, and +most of them got by. Where <i>was</i> the ball? Sometimes it +came straight through and the next minute on the same formation +swung outside—and Neale uselessly buried under the +interference. He'd have to stop it somehow—soon. He +glanced back out of the corner of his eye, and saw the goal +posts less than five yards behind. The Penn. formation was +on his side again. Mike charged like a buffalo. Neale rushed +in behind him, but blindly. Then all at once he picked out +the man with the ball—too late. His sideways drive for a +tackle missed and as he fell, his arms empty, he saw the red-and-blue +jersey go over the line.</p> + +<p>He got up shaken, feeling very sick of himself, not meeting +anybody's eye. While Penn. was kicking the goal, Neale saw +Biffy come bounding out from the side-lines, "I'm to take Crittenden's +place," he reported.</p> + +<p>It was like a blow in the face. And he had earned it. +Neale walked to the bench, took a blanket, looking carefully +away from the sub who held it out to him, wrapped himself +up, forced his face into its usual expression of impassivity and +watched the game. It was not much to watch: Columbia badly +up in the air, Pennsy getting stronger every minute.</p> + +<p>He dreaded the post-mortem at the football house, and +took as deserved Andrews' verdict. "Crittenden, you were a +total loss. I knew you weren't much of a defensive back, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +I didn't suppose a whale like you would let a skinny little +runt of a Penn. sub ride you back five yards and dump you on +your tail."</p> + +<p>Day after day went by, with Neale in exile, playing once +more on the scrub. The night before the Brown game, when +the line-up was announced, he got together a show of good-will +as he shook hands with Biffy and wished him luck. But he lay +awake in the dark that night, heartbroken, sternly motionless +and rigid on his cot, his great hands clenched hard. It was his +virgin sorrow, the first real suffering he had ever known. +The first real sorrow of most lives is usually tempered to the +softness of immature hearts by the self-preserving instinct to +lay the blame on something or somebody else, by merciful +self-pity. But for Neale there was no Fate, nor chance, nor +enemy, nor fickleness of woman on whom to lay the blame. +There was no one to blame but himself, and before his time, +he felt the pure rigor of this knowledge cut deep like a clean +steel blade. It cut out a part of his boyishness forever. It +was the first scar of the initiation into manhood. Neale stood +up to it like a man, although so young a man. "No squealing!" +he commanded himself savagely.</p> + +<p>The next day he sat all through the game on the edge of +the subs' bench, his big muscles quivering with readiness to +respond to an order to jump into the game, his heart sick, sick +within him because the order did not come. Nobody so much +as looked his way. There he sat, a big, useless lump.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with me?" he cried out behind his Iroquois +mask of insensibility, "I've got the strength. I've got +the speed. <i>Am I a quitter?</i>" +The sweat stood out on him at the idea, and at first, helpless +before the dramatic quality of young imagination, he felt +that must be the answer. Yes, he was a quitter. As well die, +and be done with it.</p> + +<p>Then the nucleus of what was to become Neale hardened +itself against this easy, inverted sentimentalism, and small as +the nucleus was, it set itself to consider the matter in judicial, +objective judgment. Neale went over his football for the +last week as though it had been that of another player. "I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +did quit in the Penn. game. But other fellows have had a +slump and pulled out of it. And since then, by God, I've +played myself out in every practice. I've given all there was +to give and then some!"</p> + +<p>He held up his head at this. And yet, if he wasn't a quitter, +what <i>was</i> the matter with him? "Biffy isn't any world-beater. +Yet he must be better than I am, or Andrews wouldn't +give him my place. <i>Andrews is square.</i>" +He said that with the accent of the mystic who affirms +that God is good; and it was very much the same sort of +corner-stone in the house he was building to live in.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Along in the second half, Atkins (the grad. who had discovered +Mike), stopped his caged-tiger prowl up and down the +side lines and dropped into an empty space beside Neale. +"Look at that!" he cried suddenly, "Did you see that?"</p> + +<p>Neale had noticed nothing in particular—just a general +tangle of brown and blue jerseys. "I don't think they gained," +he said.</p> + +<p>"Great Scott, no! Haven't you any eyes? They lost about +half-a-yard. The Brown left-half tripped over Mike's legs, +but if he'd been a foot further out, he'd be going yet. McFadden +was suckered."</p> + +<p>Neale took his eyes for a moment from the field to look +around wonderingly at Atkins. He had never thought of him +before except with pity as an old exile, who couldn't play any +more. Could he really see all that in a play, see just what +every man had done? Atkins went on now, stiffening with his +concentration like a pointer dog. "There it goes again—see, +he's charging right on top of Mike. Just luck if he gets +the man—missed him! It was Tod who stopped the play. +Next time they hit the left side of our line, watch the way +Rogers handles it." Atkins bit savagely on a mouthful of +gum, "There!" He dug his finger nails into Neale's wrist. +Neale could see Rogers rock a second, undecided, on tip-toe; +side-step an interferer; and then shoot his body like a projectile +into the play. "Spilled 'em for a yard-and-a-half loss: +that's the stuff!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> + +<p>He looked around sharply at Neale. "If <i>you</i> could use your +head like that, you'd be worth something to the team."</p> + +<p>Neale stared at him, his young face candid with the astonishment +of feeling a brand-new idea inserting itself into his +mind. Maybe <i>that</i> was what was the matter with his game.</p> + +<p>He reached up, as he would have said, to the upper story, +and turned back to watch the game with new eyes, eyes +sharpened by intelligence. He concentrated on the back-field +defense and began for the first time to understand the inwardness +of it. He couldn't attain Atkins' hawk-like vision of the +play and what every man in the back field had done; but +he made out a great deal more than he ever had before.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Next Monday at practice Atkins came and stood behind +Neale (the bond-selling business never seemed to exist for +Atkins during football season). To Neale, as he played on +the scrub, Atkins poured out his accumulated tactical lore, +the wisdom that choked and strangled him because he was no +longer allowed to put it into action. Seizing on Neale, whom +he did not know personally at all, he forced his way into +Neale's attention and held it fiercely on the business of playing +football intelligently.</p> + +<p>"Have a look! Have a look! Secondary defense finds the +play before it stirs out of its tracks! No, you shouldn't have +tried a tackle that time," he yanked Neale to his feet, "they +were too bunched. I made just that break in the Princeton +game in '99 and I've never forgiven myself. If you'd spilled +the interference, your end would have got the runner. Watch +the ball! don't run in till you <i>know</i> where it is—and then <i>go +to it</i>! Sometimes you can tell by the back's eyes, give themselves +away by looking where they're going to go, but an old +hand will cross you on purpose. The knees are safer, mostly +they lean a little just before the ball goes back. Got to use +old head! Bill Morley himself couldn't stop a play if he +didn't know where it was. Ah! <i>that's</i> the stuff! That was +just right—not too soon or too late—and see how easy it +was!"</p> + +<p>Day after day the Wall Street bond-broker wrestled with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +Neale's latent acuteness and forced it into action. With +shame, with praise, with reproach and enthusiasm, he drew +out of Neale more than Neale had dreamed could be there. +If one—even one—of the teachers of English or Greek or +chemistry or economics had taught Neale as this semi-illiterate, +wealthy young barbarian taught him...! If Neale had +given even a tenth as much attention to any of his courses...!</p> + +<p>Neale clambered up over himself, raging with hope; up +over his first realization that there was infinitely more to +this problem than he had ever supposed; over his next, that +he did not know even the rudiments of the game he had +thought he knew so well; over his occasional glimmers of +understanding, why he failed sometimes and succeeded at other +times; over an increasing percentage of successes, and finally +stood, a little giddy with the new height, on the peak towards +which Atkins had urged him, where he waited clear-headed, +strong, confident, behind the tackle, hoping the next play would +come his way.</p> + +<p>The play did come his way. The Varsity tried out against +the scrub its new delayed pass from close formation. To the +left it worked very well. But when they tried it to the right, +Neale dropped Rogers for a loss, three times in succession. +The look on Atkins' face was glory.</p> + +<p>The next afternoon Neale was back on the Varsity and +Biffy on the scrub.</p> + +<p>There was a pang in his beatitude, a painful moment of +generous distress when Biffy came up to congratulate him. +The two hard-faced, frowsy-headed, gum-chewing young savages +gripped each other's hands in an inexpressive silence; and +each saw deep into the other's big heart as he was rarely, in +all his life thereafter, to look into any other human being's +inner chamber.</p> + +<p>Biffy carried it off splendidly, Neale thought, but he +couldn't fool a man who had just been there himself. He felt +sorry for Biffy. He remembered to be sorry for Biffy till the +whistle blew for the Annapolis game.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> + + +<p>After the Thanksgiving game, a great peace, a lying-fallow +time, a period of unconscious adjustment and assimilation of +all that mass of experience.</p> + +<p>Neale moved back to the Frat. house, rooming with Harry +Gregg, a classmate of his and a fine fellow, thought Neale, +even though not athletic. He and Gregg had chanced to take +much the same courses and were in the same class-rooms in +several subjects. After a preliminary stagger or two, like a +man coming indoors after living in the open, who cannot walk +across the room without tripping over the furniture, Neale's +mind settled down to his studies. He found them rather +more interesting than he had expected. A course in general +European history especially held him, and he gave much more +time to the outside reading prescribed than he would have +confessed to any member of his Frat. except Gregg, who took +it as a matter of course. He encountered some personalities +there who held him and about whom he often thought, big +figures who dwarfed the life around him when they stood up +beside his study table. Cromwell was one and Garibaldi another. +But they were not all soldiers. Wise old scouts like +Sully, Oxenstierna and Plombal who did the real work and +let the cloth-of-gold opera-tenor kings and potentates prance +around in the lime-light, they took Neale's fancy too. They +were the boys for him! He used to sit back and laugh to himself +to think how much more they must have enjoyed the real +exercise of their own strength than the silly sovereigns could +have enjoyed their silly lime-light. As for Henry IV and <i>his</i> +lady-loves, he reminded Neale so forcibly of Mike and his +lady-loves that he could never take that white-plumed monarch +seriously. Henry of Navarre made him laugh at Mike and +Mike made him laugh at Henry of Navarre, and over both<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +those hilarities Neale drew the decent veil of his calm, pipe-smoking +stolidity.</p> + +<p>One day browsing around in the Library, he saw the title +of one of the books Miss Austin had spoken of the summer +before, one of the books Neale had pretended to know and +had never heard of. He drew it out (it was "Richard Feveral"), +and read it, entranced, until early the next morning. +After that he looked up, one by one, all the books she had +mentioned, and read them, some with delight, some with blank +incomprehensiveness, some with scorn.</p> + +<p>He killed a lot of time discussing things in general with +Gregg, reading Gregg's books. He fell especially hard for a +worn volume of Poems and Ballads. For six weeks he was +convinced that Swinburne had said the last word, a blighting +word, on ethical values. Then one day he noticed that his +favorite credo, "From too much love of living, from hope and +fear set free" could be sung to the tune of the well-known, +extremely coarse and very unpoetical song called, "Some die +of drinking whiskey, some die of drinking beer," and it +occurred to him suddenly that when you thought about it, +both expressed the same philosophy. It was disgusting! +It wasn't argument—but just the same it somehow put a +crimp in Swinburne! He went back to his history and economics. +But you couldn't stew over your books all day +long; he drifted more or less with Billy Peters' innocuous, +evening-dress, dancing-fussing set.</p> + +<p>Outwardly he passed as a good fellow, a passable mixer +though rather silent. Inwardly he had given up his pose of +Horatian calm. It didn't work—not for him. He found +himself very much alone and friendless. The other men on +the football squad—well, they had been his blood-brothers +during the season, but after the season they were mostly illiterate +young rakes without a single mental spark even when +they were drunk. As for Pete Hilliard's crowd and their +small-town, back-alley ways of amusing themselves—hell! +Neale felt for them the amused scorn of the native-born great-city +dweller for the uneasy provincial who thinks he can hide +his provincialism best by assuming a boisterous nastiness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p> + +<p>For the first time Neale began to wonder about himself, +to wonder what sort of a human being he was anyway, that +he didn't seem to fit in really, with any crowd. There was +always so much of himself left over, shut out from companionship, +left in the dark, alone and silent, while with a little corner +of himself he danced and talked to girls, and drank and played +poker, and talked to Gregg; for there was an immense lot of +which he never spoke even to Gregg. For instance they never +talked about girls, and Neale was thinking a good deal about +girls. When he read love-poems his breath came and went +fast, he felt tingling all over. He longed to put out his +hand and open the door into the wonders and marvels that +lay beyond it. He drew back from the fear of failure, of +making a fool of himself at an unfamiliar game. But he +never feared that there was nothing beyond the door.</p> + +<p>At dances, sometimes he stood aloof, trying to look Byronic +to save himself from looking wistful, sometimes he danced +steadily, always with a calm exterior, beneath which weltered +a confused mass of bewildered uncertainties and longings that +rose choking to his very throat: and yet not a word of it +could he ever get out.</p> + +<p>What was it he was missing? Moody, out of humor with the +bright, warm May sunshine, he put the question to himself +as he sauntered aimlessly down the Library steps. Why, he +was missing everything that made life worth while! Was he +always to live alone with most of him hidden and silent? +Would he never find his crowd, or at least one other person, +to meet whom he could go forth, all of him, light and free, +without the ball and chain of his endless reticences? Other +fellows seemed to find something satisfying in life. Why not +he? Was it his fault, or life's, that he walked in inner blackness? +He was framing a sweeping indictment of life as he +passed the gate to South Field.</p> + +<p>Somebody ran out and grabbed him by the neck, a tall +Senior. "King's Crown playing the Deutscher Verein," he +explained. "Speed up and get in, Crit. Get your coat off. +Never mind your togs. You've got to catch next inning. +Purdy can't hold the ball if I put a hop on it, and the Dutchies<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +are swatting my slow curve. There you go, that's the third +out. Get busy. Give me one finger for a fast one; two for +an out; and the closed fist for the drop."</p> + +<p>The pessimistic philosopher, exiled to eternal solitude, shed +coat and collar, put on mask and mitt. A ball, a strike, a +high foul. As he sprinted behind the back-stop to get under it, +Neale sloughed off the parched skin of introspection. From +that time on, he forgot everything but the game. He rattled +off encouragement to the pitcher, "Keep workin', old man +<i>that</i>-a-boy, make him hit it! Got him swinging wild!" +He improvised wild flights of kidding to get the goat of one batter +after another.</p> + +<p>After the game when he and his pitcher were shaking hands +and grinning at each other, he became aware of Berkley and +Berkley's girl. What was her name? He'd met her at the +Junior Ball—oh, yes, Miss Wentworth. They stopped to +congratulate him. Neale was conscious, wretchedly, unphilosophically +conscious of a very dirty face, a more than dirty +shirt—and torn trousers. But Miss Wentworth didn't seem +to notice. Perhaps she was a good sport. It was conceivable +that a girl might be. She made a sensible comment +on the double play which had saved the game in the eighth. +Why, she was intelligent as well as good-looking. Neale fell +into step, forgetting his disheveled looks, and walked along +to the drug-store at 120th Street, where they all had sodas.</p> + +<p>He met her again that spring, in the waiting-room of the +125th Street station, of all prosaic places! He had stopped in +for a time-table to see about getting up to West Adams and +she was evidently waiting for a train. He touched his cap. +She smiled. He stopped to pass the time of day, "Vacation's +almost here," he said.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do with it?" she inquired.</p> + +<p>He hesitated. She wouldn't understand. But he was never +very good on quick bluffs, and so said briefly, "I've got to +learn to kick this summer—to kick a football, I mean. I—I +play football a little."</p> + +<p>She threw back her head and laughed, "Oh, you needn't +explain. I know you play. I'm a regular fan. I haven't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +missed a home game in three years, and I read the athletic +news. McAlpine graduates, so does Johnstone. There's nobody +left at Columbia who can punt. So you're to learn! +More power to you. I'll come and root for you next +autumn."</p> + +<p>He took, with him to West Adams a mental picture of a +strong, capable body in a shirt-waist and golf-skirt, fluffy +yellow hair, smiling lips, laughing, honest, blue eyes.</p> + +<p>He carried also what was more tangible and important in +his summer plans, a worn brown football, the center of many +an afternoon's battle between scrub and Varsity. As soon as +he was installed at West Adams he went to work. The spare, +thin grass on the upper meadow had been cut. There, a good +mile Neale jogged every day, and there, all the morning, he +practised punting: booting the ball high and far, racing down, +trying to get to it while it was still bounding; then kicking +it back again, experimenting with different ways of holding +it. He always kicked at some target. "I'll drop that on +the stone pile," he would say to himself, and before he +kicked again, he would try to analyze success and failures. +He no longer needed an Atkins to spur him to use his brains. +By eleven o'clock, pretty well fagged-out, he would jog down +again, take a plunge in the inlet above the mill pond, where no +one could see him for the thick growth of alders, and come in +to luncheon at noon, cool and ravenous.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon he worked at the mill, or lay round and +read. He had brought a lot of books up from college in his +trunk, but nothing seemed to fit his present serious régime +as well as Emerson. After much running after false prophets +the clear, brutal sanity of the Essays was as refreshing and +tonic as the plunge into the icy, clear water of the inlet. He +found in them too, what had escaped him at the first reading, +an austere sonority in the best passages. "Let those fear who +will. The soul is in her native realm, and it is wider than +space, older than time, wide as hope, rich as love. Pusillanimity +and fear she refuses with a beautiful scorn. They are +not for her who putteth on her coronation robe and goeth out +through universal love to universal power." He rolled it under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +his tongue. It beat about his ears like the low, dignified threat +of distant thunder.</p> + +<p>One Saturday in August, a little before his twentieth birthday, +something happened which cast a long ray of light back +on Neale's life. It began by the great surprise of seeing +Father and Mother drive up to the house in a buggy from +the village livery-stable.</p> + +<p>It was perfectly evident from the moment they set foot in +the house that there was something in the air, but being a +Crittenden, Neale's father was in no haste to say what it was, +and waited to explode his bomb-shell till dessert time, as they +were eating the peaches and fruit-cake which Grandmother +served to honor their arrival. Then it came out.</p> + +<p>"We've been doing a pretty big business in cabinet woods +lately," Father began, looking at no one in particular. "Cocobolo, +rosewood, lignum vitæ, mahogany. The selling end is +all right but it's a job to get the stuff delivered. The firm +has made up its mind that it will pay to send a man through +the West Indies and Central America to look the production +end over, get options, sign contracts for regular yearly delivery. +There's a big territory to cover, the field goes as far +south as Brazil—it'll take a couple of years at least, maybe +three or four. I'm telling you all this because they've offered +the job to me, and Mother and I have about decided to accept."</p> + +<p>Mother looked hard at Neale as Father announced this, and +they both waited to see what he would say. Neale was so astonished +at the idea of his stationary father and mother being +anywhere but in the house on Union Hill, that he found nothing +to say for a moment, staring at them. Then he said +(it was the first thing that came into his head), "But what +will you do with the house? All those things?"</p> + +<p>Mother said eagerly, "Oh, we could rent it furnished. We +already have a good offer for it."</p> + +<p>"Well, what do you think about that!" exclaimed Neale in +a stupid astonishment at the idea that somebody else could +live in their house.</p> + +<p>He went on eating his peaches and thinking about it in +silence since he saw no reason why his opinion on the subject<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +was of any interest to anybody. It did not dawn on him till +afterwards, when he and Father took a stroll along the mill-brook +that Father and Mother wanted to <i>know</i> how he felt +about it, and would not do it if he very much disliked the idea +of having no home nearby. This astonishing fact became +apparent to him along with another matter even more astonishing, +that apparently the Union Hill house had been arranged +largely for his benefit, so that he could have the stability +of a home atmosphere.</p> + +<p>"We always wanted to roam, rather," explained his father +casually, "we were pretty young when we married. Your +mother was only twenty and I was twenty-four. We had talked +a good deal of cutting loose and seeing the world. But—well, +you were born the first year afterwards, and we thought +probably there would be other children. It seemed better to +put it off, settle down till we had raised our family—though +you turned out to be the only one."</p> + +<p>In the twilight of the maples, Neale was doing some thinking. +Mother had been <i>married</i> when she was his age; with +all her life before her, and she'd never had a bit of it till +now; only Union Hill and more Union Hill. And Father, +too.... He murmured something muffled and inarticulate, +which made no particular sense to the ear, but which Father +understood, and answered with some vehemence, "No, Great +Scott, <i>no</i>, Neale! Don't think that! Heavens, no! I didn't +mean we'd sacrificed anything for you—we just got into a +rut, the way people do, and stayed there so long we began +to think we couldn't get out and now when this opportunity +comes, your mother wanted to make <i>sure</i> it's all right with +you, that's all! Your mother and I, you've been a great comfort +to us. We don't want...."</p> + +<p>He was almost as muffled and inarticulate as Neale, but +Neale understood him, and reaching for his hand, gave it a hard +grip. He did not try to say anything now. The two men, +silent under the old maples that had sheltered their childhood, +exchanged a quick glance of understanding and affection, +nearer to each other now, at the moment of parting than ever +before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then they went back to the house, silent as Iroquois, and +Neale went in to where his mother was playing dreamily on the +old piano, to tell her bluntly that he would not in the least +mind their leaving Union Hill, since he could be at home very +little in any case during his Senior year.</p> + +<p>She turned around on the piano stool to listen to his sober +statement, and to look at the great fellow, towering up over +her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you're grown up now, Neale, aren't you?" she said +faintly, putting a hand out towards him and he knew he had +hurt her by his bluntness. And yet it was the truth he told +her, and also what she wanted to hear. He could not take +it back. But he did stoop to her and take her in his big +arms for a little-boy hug.</p> + +<p>Father came in then and they lighted the lamp and tried +to talk a little about what Neale was going to do to earn his +living when he graduated. They had often tried to talk of +that. But they never got very far, and no farther this time +than any other. Neale had no ideas on the subject, and being +Neale, he would not imaginatively play up to what was expected +of him, and say he had. No, he did not feel that he +would like to be a doctor. No, certainly not a lawyer! He +wouldn't mind engineering, but the old grads in his Frat. who +were engineers seemed to have a way of turning up, out of a +job every once in so often. He didn't think much of a profession +where you were so entirely at the mercy of people with +money. It was too much like being a turtle that had to wait +for somebody to turn it over before it could go on its way. +Father looked at him rather queerly and remarked that he'd +find it difficult to get any work in the modern world, where he +wouldn't be at the mercy of people with money.</p> + +<p>Neale said, he thought very pertinently, "Grandfather never +has been."</p> + +<p>Father looked as though he considered this mere arguing for +the sake of arguing, and said something drily, looking around +at the plain, old countrified room, about Neale's not being +willing to live as his grandfather had, two generations ago.</p> + +<p>The upshot of the talk was, as it always was, that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +agreed once more to let things run on and perhaps something +would turn up.</p> + +<p>The next morning Father and Mother went back to New +York, to finish the preparations for their adventure. Mother +cried a little when she kissed Neale good-by, but Grandmother +kissed her son without a quiver, though she clung to Grandfather's +arm. She and Grandfather and Neale and old Si +and Jennie stood in the front yard looking after the carriage. +It was almost like seeing a newly married pair go off after the +wedding. Neale's mother kept turning to look back at them, +her April face like a bride's, colored through tears by excitement +and anticipation. Neale stood up, taller than his +tall old grandfather now, broad, massive, his tanned face +like a man's. But, to his amazement, there awoke in his +heart for the last time, a little boy, a little boy who was +frightened and grieved at being left alone.</p> + +<p>Half-way down the hill, the carriage stopped and they +saw Neale's mother spring out and run back up the hill, beckoning +to Neale.</p> + +<p>"Forgot something," conjectured Grandfather.</p> + +<p>Neale bounded down towards her. They met half-way +between the carriage and the house. Mother's face was still +wet with her tears but she was not crying now. A glory +was on her tremulous face. Neale never forgot how she looked +at that moment.</p> + +<p>There was something she was trying to tell him and although +all she could bring out, as she took his big hands in +hers was, "Neale, dear, dear Neale," she knew by the look +on his face that she had told him.</p> + +<p>The little boy in Neale's heart, appeased, consoled, comforted, +melted away forever, without bitterness, without regrets. +The over-grown young man looked down at his mother, with an +absolute trust in her love, and a robust confidence in himself. +"I'll be all right, Mother dear," he told her heartily, +meaning a great deal more than he said.</p> + +<p>Then she went back to her husband, and Neale went back +to his punting.</p> + +<p>As he ran furiously after the ball, reeking with sweat under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +the brazen August sun, it came to him suddenly, so that he +stopped short for an instant to think of it, wonderingly, that +he had never seen his father and mother look at each other, +except with affection. And besides this old, old knowledge +which had hung there so long he had never seen it before, +there was a new picture ... the animation and excitement +on their faces, as they talked of their setting off together for +distant travels, the gaiety of Mother's laugh, as they told of the +fun they were having to make ready for the unknown, to get +the right clothes, to learn Spanish.... "I've been on the +point of buying a mantilla," she had said. "Don't you think I +would look well in a mantilla, Neale?"</p> + +<p>Mother had never seemed half as young to Neale as now. +She must have been an awfully nice girl, he thought, going +soberly to recover his ball.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> + + +<p>Although he had of late seen very little of home, and had +occasionally felt irked to know that his parents expected him +to make a semi-regular appearance there, Neale found New +York rather queer and empty at first with no background +whatever but the football house.</p> + +<p>He encountered something of the same queer, gone feeling +as he lined up in the first game of the season, with all of +the trusted Old Guard disappeared, with no Tod McAlpine +beside him, on whom to leave the responsibility for the outcome +of events. Of all the old supermen in whom he had put his +trust, only Marshall the Captain was still there, at right guard. +Things looked black to Neale. Such raw beginners could +never hold together against any seasoned team.</p> + +<p>And yet they did. Week after week of the early season, +they registered victory after victory; never with sensational +scores, but with steady defense that kept their goal line uncrossed, +with drive enough to punch out a touch-down of their +own. It came to Neale slowly that this was no kid team after +all. It had about the usual proportion of seasoned players and +recruits; only now he was one of the old timers. It came to +him also that Bunny Edwards the Soph quarter was obviously +trusting in him as he used to trust in Tod McAlpine. At +first it was horrifying to Neale to have some one depending +on <i>him</i>! He had all he could do to stand up under his own +responsibility, heavy on his own shoulders for the first time. +Presently he realized that possibly Tod McAlpine had had +his own secret misgivings too, in the days when Neale depended +on him. It was by no means wholly physical and muscular, +the hardening and maturing that went on in Neale, those first +weeks of his last football season.</p> + +<p>This deepening of his sense of responsibility deepened his +capacity for emotion along with the rest of his personality.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> +The other Seniors, even good old Gregg theorizing and spinning +talk about things he'd read in books, seemed off in another +world to Neale, a light, bright, boyish, somewhat foolishly +unreal, although very care-free world. But although he +sometimes groaned at the fierce, stark suffering which was +the inevitable penalty of caring so fiercely and starkly about +anything as he cared about football, he did not envy Gregg +and the other outsiders. Envy them? Heavens, no! They +were playing at life; he was living!</p> + +<p>Yes, he was living and at a higher emotional pitch than +he had ever known. He did not think of himself as an individual. +He was flesh of one flesh, bone of one bone with his teammates. +Once in the Amherst game a smash into the line had +piled up without gain. The heaped mass of legs and bodies +squirmed itself apart, friends and enemies crawled to their +position. All but one, and that was the big Slav tackle, who +lay limp and white as if dead.</p> + +<p>"Time out!"</p> + +<p>Neale flung himself against Fate. He fell on his knees beside +the prostrate man, and took the bullet head into his arms. +"Mike," he pleaded. "Not now! <i>We need you, Mike!</i>" +Like a mother with a baby lying between life and death, he +hung over that coarse, bruised face. All the love he had ever +felt for any one seemed shallow compared to his yearning over +this debauched, foul-mouthed, hairy boozer.</p> + +<p>He could have kissed the ugly blue mug as the eyelids flickered, +the color came back, and the giant rolled to his feet and +lumbered back into the line.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The season rolled along. The luck seemed finally to have +changed. They were almost through, with the best record in +years. Then two days before the final game, Marshall the +Captain broke a bone in his foot. The faces of the team +were grave (all but that of Dodd, the sub thus let into the +Varsity) as they gathered in the dressing-room before the +game. The coach looked them over, casting about for the +right note, and had the inspiration to lay by his usual impassioned, +florid appeal.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nicholson will play center," he began, his plain, heavy +words like iron; "Burke and Dodd guards; Mike and Larsen +tackles; Greenway and Huggins, ends; Edwards quarter. +Crittenden and Wallace halves; Bascomb full-back. Crittenden +will act as Captain." He looked full at Crittenden, "It's +the last time you'll wear the blue and white, Neale Crittenden!"</p> + +<p>Neale throbbed like a great brazen bell, struck by the +hammer.</p> + +<p>Andrews turned his eyes on the team and made the rest +of his speech short and hard.</p> + +<p>"Boys, it's easy to lose and it's hard to win. Don't be +fooled by the rooters saying you made a game fight. What +<i>would</i> you do? Run away? Take it from me, there's a +time in every game when either team can win. It's the team +that has the sand, that's got the guts to put in an extra pound +<i>right then</i>, that wins! I'm not telling you this Cornell team +is easy. They're damned hard. But you've got weight +enough, you've got speed enough, you know football enough. +Now you go out there on the field, and show me you've got +guts enough to win!"</p> + +<p>With set jaws and grim, resolute hearts, the team, Neale at +their head, trotted out on the gridiron. "It's the last time +you'll wear the blue and white, Neale Crittenden!" He was +clanging to that note.</p> + +<p>They were lucky to get through the first half with a clean +slate. Cornell came fast and hard, but time after time they +held them and punted out of danger. The ten minutes' intermission +seemed to last barely ten seconds and they were at +it again, dead-locked, swaying from one forty-yard line to +another. "Looks like a tie-game, barring a fluke," thought +Neale, and then with an angry throb of alarm, "By God, I +believe we're letting up! Here's where we put in that extra +pound!"</p> + +<p>"Six, n-int-e-e-n-f-o-r-t-y-f-i-v-e!" the quarter was droning. +"No!" cried Neale, "Change that! Four-seven-two-eight!" +It was his own straight buck, and he went into the line with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +a headlong hurdle. "I'll give the signals for a play or two, +Bunny," he called to the quarter as they lined up again, +"Seven-fourteen-thirty-three," he barked and took the ball +on a cross buck, rolling and plunging for four yards, "Three-seven-nine-four." +Again he started on the cross buck, bluffed +at receiving the ball, hit the defense head down, yelling, "Help +me!" and just as he fell saw Wallace skirting outside of tackle +with the delayed pass, stiff-arming the end, shaking off the +defensive quarter and on for a good ten yards. As he got up, +Neale grabbed Edwards round the neck and whispered, with +lips close to his ear, "We've got 'em started, Bunny! You +run the plays now. Get the idea? Shoot 'em outside, till +they open up, then plug Billy and Mike through the guards. +Keep mixing 'em up, and speed, <i>speed</i>!"</p> + +<p>Bunny got the idea. He snapped out his signals, and shot +his offense like a boxer hammering a groggy opponent. With +Mike back, he ran Neale and Wallace outside, inside, across, on +the weak side: then suddenly dropped back to straight battering-ram +football, and sent Mike at the apex of a straining, +stamping tandem, straight through and over the defense to the +fifteen yard line. The team was crazy with success—prancing +like stallions. "Come on, boys!" Neale went a yard on +a straight buck, dug his toe-cleats in as he fell, plunged and +squirmed for another yard and a half. Wallace shot through +a quick opening for three. With Larsen back and first down, +Billy sheered off inside for a couple of yards, the Swede got +another two straight ahead, Mike running from position made +only a bare yard, but enough!</p> + +<p>"First down, to the line to go!" said the referee. Neale +heard his signal. "Damn the torpedoes, go ahead!" he +thought. He flew at the line, bone and muscle transfigured +by flaming will—a hard body dove against his knees—he +staggered, leaned forward, churned his knees up and down +a tenth of a second that seemed to drag for an hour, forward +he staggered, strained forward, then fell. When the mass got +off him he found he had got to the two-yard line. "Give it to +me again!" he whispered, passing Bunny.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span></p> + +<p>Larsen stuck his blonde head close up to theirs, "For Christ's +sake, let <i>me</i> take it! It's my last game. I won't play no +more after to-day!"</p> + +<p>"Neither will I," thought Neale, but he nodded and they +lined up with Larsen back.</p> + +<p>"Look out for a funny one," cried the Cornell quarter, as +the signals began. "Cap and quarter had a consultation—"</p> + +<p>As the center's fingers contracted for the snap-back, Neale +shot out of his tracks, and crashed into the defensive half. +"Got him flat-footed," he thought, remembering as they both +went down to swing his feet wide in the hope of getting the +defensive quarter as well. He rolled clear at once, and looked +back to see if he could be of any help. It wasn't necessary. +Practically all the two teams were heaped in a human haystack, +from the base of which emerged a grinning blonde face. Under +the face were two huge hands some six inches over the line, +clutching the ball, on which emotional Swedish eyes were +weeping beatific tears.</p> + +<p>Neale kicked a fairly easy goal. The trainer let him suck +a little water from a sponge, whispering out of the corner of +his motionless mouth, "Andy says minute and a half to play. +Hold the ball and line up slow!"</p> + +<p>But the team had tasted too much blood to stall. They +went down on the kick-off like a pack of wolf-hounds. They +smashed two plays for a loss, and after a punt, they punched +the ball to midfield before the whistle blew and the game +was over.</p> + +<p>Nicholson tossed the ball to Neale. "Here's your ball, +Cap!"</p> + +<p>Neale saw Mike Blahoslav kissing Bunny Edwards. He +himself was hugging Gus Larsen, when the pandemonium from +the grand-stand struck them. He was lifted on a platform +of shoulders and carried to the gate surrounded by a cheering, +singing, crazy mob of rooters.</p> + +<p>"That's so," he thought, "there <i>was</i> a crowd looking on!" +He had not thought of the bleachers, or heard a cheer since +the second half began.</p> + +<p>They packed into the 'bus, Varsity inside, scrub on top.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> +The 'bus went off at a gallop. For a few blocks the rooters ran +along, throwing cigarettes and cigars through the windows. +Neale leaned back and luxuriously lit a cigar. He had been +thinking about that first cigar for the last month. Oh, faugh! +It tasted hot and dry and burned his mouth. No matter! +He threw it away and leaned back in a golden reverie.</p> + +<p>Would he ever again know such blessed unalloyed content?</p> + +<p>Probably not.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> + + +<p>The end of the football season was a door slammed in +Neale's face forever. He had given four years of his life to +football, flung them joyfully and proudly to feed the sacred +flame. Now for the rest of his life, he was to be shut out +from the temple of the only religion which had as yet been +offered him. For the rest of his life—he was no post-mortem +Atkins to hang enviously and piteously about watching other +men doing the real thing.</p> + +<p>Neale did not find this realization tragic, because it seemed +to him that it was the common lot, and he had a poor opinion +of those who cry out melodramatically against the common +lot. The thing to do was to accept the common lot without +undignified comment. So he did not give a Latin groan, nor +cry out a Russian curse on Destiny, when he woke to the knowledge +that the aim of his life had been taken away, that he +had lived the last of his Homer. He set his jaw and began +to try to adjust himself to the life without any goal which +he was henceforth to share with the rest of the under-graduates.</p> + +<p>But the days seemed very long and empty, none the less, +in spite of his grim refusal to complain.</p> + +<p>Into the middle of one of these empty days dropped a note +from Miss Wentworth: "Dear Mr. Crittenden: Now that you +can stoop to earthly affairs, won't you go Palisading with a +party of us next Saturday? <i>Please say yes.</i> We take the +9 o'clock boat from 125th St."</p> + +<p>The first thing he noted next Saturday was that Berkley +was not of the party. He still thought of Miss Wentworth +as "Berkley's girl," and he was annoyed at the pleasure he +felt in finding her unpre-empted. The second thing was that +she never did anything to block his manœuvering to break up +group formation and string out the party two by two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>—Neale +and Miss Wentworth being the important two. But +that might very well be only because she wanted to talk +football. She had seen all the home games, knew the players' +names, and for a girl, remembered an astonishing number of the +more spectacular plays. The morning passed quickly. At +noon they huddled around their camp-fire on the edge of the +cliffs, ate broiled bacon sandwiches and drank coffee. Then +they started back. On the last stretch of the road when the +other girls began to tire, Miss Wentworth still swung along +unflagging, and Neale saw to it that he was by her side. They +ran out of athletic reminiscences. She ventured hesitatingly +on books and her uncertain face cleared when Neale chimed +in enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"She's surprised to find a football man who's got beyond +Munsey's," thought Neale. No, he hadn't read "The Egoist," +but "Richard Feverel" was <i>great</i>! And wasn't "Harry Richmond" +a racy, crazy sort of tale? Did she know "The Second +Mrs. Tanqueray?" He grinned internally with an amused +cynicism, remembering for whom he had crammed up on this +line. But he felt a difference. When she spoke about Henry +James, he admitted frankly that he'd never heard of him. +There was an honest quality about Miss Wentworth that made +it seem underhanded and unnecessary to bluff.</p> + +<p>Silent they stopped where the road pitches steeply down +to the river. Speech seemed impertinent when the Hudson +lay below, vast and mystic in the early-falling December +dusk.</p> + +<p>Then the rest of the party came up, shrieking out, "Oh, +didn't he <i>r-a-m-ble</i>!" Neale saw Miss Wentworth home to the +door of her apartment house, 114th Street, just off the Drive. +He noted the number of the apartment. And found it again +a good many times in the months to come.</p> + +<p>There were other things which helped fill the void left +by football. One of these, quaintly enough, was class-work! +Many electives were open to Seniors. Neale had chosen +rather at random; Philosophy, Ethics, Anthropology, English +Lit. and Modern History. There was really nothing whatever +to do now with his time except study, and to his surprise,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +those courses which had been but names printed in the catalogue, +turned out very much alive once Neale began to put +his mind on them.</p> + +<p>Another interest was what he called with pretended scorn, +"Gregg's gab-fests." It amused Neale to poke fun at Gregg's +pretensions to being an intellectual, but he liked and admired +his room-mate none the less. Their room came to be the +favorite loafing-place of all the speculatively minded of their +acquaintance, and Neale was surprised to find how many there +were of them, who liked, as much as he and Gregg to discuss +"things in general."</p> + +<p>Every Friday evening, unless there was a dance or an athletic +contest, from ten to two A.M. some of the Gang would +haunt the Den, lolling in the shabby, easy chairs and on the +beds, smoking pipes, drinking beer and spouting out all they +knew of modern thought. In theory the meeting was open to +all shades of opinion, but the boys were without exception +filled with the painless misanthropy of youth, afraid of nothing +except appearing priggish (by which they, like many other +people, meant reasonably clean-mouthed), carelessly ready to +agree to any sweeping indictment of mankind; this, although +their youth and gloriously perfect digestions made them serenely +confident that their own little rafts would eventually +drift to a smiling harbor in the country of easy money and +orange blossoms.</p> + +<p>They took their pessimism, as they did their beer, in great +undiscriminating gulps, which affected their healthy organisms +no more than the blowing of the wind. With it they drugged +their bodies, swigging away heartily at both narcotics till +at last they dropped to insensibility, only to crawl out from +under the table the next morning, their young eyes invincibly +bright, their breaths sweet, their stomachs indomitably craving +good food, finding the honest winter sunshine flooding in at +the windows, in no way incompatible with the flat, stale beer +and stinking cigar-butts left from the night before. An adult +might have drunk of the bitter waters of disillusion with more +caution, have carried his load of pessimism with less outward +unsteadiness, but later on, what dead pussy-cat fur upon his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> +tongue, what a sick loathing for wholesome fare! But these +gilded youth swilled down each his kegful of Nietzsche and +turned with equal zest to handfuls of gum-drops like "The +Cardinal's Snuff-box."</p> + +<p>As for Neale, he joined in the discussions as briskly as any, +but with reservations. He never quoted or mentioned Emerson, +although he thought of him a great deal. He never +discussed anything or any one he really cared a snap about. +In occasional moments of insight (which came to him because +he talked less babblingly than the others and listened more) +he suspected that all the other slashing young radicals and +iconoclasts might also be holding back secret articles of faith +from defilement.</p> + +<p>One element in his life that he never mentioned to the Gang, +was the amount of time he was spending with Miss Wentworth. +He had called on her one evening shortly after the Palisading +trip, alleging as an excuse that he owed her a dinner call for the +picnic lunch she had provided. He had called several times +since then, with no excuse at all. He had been one of her +box-party at "Candida" and somewhat over-paid his debt by +taking her to "Out of the Wilderness," and Barnum and +Bailey's circus. He had dined several times at the Wentworth +apartment, discussed the Republican Party with her quiet, +widowed, impressive father, and had learned to leave him in +peace with his Evening Post after dinner. Miss Wentworth +kept up on her college athletics, and Neale took her to the +Basket-ball games, the Dual Gym. Meet with Yale, the Hockey +games, the Indoor Track Meet at the 69th Regiment Armory. +She had a great passion for walking, so they walked in the +afternoons along Riverside Drive, in Central Park, along the +driveway by Fort Washington Point. By the time the ice +had broken up in the spring, Neale had discovered two things: +first that Miss Wentworth was not like any other girl he knew, +she didn't flirt, wasn't piqued if he was silent, he felt no impulse +to bluff or play-act before her, she was more like another +fellow than a girl—only a very much more attractive +fellow than he had ever met. The secondary discovery, which +alarmed as well as thrilled him, was that if three days passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> +without his seeing her, he found himself missing her very +much indeed.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the mid-years were long past, spring almost at +hand, the tongues of the Gang, after all the winter's practice, +wagged more freely than ever. The first Friday in April, Elliott +came in, pulling from the deep pocket of his rain-coat, a +bag of limes and a bottle of gin, and announcing something +better than beer for that evening.</p> + +<p>"It's up to you, kid," Neale ordered Robertson, the Soph., +whom they tolerated because his self-important airs amused +them, "you're the youngest. Beat it to the drug-store and +bring back as many siphons as you can carry."</p> + +<p>After the rickeys were mixed, the cheese cut, the cracker-tin +set out, the tongues began to clack, and the resounding generalities +to unroll themselves before the fresh gaze of those +young eyes, dazzled by the brilliance of their explorations into +the nature of things. Elliott was saying wisely, "Laws? +Everybody knows that laws are a conspiracy among mediocrities +to keep the strong from taking too much property." +He let this soak in and went on, "And moral systems are +similar conspiracies to prevent monopolies of less tangible +things." Elliott delighted in polysyllables, which he did not as +yet always handle with entire accuracy. Gregg, who did not +like either polysyllables or Elliott, commented on this, "What +book did you get that out of? And what's the moral?"</p> + +<p>"The moral is, that morals are a sham. Man obeys the +law only because he is afraid of the herd-majority. But a +free spirit doesn't mind the criticism of mediocrities, he glories +in it."</p> + +<p>"So he feels all right, does he?" asked Gregg, "when he +clears out to Canada with the contents of the safe, or his +best friend's wife. As a matter of fact, he feels like a dirty +dog."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but that is just force of habit, race-superstition, cowardice +before convention."</p> + +<p>"Shucks! You fellows are on the wrong track," broke in +Brown, "all man really cares about is his three meals a day. +That's what makes the world go round! When the cave-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>man's +wife was stolen, he went on the warpath for the same +reason a cowboy lynches a horse-thief, because he can't afford +to lose valuable property. Now the modern woman is no +longer an asset, but a liability...." He paused, so filled with +admiration for his own metaphor struck out in the heat of +discussion, that he could not go on. Great Cæsar's ghost! +That wasn't so bad! He'd have to remember that in the +next theme he wrote.</p> + +<p>Gregg was disposing of him sardonically, "Oh, yes, we know +Brown's soaking up the economic interpretation of history like +a sponge. Have a mind of your own, Brown. You don't +have to believe all your Prof. tells you. What do <i>you</i> think, +Crit?"</p> + +<p>Neale sailed cautiously a little nearer his real thought than +he usually ventured, with the casual comment, "Well, there +do seem to be some things a man can't bring himself to do, +no matter how much he wants to. I wonder if maybe it isn't +just inherited race-experience warning us off from what's bad +for man in the long run."</p> + +<p>Brown came back for revenge, "Oh, yes, we know the rest, +what's that but the anthropology course? Have a mind of +your own!"</p> + +<p>"As a matter of fact, pleasure's the only motive," Elliott laid +down the final dictum. "Every time you do something you +do it because you'd rather. If you didn't, you'd do something +else."</p> + +<p>Some one brought out another profundity deep enough +to match this, affirming, "Oh, of course, everything's relative!"</p> + +<p>And this was still so new an aphorism to them, that they +let it alone, the party breaking up over a last round of weak +rickeys squeezed from the bottle.</p> + +<p>Neale waited till he saw Gregg deep in "Venice Preserved"; +then he opened a small volume, and shielding it from any +random glances of his room-mate, began reading, "The Last +Ride Together."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXX</h2> + + +<p>The two had passed a long evening together. Miss Wentworth's +father was attending the annual banquet of the American +Philological Association and the young people, left to +themselves, had dined downtown at the Lafayette. It was +their first meal alone together, all the more intimately alone +because of the shifting crowd of strangers about them. How +natural it had seemed to look across the table and see Miss +Wentworth there! As natural as though he could look forward +to an endless succession of days together; yet so tinged with +romance that even the banalities of their small-talk had vibrated +with emotional significance.</p> + +<p>When dessert and coffee and Neale's cigar could be dragged +out no longer, they had strolled side by side up deserted lower +Fifth Avenue.</p> + +<p>Now they were standing silent, watching the periodical +rise and fall of the gushing fountain in Madison Square. At +first the pool lay quiet; then the surface was troubled; then +swelling, mounting, the jet of water burst through and shot +upward, to sink again, leaving only waning ripples behind it. +It made the young man think of a great many things, which +were none the less moving and poignant to him because they +have moved every thoughtful human being since the beginning +of time. As he looked gravely down on the pulsations +of the gleaming water, it symbolized to him the rhythm of +the universe; the recurrent rhythm of the generations—human +life with its one little spurt of youth and glory sinking so soon, +so fatally soon to the sterile, routine movements of age. But +when he spoke, his voice was as casually off-hand as ever.</p> + +<p>"There's a fountain in Rome," he said, "where, if you throw +a coin in, you're sure to come back to it. I wonder if it would +work with this one!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't know you'd ever been in Rome."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I haven't. I got that out of Crawford's 'Ave Roma.'"</p> + +<p>"What makes you so anxious to come back to Madison +Square?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not. I'd rather find a fountain that would send me +round the world. But there isn't much chance of that, and +I thought if you'd throw one in too—both at the same time, +you know—it might fix things so that we'd come back together."</p> + +<p>She gave him a steady, thoughtful look, took a penny out +of her purse. "All ready, go!"</p> + +<p>The two coins splashed into the pool. "I hope there will +be as lovely a moon then as there is to-night," she said.</p> + +<p>"I wonder," thought Neale, "just how much she meant by +that."</p> + +<p>When Neale got back to his room, the Gang was not there +in full force, only Robertson, the knowing little Soph. and +Gregg, drinking beer and smoking their pipes. Neale kept +back a grimace of distaste at seeing Robertson, his broad +boy's face set in its usual expression of solemn, self-conscious +wiseness in the ways of the world. The rest of the Gang found +Robertson comic and enjoyed having him around to laugh +at, as many people enjoy a visit to the monkey-house in a zoo, +and see nothing but the comic in the humanness of simian +antics. But he disquieted Neale to his very soul, as another +set of people are disquieted and troubled by a visit to the +monkey-house and see nothing to laugh at in simian antics.</p> + +<p>One evening of little Robertson and his loud-proclaimed +disillusion with the world and the human race moved the rest +of the Gang to delighted howls of laughter for days afterwards; +but though Neale laughed with the rest (nobody could help +laughing at Robertson, he was such an owl!), it rather took +the shine off Schopenhauer and pessimism, and that was a +real privation for a Senior.</p> + +<p>As he came in, Gregg was quoting,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"But sweet as the rind was, the core is;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">We are fain of thee still, we are fain,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">O sanguine and subtle Dolores,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Our Lady of Pain."<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>Neale lifted a stein from its hook, poured it full from the +pitcher and took a long drink.</p> + +<p>"Go ahead, Johnny," he said, "sounds lovely—like any +other fairy tale."</p> + +<p>"Fairy tale!" cried little Robertson. "Fairy tale, you blue-nosed +Puritan! That's all <i>you</i> know. You've been neglecting +your opportunities."</p> + +<p>Neale answered sharply, "Puritan be damned! I'm no +Earl Hall Christer! I know Swinburne enough sight better +than you do."</p> + +<p>At the sight of Robertson's round eyes goggling at him +under his bulging forehead, he was amused at his own annoyance, +and taking another drink went on indifferently, "All I'm +saying is, maybe prostitution was a dainty art in Ancient +Greece, or maybe Swinburne knew some high class practitioners, +but here in New York, on the Heights—maybe the +thought of Becky Blumenthal without her shimmy gives you +an æsthetic thrill, but if it does, you've got a stronger stomach +than I have. Take it from me, kid, if you want any poetry +out of all that, you'd better stick to Swinburne."</p> + +<p>"Yep," agreed Gregg, "I'm with you, Crit. I don't like +the professionals. They're a mercenary crew. They're 'out +for the stuff, and if you ain't got enough, biff, kerslap, out you +go!' Why doesn't some gay little lady just looking for a +good time give us the high sign, the way they do in books. +Does she? She does not!"</p> + +<p>The subject of the discussion pleased Robertson immensely, +of course, but he was outraged at the middle-class narrowness +of his elders' views. He got up languidly, put on his cap, +and standing by the door, pronounced judgment.</p> + +<p>"All women," said little Robertson the Soph., "belong to +the Trade, more or less, in one way or the other. I won't +go so far as to say that every woman has her price, only <i>I</i> +have never met one who hadn't!"</p> + +<p>Neale and Gregg gazed at him spell-bound. He turned +away, calling airily over his shoulder, "Well, ta! ta! A May +night's no time for debates. I'm going out for a stroll on +Morningside to prove my theory."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p> + +<p>After they had had their laugh out, Gregg said, "Doesn't he +think he's a heller?"</p> + +<p>"Wants <i>us</i> to think so," grunted Neale. "Where's all the +Gang?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, some of them are boning for the exams, and some +are chasing chippies, and Billy Peters is off on some of his +usual footless fussing. Been calling on a girl all winter and +I don't believe he's even had his arm around her yet, except +at dances. The kid!"</p> + +<p>Neale filled his pipe, held the match over it and puffed +gently until the tobacco glowed an even red all over the +top. What would Gregg say, he wondered, to his attitude towards +Miss Wentworth? And Gregg himself! Neale knew +perfectly well Gregg wrote long, weekly letters to that innocent-faced +up-state girl whose picture stood on the dresser over +there. He also knew perfectly well that Gregg was a regular +Sir Galahad when it came to her. Oh, Lord! How like that +blatant idiot Robertson, they were! It made him feel like a +fool kid himself, the bluff they always kept up. Weren't they +getting grown-up enough to drop this inside-out hypocrisy?</p> + +<p>He kept all this to himself, smoking in thoughtful silence. +When the pipe was finished, he yawned and stretched, "Guess +I'll turn in. Going to read all night?"</p> + +<p>Gregg looked up from his book, "I'll put the shade over the +light so you can get to sleep. I want to finish this Philosophy +A stuff, Plato's Republic. Have you read the last book yet? +It's great dope!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The next day Neale and Miss Wentworth were sitting by +their little gipsy fire in a nook among the Palisades, overlooking +the river. Luncheon had long been finished, the dishes +packed away, and they continued to sit still, Miss Wentworth +looking at the view, Neale looking at her and turning over in +his mind the problem, "How can a man with no money, and +no prospects of ever earning any, ask a girl to marry him? +He can't. But suppose there's a chance that the girl ... +well, no matter what she may be thinking, wouldn't it be the +decent thing to let her know how he feels? Of course he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +ought to! What's the answer, then? There isn't any answer."</p> + +<p>"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Crittenden."</p> + +<p>"I was wondering," Neale lied glibly, "whether you didn't +know me well enough to stop calling me Mr. Crittenden."</p> + +<p>She met his eyes squarely, "All right, I'll call you Neale, if +you'll call me Martha. I hate formality between friends."</p> + +<p>He weighed her intonation carefully. Had she accented the +word, "friends"? Did she mean it as a warning? Well, +whether or not she meant it, that was the only line he could +decently take.</p> + +<p>As they started on the five-mile walk back to the ferry, +their talk dodged personalities. They talked about the trees +and rocks and wild-flowers and books and music—the music +to which Martha had been introducing Neale that winter, the +music which, little by little, was beginning to speak to his +heart more powerfully, more directly even than poetry. Then, +gradually, with a deep sense of tranquil comradeship, they +stopped dodging personalities, no longer felt any need to talk, +strode forward side by side, silent, each sure of the other. +Neale felt quiet and happy and at the same time miserable +and uncertain. Could he find words to tell her? Must he in +honor wait till he had a place in the world to offer?</p> + +<p>At the end of their long march, they came to the edge of +the cliff and stood for a long time staring down at the great +river, shimmering and iridescent far below them in the spring +haze. Only a few miles further south along these cliffs and +only a few years ago, the little Neale had sat alone and swung +his feet and dreamed. How simple life had been for him then!</p> + +<p>Still without a word, they went down the zig-zag path to +the ferry landing, and stood waiting for the boat. It was very +still, except for the water splashing on the stony beach. Without +thought, without planning it, the fullness of Neale's heart +unsealed his lips. He began to speak in a low tone, his +voice rough and uneven with emotion.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Listen! you hear the grating roar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At their return, up the high strand."<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>He was aware that the girl was very still, listening with +bent head.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sophocles long ago<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of human misery; we...."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>his breath failed him and he was silent. Over there beyond +that wide expanse of lapping water lay the world with its +houses and railways, its business, its spider-web of human relations. +Here in the shadow they were alone together.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But now I only hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its melancholy, long withdrawing roar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Retreating to the breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And naked shingles of the world."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He stopped. Now that he had come to what he wished to +say, he dared not.</p> + +<p>"Don't you know the rest?" asked the girl softly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Neale huskily, "I know it."</p> + +<p>She waited for him to go on, and when he did not, she said, +"Well, no matter. I know it too."</p> + +<p>She stood beside him in the blue twilight, her fair head +raised, her eyes looking far over the water. Neale was certain +that she too was silently repeating,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ah, love, let us be true<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To one another! for the world, which seems<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lie before us like a land of dreams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So various, so beautiful, so new,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we are here as on a darkling plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where ignorant armies clash by night."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The great day was over. The Yew Tree had been planted +and orated over. The scared Valedictorian had stumbled +through as much of his speech as he could remember. Neale, +with a hundred other Seniors had stood up and received the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +degree of Bachelor of Arts, which the President, "By-the-authority-in-him-vested" +scattered broadcast over them. +Neale was through with college. College was through with +Neale.</p> + +<p>Father and Mother were there, come up specially from +the other side of the Equator, though Father tried to pretend +that business had brought him north. They strolled about +the campus, went downtown and had luncheon together, all +three outwardly calm in the traditional Crittenden manner, +in spite of the emotion boiling under the surface of their +little family party.</p> + +<p>What boiled hardest under Neale's surface was a great haste +to find his place in the business-world, to begin to make money, +to have something to offer Martha. Before he had met Martha +he had had dreams of asking to go back to college for a +Master's Degree—in anything, just to go on with the +studies he had found so interesting, to play football again, +to sit, care-free, smoking his pipe and talking philosophy with +Gregg. But even in his dreams he had felt that all that was +only a little boy's scheme to dodge real life. And now he +felt no sympathy with dreams. He wanted to get out and +tackle real life with all his strength. He smarted under the +feeling that he had no right to speak to Martha.</p> + +<p>So when Mother went up to her room to rest from the +strain of throttling her feelings down to her men-folks' standard +of outward calm, and he and Father went into the lobby +to light cigars, he said at once, "Father, I want to start in +to-morrow to hustle for a job."</p> + +<p>Father looked pleased. It even occurred to Neale that +Father looked relieved. "Anything special in sight?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"No, I'm just going to knock at all the office doors till I +find one where they don't throw me out."</p> + +<p>Father puffed awhile. "Naturally I'd like to have you with +me, but I couldn't offer you anything but a clerkship. And +I'm convinced that the opportunities to rise are greater here +at the center of things. Now I've worked a good many years +for the firm and I believe Gates would give you a job on my +recommendation. Want to try it?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'll try anything that'll give me a start."</p> + +<p>"To-morrow too soon, if I can make an appointment for +you?"</p> + +<p>"I'll be there."</p> + +<p>"Of course you won't draw much of a salary at first; I +think I'd better keep your allowance going for a few months +at least."</p> + +<p>"Nothing doing, Dad! It's white of you to suggest it, but +I'm on my own now. If you get me a job, that's more than +plenty. If I can't live on my wages, I'll black boots after +office hours."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +May, 1905.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Neale had never, so to speak, received any letters in his +life until his parents had gone off to Rio; but since then +letters had filled what personal life he had found time for. +It was surprising how much more freely people spoke out in +the written word than in talk. The weekly bulletins from +Mother, and Father's occasional letters gave him more of a +feeling of intercourse with his parents than he had ever known +when they lived under the same roof. And he was sure that +in no other way could he ever have come to look into the +clear integrity of Martha's heart as he had in the letters which +had come to him from all over Europe, where she had been +wandering with her father during his sabbatical year of freedom.</p> + +<p>In the April after his graduation, Martha had written from +England that she was hurrying the end of her travel-year so +that she could be home to take a Palisading walk with him +on May sixteenth. May sixteenth was the date of their last +walk together on the Palisades, the walk which had ended +in the sweet, wordless understanding between them. Her frank +recognition of it as an anniversary to be remembered showed +how far along the year of separation and frequent letter-writing +had brought them.</p> + +<p>He was thinking of Martha, the wonderful Martha her +letters had revealed, as he waited for her on May sixteenth +in the parlor of her father's apartment. He found it almost +impossible to listen to what Professor Wentworth was saying, +and tried in vain to answer the traveler's questions about +Columbia news. The Wentworths had been in Norway and +Spain and England and Greece, while Neale had not been out +of New York; but he knew no more of Columbia than they.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> +With the bestowal of the impersonally broadcasted degree, +Columbia had dropped him as unceremoniously as it had failed +to welcome him when he arrived—"and quite right, too," +thought Neale. He detested the florid sentimentality of some +other universities, the maudlin old grads singing of bright +college years!</p> + +<p>So he knew nothing whatever about Columbia to report. +Besides, Professor Wentworth naturally enough was inquiring +about what had been happening to the faculty during his +absence, and Neale had never had the faintest guess that any +of his professors led a three-dimensional life. But most of all, +his year in business, in an office surrounded by men who had +never been near a university had set him immeasurably far +from the academic world. In an attempt to satisfy Martha's +father he now made a great effort to look back at college life, +but he was looking back at it from the wrong end of a +telescope. It was inconceivably small and far away. He had +not realized till now how much the year in business had +changed him, how rapidly he had left behind him the horizon +of his college years. Well, that was as it should be—to live +hard in the present without brooding over the past or dreaming +of the future....</p> + +<p>Then Martha came in, and he forgot college altogether, +forgot Professor Wentworth, he even forgot the business world +as he looked half-shyly, half-confidently into her blue eyes—the +same, but, oh, how startlingly more real and alive than the +dream-like memory picture he had been treasuring all those +months.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>They crossed the ferry, they stepped off briskly up the zig-zag +path, then when the last house was hidden behind the +rocks, they stopped. Martha lifted her smiling face to his. +As their lips touched, Neale was thrilled by a wave of emotion,—exaltation +rather than passion. "How dear, how sweet, +how incredibly pure and good she was!"</p> + +<p>The moment passed; as they walked on from time to time +their eyes met frankly. "Oh, but I'm glad to be walking +with you again, Neale," said Martha at last. "It's as if we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +hadn't been separated at all—yes, you do look older—ever +so much older—and yet about the same."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm just the same, Martha," he told her briefly with +a weighty, significant accent.</p> + +<p>It was the only reference made by either of them to what +was in their hearts. But it was enough for both of them. +What a <i>fine</i> girl, Neale thought, not to want, any more than +he did, a lot of goings-on to express feelings! As they tramped +along energetically, Martha was talking of what the year +had been to her. She spoke of picture-galleries and Gothic +cathedrals, and palaces and ruins; but what she said, and +what Neale heard was that nowhere had she met any one +whom she liked better than Neale. Neale felt himself relax +in an ineffable content, and knew by contrast how anxious +he had been.</p> + +<p>Then they made their fire and cooked their bacon, ate their +lunch, and Neale lighted his pipe peaceably and happily. They +sat in a sunny, sheltered corner of the rocks, overlooking the +river, their hearts sheltered and sunny, and in the intervals +of their talk they looked at each other in quiet satisfaction. +How good it was to be together again!</p> + +<p>Neale's report of his year took longer than Martha's because +they both felt that hers had the irrelevant passing interest of +a vacation-time, while his was to have enduring importance +for them both. It was, he told her, the same phase in the +business world as a freshman year in college, and although +he had not made a brilliant outer success as yet, he felt, on the +whole, satisfied with the way he had got his feet under him +and had begun to know his way about. He gave a droll little +color to the account of his job in the office, the one they had +evidently given him as an experiment, to be tried out in cheap +materials first—he representing the cheap materials! The +business had grown and grown; at first, a generation ago, +the product of Mr. Gates' business ability; later on, too large +even for what the "old man" could keep under his remarkably +capacious hat. Then twenty years ago, other people—Mr. +Gates' son, Neale's father, the clever and forceful manager +of the Chicago office, a branch-manager in Ottawa,—had be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>gun +to keep it under their respective hats. Important matters +were decided orally in a personal talk between the different +department heads, who, having the required information at +their finger-tips, needed no figuring or statistics to help their +decisions. This had lasted all the while Neale was growing +up, but by the time he graduated, some of the younger members +of the organization had begun to feel that perhaps the +stock of information vital to the conduct of the business ought +to be copied off from the several brains which possessed it, and +set down in some more accessible form. Mr. Belden, the +Ottawa manager, knew all about the lumber market in eastern +Canada, the average quality of mill-run spruce in each section +and what the chances were of getting it on time for a given +order; Mr. Gilman, at the Chicago office, could snap back over +the long-distance wire any question you cared to put about +Wisconsin or Northern Michigan lumber regions. But they +were neither of them so young as they had been nor was +Mr. Crittenden, whose specialty was the selling-end of Eastern +and foreign lumber markets. Even the "young Mr. Gates" +was now over fifty. They were all mortal, the health of the +"young Mr. Gates" was far from good; and furthermore the +business kept steadily growing so that it was very inconvenient +to have to wait to consult men widely separated.</p> + +<p>"Do you get it?" asked Neale, lying in the sun on the +Palisades, smoking, looking up at a sweet, well-beloved face +and delighting in her eager, intelligent interest in his story. +"Do you get it? Half the bunch thought a card-catalogue +the foolishest, new-fangled waste of time; half of them didn't +know whether it was or not; all of them wanted some sort +of tabulation of inside information, and none of them knew +how to go about it any more than if they'd been asked to +bake a batch of bread or write a theme on the Crusades. The +half that wanted to stick to the old ways and keep it all +safe under different people's hats were dead set against spending +any money on any fool system of collecting and classifying +information. And the other half weren't by any means +so sure of their ground that they wanted to spend a lot of +cash to get an expert. And, anyhow, where could you find an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> +expert? If you let one of those 'business-system' people inside +the office he'd be trying to run the whole works. Maybe the +idea was all right, but you couldn't get it executed. Well, +while the whole proposition was up in the air, and everybody +chewing the rag about it, somebody knocks at the door, and +who is it? Why, Crittenden's son, just out of college, wanting +a job. All nonsense, college, and yet what <i>would</i> it have +taught a boy if not how to straighten out and classify information? +Anyhow you could get him for next to nothing: boys +out of college never expect to be paid anything to speak of, +and a good reason why; because they aren't worth anything. +Give him a year's try at it! Crittenden's son ought to have +a <i>little</i> natural sense. It won't cost much; he can't do any +harm; maybe he might work out a system that would be +useful.</p> + +<p>"So they offered the job at slightly more than office-boy +wages to the college graduate. And what did <i>he</i> think about +it? How had he been trained for such work? <i>You</i> know, +Martha, how he'd been trained. What he knew about orderly +arrangement of information was about what would go on the +head of a pin! He'd been learning a <i>few</i> scattered items +about English Literature and Greek Philosophy, and the latest +inaccuracy about atoms; and a whole lot about how to get +a football over a given line under given conditions. But +incidentally and on the side, he'd had a pretty thorough course +in poker, and a poker-face was the necessary equipment for +<i>that</i> situation!"</p> + +<p>He and Martha laughed, a light-hearted young laugh, that +did them good and made them feel closer than ever to each +other in the conspiracy of two against the world.</p> + +<p>The rest of the year had been, Neale told her, a slow, +dogged struggle to find out what after all it was nobody's +business to tell him; to invent a system of recording what +he found out that would not only be fool-proof but stenographer-proof; +to collect exact statistics as to the cost of +production and transportation; and to bring together items +of account-keeping that had never before had even a speaking +acquaintance with each other.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I've traced a plank from the tree to tide-water, inch by +inch, my note-book in my hand, setting down every sixteenth +of a cent per board foot that it cost till we sold it to the retail +dealer, watching it as if it were the prince-royal of a reigning +house and I the secret-service man set to keep track of him! +I've covered reams of paper figuring out the cost of the office-work +of getting that plank sold—extra office-work, you know, +not ordinary overhead;—and, by heck, I don't see how they've +ever managed to run their old business a minute, the haphazard +way they've been going at it! Nobody knew anything, not +<i>all</i> of anything! I seem to have been marking time, but just +you wait till I get out of the office and into the real game. +I know more about some things than any of the buyers, even +the old-timers."</p> + +<p>"Well, there must be a big profit in business or they wouldn't +be able to conduct it that loose way," said Martha.</p> + +<p>"Oh, the profits are big, all right," Neale concurred. "Old +man Gates has more cash than he knows what to do with. +And not one of his grandchildren amounts to a whoop. When +his son, the one who's our General Manager now, retires, +there won't be a Gates left in the Gates Lumber Company."</p> + +<p>"They won't mind," said Martha.</p> + +<p>"You bet your life they won't <i>mind</i>," said Neale. "Far +from it! Most likely they've hardly heard the name of it. +They're all living in Europe now, buying villas and things out +of the money the Company makes. Our Mr. Gates never sees +any of his family except when he takes a vacation and goes +to Florence or England. All <i>they</i> want out of the lumber +business is a fat wad of easy money."</p> + +<p>"That's not right," said Martha suddenly. "That's not +right."</p> + +<p>"It's not right if getting something for nothing is wrong," +Neale agreed casually. "But what are you going to do about +it? There you are. That's the way things go."</p> + +<p>Martha made no answer. There was a little silence. Then +she said: "All that account-keeping, that detail work—it +doesn't seem so terribly interesting to me, Neale. Haven't +you found it awfully dull sometimes?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> + +<p>Neale rolled over and sat up with an effect of entering again +into active and energetic life. "Well, I might have," he said +finally. "But you know, Martha, that I have a special reason +for wanting to get on quick in business, and I've been mighty +glad enough to grab hold of any end that was handy." He +smiled at her confidently. "All a fellow needs in the business +world is a crack in the wall to get his toes into for a start. +I've got my crack. Now you just watch me climb!"</p> + +<p>It was perfectly understood between them what he was +climbing to reach.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> + + +<p>Father had written from Caracas that Mother was taking +the next boat back to New York because she needed a lot +of dental work done and hadn't any confidence in Venezuelan +dentists, but when Neale met Mother at the dock she told +him at once, laughingly, that the dental work was only an +excuse, and that she had come to have a visit with her son. +She had added with a whimsical defiance that, such being the +fact, she had no intention of putting up the usual Crittenden +bluff of something different.</p> + +<p>"I'm not a Crittenden," she told Neale gaily in the cab on +the way to the hotel, "though I married into the family so +young! And now that I've worn a mantilla, with a rose in +my hair, I'm not going to try any longer to pretend that +I am."</p> + +<p>Neale looked at her, admiring her now quite distinguished +appearance, but feeling a little alarm at her tone. She sounded +almost disturbingly electric.</p> + +<p>"I've come up to have a real New York spree with my +big son and his nice girl, now that he has condescended to +let us know he has a nice girl," she told him, her smiling eyes +at once tender and a little mocking. "You can afford it, +can't you, since your last raise?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I can afford anything in reason."</p> + +<p>"Your father says they tell him you're getting on splendidly."</p> + +<p>"They never let on as much to me," said Neale drily, +"though they are treating me very white as to pay."</p> + +<p>They were at the hotel door now, where Mother made +arrangements for a stay of a month.</p> + +<p>"Dental work takes so long," she told Neale gravely in the +elevator, making him laugh outright. She looked very well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> +pleased at this, and after they were inside her room, stood +up on tip-toes and gave him another kiss.</p> + +<p>He had never entirely recovered from his father's chance +remark that Mother had been only twenty when she married. +She must have been about as old as he was now when he first +began to remember her. Just a girl,—and she had seemed +older to him then than now.</p> + +<p>He told her this as he unstrapped her valise. "You seem +younger to me every time I see you—lots younger now than +when I was six or seven years old."</p> + +<p>She laughed out. "I was a child myself when you were +six or seven." She turned grave for a moment. "If I had +you to bring up, now that I am a really grown person with +a personality of my own and some experience of the world, +I'd do it very differently. I'd make a better job of it."</p> + +<p>"You made a good enough job," he protested mildly. "How +can you look at me and think you could have done any +better?"</p> + +<p>She stopped her unpacking to laugh. "It just spoils a +person for other forms of joking to live with one of you +dry Crittendens. Other people's humor seems so flamboyant. +I <i>like</i> the Crittendens," she pronounced judicially, "though I +did waste about twenty years of my young life trying to make +myself into one. I'm glad you're one. But if you try to make +Martha into one—"</p> + +<p>"Martha's one already," he told her triumphantly. "We're +exactly alike—the way we think and do things. That's why +we get on so well together." At this Neale's mother looked +at him so hard that he felt a little annoyed, and turned the +talk back to its earlier channel.</p> + +<p>"How else would you have brought me up, I'd like to +know?"</p> + +<p>"I'd have taken dynamite to you," she informed him briskly.</p> + +<p>"Dynamite?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you don't understand. And I daresay it would have +been too early anyhow. You'll probably get your share of +dynamite when your turn comes." She changed the subject: +"How's business? Seriously!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p> + +<p>Seriously he told her of the results of his promotion six +months before from the "intelligence bureau," as he called it, +to the real business of life, to buying and selling. "The only +real money is in that," he told her, warming as he spoke. +"All those other jobs, office jobs, don't lead you anywhere. +Buying and selling, especially selling, that's where you get +ahead. I'm earning twice what I did, and by this time next +year I'll be doing twice what I'm doing now. I may soon +be able to do a little on the side, on my own hook, pick up +something good and dispose of it well. Grandfather is sure +I can. He may have some tips for me later on. Grandfather +is a wise old scout."</p> + +<p>Mother laid some underwear away in a drawer. As she +shut it, she asked casually: "Do you read any Emerson nowadays, +Neale?"</p> + +<p>How in the world did Mother know he had ever read Emerson? +"No, I don't," he said.</p> + +<p>She noted the shortness of his tone with raised eyebrows, +and began to hang up her dresses in the closet.</p> + +<p>Neale looked at her back with some uneasiness. He felt +his privacy threatened, and, stiffening, put up the bars. And +apparently Mother sensed the change, for she at once dropped +her intimate tone and began making gay plans for "having some +fun" during her stay, plans in which dental engagements played +a conspicuously small part. It turned out to be a very light-hearted +month, Mother's month in the dentist's chair. Neale +and Martha were quite shaken up out of the quiet, jog-trot +routine of their peaceful days and long evenings of serious +reading together. Mother took them to the theater and to +dinner at out-of-the-way restaurants of which, like most sober +resident New Yorkers, they had never heard the names. In +the daytime, she and Martha, of whom she had grown very +fond, went around a good deal together, looking at the innumerable +expensive and occasionally beautiful objects on view in +the shops of a big city; or visiting museums, or going to +matinées. They heard a good deal of music, all three of +them. Mother had chosen a hotel near Carnegie Hall, so that +frequently, when they had nothing else to do, they strolled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> +up on foot and listened to whatever was being played. They +had an occasional dinner with Professor Wentworth and Martha +in their apartment on 122d Street, and Mother went off +by herself to look up the old friends of Union Hill days, +the few who were not scattered.</p> + +<p>Once in a while Neale talked over his business prospects +with Mother when she asked him about them and he couldn't +get out of it, and they agreed that he would be able to marry +in another year. And having agreed in this opinion, Mother +was apt to fall very silent for a time. But this suited Neale, +who found intimate personal talk disconcerting. It always +made him uneasy when another human being rattled the +handle of the door to his inner secret garden. One of the +things he most loved in Martha was that she took so much +for granted without talking about it. They understood each +other instinctively, he felt, without need of explanation. He +suspected that Martha had her own inner garden, and prided +himself on respecting her right to it. <i>He</i> was no one to go +rattling handles of doors that were none of his. He found +Martha especially restful and satisfying after one of these +talks with Mother, lightly and passingly as Mother glanced +over those sensitive places. He constantly felt that Mother +was trying to open a door he wished to keep shut, that she +was trying to say something that he had no desire to hear. +He and Martha were all right. What business had Mother +to look at them that way?</p> + +<p>She did nothing after all, beyond looking, and went away +at the end of her month, having committed no greater crime +than to whisper brokenly to Neale as she kissed him good-by, +"Neale, it's not enough to—Neale, you must <i>love</i> Martha. +You must <i>love</i> her—not just—"</p> + +<p>At this Neale had quickly assumed the cold look of distaste +which she knew so well, and she had ventured no further.</p> + +<p>After her departure, Neale fell with relief back into his old +routine of quiet, comfortable life-in-common with Martha, with +none of the prickling electric uncertainties he had felt in +Mother. Odd how much better he knew Martha than he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> +did Mother; how sure he was beforehand of what Martha +would think and say, whereas he had been uncomfortably +unsure of Mother. He felt he knew Martha as he knew +himself, through and through.</p> + +<p>This conviction was a great satisfaction to him. He often +thought of it with pride, and with a secret pity and scorn +for people who found life and human relationships so complicated +and mysterious. That sort of thing was just a novel-writer's +rubber-stamp convention. What was there so darned +mysterious about your own nature, about a sensible woman's +nature? Nothing. If you were a sane, normal man, you +found your mate in the world just as normally as you found +your place in the business world. With a healthy, honest, +fine girl like Martha, there would be none of those double-and-twisted +emotional complications you read about in books.</p> + +<p>He was away from New York a good deal at this time, +taking, as one of the younger salesmen, the more difficult and +less remunerative territories, and when he came back to the +city it was like coming home, to ring the bell of the Wentworths' +apartment and have Martha herself come to open +the door for him, her eyes as clear and honest as sunlit water.</p> + +<p>They always had a good deal to tell each other after these +separations. Martha about her work at the Speyer School, +where she had begun to help a little in visiting the families +of the poorer children, Neale about his business, which he was +finding more and more absorbingly interesting, for which he +was feeling much of the zestful passion he had felt for football. +He talked a great deal to Martha about the resemblance +of football to business. One of the many things he loved +about Martha was her knowledge of football. Of course, +strictly speaking, like all other outsiders, she knew nothing +whatever about football; but she knew as much as any spectator +could, and, brought up from birth as she had been in +one or another college community, she had a second-nature +familiarity with the psychology of the game, with the fierce, +driving concentration, the eager, devout willingness to devote +every throb of your pulse, every thought in your brain to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> +winning the game; and it seemed perfectly natural to her, +as it did to Neale, to step into another world where all the +mature energies were focussed in the same way.</p> + +<p>"It's just like football," Neale often told her, his eyes gleaming. +"Having played football gives you as great an advantage +as though you were in training and the other fellows soft. +I often feel as if I ought to go and look up old +Atkins and thank him. He was teaching me enough +sight more than how to play back-field defense! That +everlasting pounding of his on the idea of knowing where +the ball is before you go for it—Gee whiz, you'd never +guess how many fool mistakes that's kept me from. I see +the other fellows wasting money on buying drinks and tickets +to shows and champagne suppers for hard-shelled old buyers +who haven't an interest left in life beyond screwing the price +down an eighth of a cent—wallowing in any-old-how just to +get going,—the way I used to; and I think of old Atkins, +lie low, keep my mouth shut, and size up the enemy's formation +till I see their weak place, <i>and then</i>!" The brilliance +of his eye, the grimness of his set jaw, the impact of one +great fist in the palm of the other hand showed what happened +then. He went on. "One game's just like the other, +and the thing that wins in both is <i>wanting to win</i> more than +the other fellow does." He turned serious, almost exalted, +and said: "Sometimes I used almost to think it was the +way religion must be for people who believe in it—it puts +you in touch with some big force—I've felt it in football—I +guess everybody always feels it who really gets going enough +to care about anything with all that is in him—if you give +every bit of yourself—don't keep anything back—want to +win more than anything else in the world—why, all of a sudden +some outside source of power that's hundreds of volts higher +than normal begins to flow through you—and you <i>move</i> things. +It's wonderful, but you can't have it cheap. It costs you all +you've got."</p> + +<p>One evening as they sat thus, Martha perched on the arm +of Neale's chair, the quiet air about them crackling and +tingling with the high-tension current, Martha caught and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> +grasped a comparison which had long been floating elusive in +the back of her mind. She jumped up and ran to the piano. +"Listen, it's like this," she told him, and played with one +hand, clear and defiant and compelling, the call of the young +Siegfried. "That was how it was in football. And now—" +She sat down before the piano, and, stretching out both hands +over the keys, she filled the room with the rich clamor of the +same theme reinforced by all the sumptuous strength of harmony.</p> + +<p>Neale sprang to his feet. "You know what Siegfried went +through fire to find," he cried, stooping to put his lips on +Martha's cheek. "All he wanted was to get to Brunhilda. And +that's all I want, my Brunhilda! All I want in the world!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +1907.<br /> +</p> + +<p>He had called her "his Brunhilda" with honest sincerity; +with all his heart he thought he meant it. Of <i>course</i> he was +fighting for success to put in Martha's hands. His honor +was pledged to win for Martha's sake. His deep affection +for Martha underlay his delight in learning to play the game. +All this went without saying, and he said it even to himself +with less and less frequency during the next year.</p> + +<p>He had, as a matter of fact, less and less time and strength +to give to anything outside his business. This focussing of +energies began to have its usual result. He felt the eyes +of the older men in the organization turned on him with +curiosity, with approval, and with a little jealous alarm which +gave him the utmost pleasure. He saw in the younger men's +eyes the appraising, combative, watchful look with which one +tackle surveys his opponent. All his life-long mystic intensity +of conviction of the worthwhileness of winning games, flared +and blazed hot and lusty in his heart as he recognized that he +was now head over ears in the turmoil of the biggest game he +had yet encountered.</p> + +<p>Of course the real purpose of the game was to take care of +Martha—that was axiomatic!</p> + +<p>The middle of his third year in business was marked by a +considerable raise in salary and an enlargement of territory +with corresponding increase from sales commissions, which +proved conclusively that he was now accepted as one of +the live-wires of the organization. And when barely a week +later, Professor Wentworth was notified of his appointment as +exchange professor for the next academic year to one of the +German universities, the moral of the two events was clear. +It was time for a rather long engagement to end; time for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> +Martha to set a definite date for the wedding before her father's +departure for Berlin.</p> + +<p>With the setting of the date the relations of the three took +on another aspect—like a change of lighting at the theater. +Everything was as it had been, and yet everything was different. +Professor Wentworth considered himself already eliminated +by the younger generation, and although they invited him +to share the new home on his return from the year in Germany, +he assured them that he would under no conditions +cumber up the background in any such fashion, and began to +make plans for joining forces with another widowed professor +whose children were now all married. His resigned, philosophic +acceptance of his soon-to-be exit from their stage set +them further from him and closer to each other, as if he had +already stepped out from their lives and closed the door behind +him. They occasionally felt a little self-conscious awareness +of being alone with each other which was new to them. +As Martha quaintly phrased it, she now began to feel not only +that she was engaged but that she was going to be married. +The feeling was a new one, gave a new color to her thoughts +and sometimes made her feel a little queer.</p> + +<p>Neale told her that he understood this and felt with her that +he was stepping forward into a new phase of their relation; +and he did feel this at intervals. But while this was the only +change that had occurred in Martha's life, it was overshadowed +in Neale's by his intuition that he had now come to a crucial +moment in his business career. He recognized perfectly the +feel of the moment in the game when one side or the other +wins, although half the time may yet remain to be played +through. In football it lasted but an instant, that well-remembered +poise on the very crest of the will-to-win. +In business it would last—he had no idea how long—but he +felt that he had been well coached by life, that his training had +left him with the endurance to stick it out—years if necessary. +His pride as a fighter hardened and set. He felt again the +single-hearted passion to win out at any cost to himself or +others which had been the meat and marrow of his football +days. In short he began to be considered by all the experi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>enced +eyes about him as a remarkably promising young American +business-man.</p> + +<p>But now for the first time he did not pass on to Martha +the excited exuberant sense of triumphant force, the salty tang +of pushing a weaker man where he had not wished to go. +Nowadays when he stepped into Professor Wentworth's apartment +he found Martha with excitements and interests of her +own—of her own and his too. After the first slightly startled +recognition that he had opened the door upon a quite unexpected +scene, he always focussed his eyes to the other distances, +and discussed as animatedly as Martha the relative advantages +of suburban and upper-west-side locations, and looked over +with her the list of apartments to let. But when he left her, he +had scarcely reached the bottom of the stairs before he was +again in his own world, crouching warily with tense muscles, +alert to catch his opponents off their balance. He occasionally +cast a mental glance back at the scene he had left, but it +was already out of focus. As a matter of plain fact he did +not care a picayune whether they lived in a suburb or on +145th Street, or in what kind of book-case they kept their +books, nor whether they had twin beds of mahogany or white +enamel. He told himself that what he did care about was +that Martha should be suited in those details about which +she seemed to care so much.</p> + +<p>One evening he found even as he was with her, his attention +wavered, dimmed, and fixed itself on a deal he was planning +with his grandfather, a small affair which he hoped to +put through on the side, but from which, as he was to handle +it by himself, he expected quite a brilliant percentage of profit. +He answered Martha at random, came back to her world with +a guilty start, excusing his lapse by explaining to himself that +he was eager for that profit only because it would considerably +add to the sum he was laying by for the equipment of the new +home. As he sat listening to Martha and agreeing with her, +and at the same time speculating about the age and condition +of the oak on the tract he hoped to buy, and how much of it +was big enough to make quarter-sawing profitable, he thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> +whimsically that he was as good as married already, that he +was doing just what was done by all the husbands he knew.</p> + +<p>Martha stopped suddenly, as if he had spoken aloud, or +as if she had been struck by a new thought, "Neale, do you +realize it! We're really going to be married—just like anybody +else. I don't believe I ever thought we really would!"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you?" he said. "I always had a sort of notion we +would." But although this was not the first time she had expressed +this feeling, something about her accent, or aspect, +crystallized into tangible form anticipations which had been as +vague in his case as in hers.</p> + +<p>About this time he began to notice that instead of misty, +in-the-distant-future glances at what marriage was to mean, +came concrete, definite, recurring pictures of one scene after +another in the life before them. His imagination, never very +quickly aroused or very flexible by nature, began to be prodded +by circumstances into an unwonted activity on the subject +of Martha and this marriage. He saw her in his mind's eye +across the breakfast table, on the other side of the hearth, or +even sitting on the arm of his chair with his arm around her, +as she often sat now while they talked over their plans. But +(it was one of the first intimations he had of the storm before +him) he encountered some curious dumb resistance deep in his +heart when he tried to think of her more intimately with the +veils of girlhood gone, as his wife. Something within flashed +up with chivalric swiftness to shut out such thoughts. He +amazed himself once or twice by feeling his face hot, as +though with shame at the idea of making Martha, Martha +whom he loved so much, his wife. What sort of morbid prudery +was this? As soon as it was passed he found it incredible; +and felt it again. "Perhaps it wasn't so incredible after +all. Maybe that was the price you paid for knowing something +about life." It was inevitable—what must be felt by +every man who had not been brought up in a vacuum. And +it was really all right and nothing to be squeamish over. Human +nature is what it is, and there's no use dressing it up in +high-sounding names!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span></p> + +<p>If that had been all he had to worry him! But there were +other things. More than once he had felt a new exasperation +rise in him when Martha would go on discussing the color of +wall-paper and window-curtains. Hang it all, he was ready to +agree with her whatever way she wanted it—wasn't that enough +without dragging him into a discussion of details he didn't +understand or care about? Nothing of any great importance, +such passing moments of impatience, and yet he had gloried +in his certainty that Martha and he agreed on everything! +More troubling still—he remembered so distinctly the first +time—bending together over a book, a strand of Martha's hair +had touched his cheek. He could still feel the shiver with +which he had drawn away—true, he had not realized what +was taking place—had felt subconsciously as if a spider were +walking across his face—but just the same, three years ago +though he might have recoiled, his next impulse would have +been to snatch that tress of hair and kiss it. Why didn't he +kiss it now? Why, here it was again, just as if they were married +already: that was the way so many husbands he knew +acted with their wives! Of course all this was to be expected, +too: you get used to things; you can't go on being thrilled +by familiar sensations. In the nature of things marriage could +not be as transcendent as people pretended, when men and +women are so far from being transcendent!</p> + +<p>And yet little by little whenever in the pauses of his business +he gave a thought to his personal future he felt it all there +again, heavier and heavier, weighing down leadenly every +thought which he tried to send ahead into the life he meant +to make so happy for Martha.</p> + +<p>At this, for a short time, he fell into an inner panic, lost +his head, thought himself abnormal, incapable of ordinary +human life. He was afraid to see Martha, and was in his heart +immeasurably relieved when she was called off by a wedding +in her Aunt's family to a somewhat lengthy visit in Ohio. +He wanted to have it all out with himself while she was gone—make +an end of all this nonsense. But what he did was to +think of it as little as possible.</p> + +<p>With Martha gone he was able to occupy his mind entirely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> +with business problems, and the release from tormenting personal +worries was grateful to him. He had been intensely ill-at-ease. +He was relieved that his discomfort was passed, +quite passed.</p> + +<p>He opened Martha's first letter with pleasure. Letters were +all right: they didn't harry you with emotional over-tones. +He read her entertaining account of the prostrate condition +of both families over the elaborate wedding ceremony impending. +Everybody it seemed was frantic with nerves—except +the bride-to-be and her young man, of course, who paid no +attention to anybody or anything but themselves. Neale +thought he felt a note of good-natured satire in this, and smiled +appreciatively. That was exactly what <i>he</i> felt about fussy +weddings. Martha always felt as he did.</p> + +<p>With the thought an inner door clanged open, and sickeningly +there was the whole thing to begin again! What if +Martha <i>had</i> been feeling as he had? What did a decent girl +feel before her marriage anyhow? Did she dread it perhaps—or +on the other hand, had she too lost the thrill—were they already +like some of the married couples he knew who kissed +with listless lips, looked at one another with stolid glassy eyes? +No, Martha was all right! Martha wouldn't change! But +didn't that make it worse? What did she expect to find in +marriage? Could he give Martha what she expected to find +in marriage? He had never once before thought of that, +absorbed as he had been by his own disquiet. He was overwhelmed +by this new complication, and for many days would +not allow himself even to glance at it. He hated the idea of +thinking about it. He hated the whole idiotic tangle he kept +getting into. Why, damn it, getting married was no such +complicated affair! Look at all the imbeciles who sailed into +it, a vacuous smile on their lips and nothing whatever in their +heads, and made a success of it! A man wasn't a woman, +thank God! and couldn't be expected to divine what a woman +wanted out of marriage. People who did not expect too much +of it, or of anything, were the only ones with intelligence.</p> + +<p>Just at this time he got his first chance at a big order. An +industrial suburb was projected to house the operatives of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> +new machine-tool manufacturing plant in the Connecticut valley. +The contractors had never been Gates customers and no +one in the office thought that young Crittenden had the ghost +of a show of landing the order—no one, that is, but young +Crittenden himself. The contract would run up into the millions +of board feet: forgetting Martha, marriage, every personal +element in life, Neale started after it.</p> + +<p>He studied the buyer, the situation, the sort of lumber +needed. He sat up nights going over the architect's specifications; +made up alternative schedules for spruce, oak, yellow +pine interior trim; clear or "grade A" shingles. Then, delving +deep in the information he himself had collected, he rechecked +his figures, shaving the margin of safety down till he was sure +his bid would be lower than any other firm's, and yet safe—no +danger of leaving the firm in the hole. The Gates Lumber Co. +could count on its usual percentage of profit and Neale Crittenden +on his biggest commission yet, to add to the sum he +was laying aside for the new home.</p> + +<p>When his bid was finally in the contractor's hands, and +routine office and road work threatened to leave him with time +to think, Neale turned hastily back to his private deal with +Grandfather. Grandfather's intimate knowledge of all the +possible timber-tracts in his region was a gold mine. There +were always wood-lots in the back valleys being sold for taxes, +or for very little because, all the older generation dying off, the +western heirs did not care enough about the little old family +land-holdings to come east and investigate them. And even +if they had, knowing nothing of the eastern or indeed of any +lumber market, they had no notion of the potential value of +their inheritance. Neale resolved to take part of his little +savings for the use of the new household, to buy up a few such +wood-lots, and turn them over at a big profit. He felt sure of +himself now, sure he could swing such an operation, and taking +advantage of the Labor Day vacation, he went up to West +Adams to spend the week-end and talk it over with Grandfather.</p> + +<p>Nothing ever changed in Grandfather's home. Grandfather +and Grandmother did not look so very much older to Neale<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> +at twenty-four than they had to the eight-year-old, having always +looked as old as possible. Jennie, the hired girl, had +aged more than the old folks, he noted, as she went with him +up the steep stairs to the little slant-ceilinged room now incredibly +low and tiny.</p> + +<p>He sat down on his little-boy bed, a thousand forgotten memories +standing thick about him. He saw his mother leading in +the sleepy little Neale, and now he saw that she was young, +young as Martha, so young herself ... as young as Martha! +He was the strong, purposeful, determined young man, sitting +on the bed and looking at that long-past scene, and yet he was +also the sleepy little boy, feeling on his lips his young mother's +kiss. "Good-night, Neale." "Good-night, Mother."</p> + +<p>"Oh, damn it!" he cried impatiently, dismayed to feel that +with the memory of his mother, he was aware as though of a +palpable presence in the room there, of women ... of women +as different from men, emotionally exacting, wanting something +different from men, with some fine-spun impossible ideal of +what could be had out of human nature, troubling, hampering +the real business of life ... and yet all the time an inevitable +part of things! For an instant he felt brutally angry with +them, with their superfine weakening notions, and had for the +first time the exasperated feeling that they were an element in +life which you could neither do anything with, nor do without. +The ewig-weibliche,—good heavens! All it did was to snarl +things up! Neale got up from the bed and went over to the +wash-stand, amazed at himself, his fit of fury passed, unable to +conceive what had started him off on such an explosion. +What under the sun possessed him, veering around like a crazy +weather-cock from one high-strung mood to another, more +shifts of feeling in a day than he had ever used to know in a +year! He would put it all out of his mind, all! He simply +would not allow himself to think of it again, to think of all +that, he would not!</p> + +<p>He went hastily down the stairs and fell to talking business +with Grandfather, talking to very good purpose, too. To-day +their projects went far beyond the little tract of second-growth +oak they had first thought of. Grandfather, wily old spider,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> +at the center of a wide-flung web, knew many tips which he +was more than willing to pass on to his favorite, Neale,—Neale +who had the other half of the combination and could +sell at top prices what Grandfather could buy at rock-bottom. +He was in fact delighted with Neale's ideas and the energy +with which Neale laid his plans. "Why, you're worth two of +your father!" he cried exultantly, as they sat again, the next +morning on the porch and went into details. "I never could +see why Dan'l didn't get on better! He never seemed to care +enough about it, and by thunder, you got to care if you're +going to get anywhere." The old man paused, took breath, +and brought out, with an attempt to sound casual, "I've +thought sometimes 'twas your mother made him that way. +She's a nice girl, your mother is, Neale, but I never thought +she <i>pushed</i> your father the way she ought to."</p> + +<p>He glanced at Neale a little apprehensively, but the young +man said nothing. He was following out a thought, not entirely +new, a guess which he had subconsciously made before, +that there was a long hostility between his mother and his +grandfather. The idea stirred a great deal in his own head, +which he felt no desire to examine.</p> + +<p>"I tell you what, Neale," said the old man, observing the +other's silence and emboldened by it. "I tell you what, Neale," +the old man took his pipe out of his mouth and spoke more +loudly, "don't you get to thinking women are too darned <i>important</i>. +That's what your father did. He was going good +... but that softened him right up."</p> + +<p>Neale still said nothing, a succession of well-remembered +scenes from his early home-life evoked by his grandfather's +words.</p> + +<p>The old man cried out now, in a burst of long-contained resentment, +"Your father ought to have gone enough sight further +than he did! Yes, he had ought to!" He looked keenly into +the hard, strong face of his grandson and said proudly, "But +<i>you</i> will!"</p> + +<p>Neale felt so queer a disquiet at all this, that he got up +abruptly and clapped on his hat. All kinds of different pieces +were fitting together before his eyes into some sort of a pat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>tern. +He wanted to get away by himself and look at it to see +what pattern it was.</p> + +<p>"I'm going up to the far wood-lot," he said. "I can remember +when the pines were just coming in there. I want to see +how much they grow in fifteen or twenty years." But he had +no interest in the young pines, and he was not at all thinking +of them as he strode hurriedly up the stony sunken wood-road. +He was thinking of Martha. Out of nowhere there had +come to him the recollection of saying good-by to her at the +station. He had kissed her good-by, and as clearly as though +he had just now stooped to her, he could remember that the +very instant their lips met he had been wondering if he would +have time to get down to the office before Mr. Gilman came +in from Chicago. He wanted Gilman's support for his scheme +to follow the shifting center of supply with a branch office in +the Gulf States. Were the figures he wanted filed under L +for Louisiana or Y for Yellow pine?</p> + +<p>He laughed rather grimly to himself, marching rapidly up +through the second-growth birch on which with one corner +of his eye he was automatically setting a possible value. If +Grandfather only knew, he wouldn't think he needed any exhortation +to avoid uxoriousness. He was not very proud of +that remembered moment at the station. It was all very well +not to be uxorious but ...</p> + +<p>When a clear tiny brook crossed the road, he stopped to +draw breath, for, without knowing it, he had been hurrying +as if not to miss an appointment up on the mountain. He saw +his father stooping to say good-by to his mother at the train +as the yearly summer vacation began. He had seen that +good-by every June of his little boyhood, but he had never +looked at it, till, a man grown, he now stood stock-still on the +mountain and stared back through the years into his father's +face. What he saw there was startling and troubling to him. +He stood frowning sternly down at the brook. He was very, +very unhappy and he resented his unhappiness. But his +unhappiness was nothing to the remorse which now +shook him. If that was what marriage could mean to a man +and a woman, what right had he to ask Martha to accept what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> +he had to give? Martha was so fine, so true—dear, dear +Martha! To his amazement, almost to his fright, he saw the +brook waver and flicker and knew that the tears were in his +eyes. For God's sake, what was the matter with him?</p> + +<p>He sat down on a fallen log, looking back down towards the +valley and found that far beneath him lay the sunburned, flat, +upper pasture where in his junior year he had practised so +fiercely to learn how to punt. He cast a glance of heart-sick +envy back at the sweating, anxious boy who could conceive of +nothing worse in life than to have a kick blocked. How +lucky kids were, only they didn't know it, never for a moment +to dream of such a heavy burden of obscure misery as that +which now sickened his heart.</p> + +<p>What was the trouble? What <i>was</i> the trouble? He had +everything in the world a man could work for. Why then, did +he stand there leaden-hearted, as wretched as a man who cannot +pay his debts?</p> + +<p>The feeling of oppression, of weight was intolerable, like a +physical constriction. He stretched his great arms and shook +himself and drew a long breath, trying to throw it off physically. +In the back of his mind stood his father, looking down +at his mother, but now he would not look him in the face, for +if he did he would see that he was not in love with Martha, +deep and tender as was his affection for her.</p> + +<p>With this sudden involuntary formulation of what he had +been fighting not to formulate, the trouble and restlessness and +disquiet dropped away, and left Neale, sitting, his face gray +and grim, looking steadily at what he ought to have seen long +ago, at what he had known for a long time.</p> + +<p>That was what the trouble was: he <i>was</i> a man who could not +pay his debt, and he owed it to the person he loved best.</p> + +<p>Well, it was better, infinitely better now that he knew what +there was to face. He could face anything, anything, if he +could see it. His native energy rose up, that energy which had +been so carefully and steadily trained to aggressive strength. +He wouldn't take anything lying down! He would stand up +to this!</p> + +<p>The young man with the hard strong face sat as silent and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +motionless as though he did not breathe. The bright sun +wheeled slowly across the sky. The shadows stretched longer.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>When he finally rose to his feet, stiff and lame with his long +immobility, he had constructed a new little world in which to +live, different from what he had foreseen but tolerable, probably +all that could be expected by any one who had an honest mind. +At least it was constructed on things exactly as they were.</p> + +<p>These were the foundations and boundaries of his new +world: a profound doubt as to whether any one outside of +books is ever in love as men and women are traditionally supposed +to be; a certainty that with his deep affection for Martha, +his respect for her, his liking for all her ways, he could make +her happy ... happy enough ...; and be happy with her +... as happy as any one in this world was likely to be; the +probability that a normal healthy man married to a young and +comely woman would fall in love with her sufficiently at least +to satisfy any conception she would be likely to have of love, +sufficiently to satisfy what any honest open-eyed man had a +right to expect from love; a guess that in the long run such a +marriage would be more to his taste (possibly also to Martha's) +than a more absorbing, exciting union. It would certainly be +all right for Martha if they had children. The point was that +he could do infinitely more for her, advance and succeed and +triumph, unclogged by too much personal life. He did not, +he decided, looking back over his life, seem to be the sort +of man who really cared much for personal life. He never +had. His few tentative steps towards it had always made him +miserable, a fish out of water. What he really did care for, +what he had always liked when he got it, was a chance to use +his strength and wits in competition with other men. Wasn't +that after all the real business of life? Wasn't that after all +what women wanted of men? That was at the bottom of the +marriages he saw about him, in the homes of the older men +where he occasionally was asked to dinner. He could give +Martha all they gave to their apparently quite-satisfied wives +... and more, much more! ... because Martha was such a +dear, dear girl.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> + +<p>And that was enough! Enough for any one! He did not +feel very light-hearted, it is true. But life evidently was not a +very light-hearted business. And he was no grimacing, God's-in-His-Heaven, +professional optimist. You took what was +coming to you. And what was coming to him was plenty good +enough for anybody!</p> + +<p>The thought of Father and Mother knocked at the door, but +he turned the key in the lock, and started down the mountain +to his grandfather, the most promising young business man +who had ever entered the employ of the Gates Lumber Company.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> + + +<p>Martha came into the room with a little rush as though +she had been waiting impatiently to see Neale, and yet when +she saw him she gave a little quavering "oh!" as of fright, and +stood stock-still near the door.</p> + +<p>Neale, conscious of nothing but his own heavy heart, was so +startled that he had for an instant the fantastic notion that +his mountain colloquy with himself was perhaps written +on his face, and that Martha had read it at a glance. But before +he could move, she had moved herself and come towards +him as swiftly as she had first entered the room. She spoke +swiftly too, as though she were afraid of losing her breath before +she could say what she had to say; and yet she had already +lost her breath, and was panting.</p> + +<p>"Neale, dear, dear Neale ..." her voice was quavering and +very low, "I must tell you quickly. Neale, I'm afraid I've done +you a great wrong. Neale, I love you better than any one I +ever saw, but," her voice sank so low Neale could scarcely hear +her, "I don't want to marry you."</p> + +<p>Her lips began to tremble. She hung her head, and Neale +could see the dark red flooding up to the roots of her hair.</p> + +<p>He was for a moment literally incapable of speech. She +went on falteringly, "Out in Cleveland, at Margaret's wedding +you know, everybody talking about getting married, and +Margaret ... she's like my sister ... we're so near each +other ... and we talked. She was just going to be married, +and she thought I was, too. And I thought so. Truly, Neale, +I'd never dreamed of anything else. And she talked to me +as one woman about to be married talks to another—not girls' +talk."</p> + +<p>She began to cry a little now, though she made a great effort +to control herself, drawing long, long breaths, and halting between +her words, trying to bring them out quietly, "Neale,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> +I'm afraid you won't understand. I don't know how to tell +you, I don't know how to tell you! You see I never knew my +mother and I never liked to talk intimately with other girls +about ... about ... but Margaret is so fine and——" +She cried out what she had to say in one burst, in a loud +voice of pain, "Oh, Neale, when I saw Margaret with her lover +I knew, I knew, I'd never loved you at all. I knew I'd hate +you if we were married."</p> + +<p>She turned away and leaned against the wall, sobbing, her +face hidden in the crook of her arm. "What's the matter with +me!" she cried desperately, brokenly. "Why don't I? Am I +different from other women? I can't bear to hurt you so! I +want to love you! What can I do with myself if I don't?"</p> + +<p>The two stood there, the broken pieces of their life lying in +a heap between them.</p> + +<p>Over the heap, Neale took one long step and put his arms +around Martha, so tenderly, so quietly, that she did not start +or shrink away. She stopped sobbing, she stood still in his +arms, breathlessly still as though she were listening intently, +as though she were taking in some knowledge from a source +not articulate.</p> + +<p>She turned her face to his, and said abruptly, "Neale, it's +just come to me.... I hadn't thought of that ... perhaps +you don't really love me either, not in <i>that</i> way ... perhaps +you never did. Perhaps I've just found all of it out in time."</p> + +<p>Neale was startled, frightened, unutterably desolate but he +made no pretense of being taken by surprise. "I can't bear +to give you up, Martha," he said looking down at her. "Perhaps +what we have is all we could ever have. We may lose +this and have nothing. Perhaps there really is nothing else. +What we have is ... is ... very good to have." His face +contracted in a pain that really did surprise him by its keenness. +He was horrified at the idea of losing Martha altogether.</p> + +<p>Martha gazed steadily into his face as if trying to understand +what he said, their old habit of sharing things, of talking +things over, strong on her. He noted how pale and drawn +her face was, with dark rings under her eyes. She had been +suffering, she too had had broken nights. And as he looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> +he saw from her eyes that she was no longer seeing him, +but some inner vision.</p> + +<p>She shivered and drew away from him. "Yes, there is something +else ... something we haven't ... and it's what makes +it all right," she said. "I'd rather have nothing at all ... +nothing ... <i>ever</i>! than something that would make part of +me shrink away from you. I couldn't stand that! I couldn't +stand that!"</p> + +<p>She had said the last words wildly, and she was back by +the door now, as if ready for flight.</p> + +<p>Neale sat down heavily in a chair, and hid his face in his +hands. "All that this means," he said to himself as much as +to Martha, "all that this means, any of it, is that I have not +been man enough to make you love me."</p> + +<p>At this she came flying back to him, incarnate tenderness, +"No, no, Neale, I <i>do</i> love you. I know in my heart that even +if I should ever marry any one else, I'll never feel for anybody +the affection, the trust ... I couldn't ... it's not that. +Loving you as I do only makes it more impossible, more utterly +impossible. You mustn't think this is just the nervous reaction +from any sudden shock of knowledge. I knew ... I +knew well enough what marriage is! But I hadn't felt it."</p> + +<p>She moaned aloud in her bewilderment, "How can I tell you? +How can I make you understand? I don't understand, myself. +Why can't I give you what Margaret has to give?"</p> + +<p>She was bending over him and now snatched his hand and +caught it up to her breast, "Neale, I'd give anything to want +to marry you! Anything! I've tried and tried. It's like a +mountain between us.... I can't reach you through it. +Neale, perhaps we're too much alike. Perhaps that is what +brought us together, but that is what keeps us apart! We +can't unite! I thought of so many things! We're like two +chemicals that can't combine. They can't! That's the way +they're made!"</p> + +<p>Neale found himself resisting her certainty, although it had +been his own. He sat up, suddenly astounded at all that was +being said, and cried roughly, "Martha, do you know what this +means? You are sending me away. What can I do without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> +you?" He caught at her hand. "Martha, why hunt for rainbows +when we have the pot of gold in our hands?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "It wouldn't be the pot of gold," she +said sadly. "It would be a mess of pottage, and you mustn't +sell your heritage for it, any more than I."</p> + +<p>He looked at her hard, and saw that he had no hold on her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's finished for me!" he cried bitterly, out of all patience. +"If you send me away for some romantic notion, you +need have no idea that I will marry any one else. I shall never +have anything to do with a woman again."</p> + +<p>She said steadfastly though her lips were trembling, "I +think when it's a question of what's the finest in us, that nothing +at all is better than a halting compromise."</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you're talking about," he said angrily +and for the moment truthfully. "You're ruining our two lives +for some hair-spun fancy."</p> + +<p>She grew paler, and said in a deep voice, "Neale, I have told +you that I would hate you if you were my husband."</p> + +<p>He turned away to the door. "Good-by," he said coldly.</p> + +<p>She did not answer.</p> + +<p>He went out of the door, and down the stairs. At the bottom +he turned and came up again. He found her standing +where he had left her. He said gently, "You're right, Martha."</p> + +<p>She held out her arms to him. They kissed, sadly, wistfully, +like brother and sister parting for a long separation.</p> + +<p>Neale went away silently in a confusion so great that from +time to time he stopped on the sidewalk till the street straightened +itself out before him, and he could see where to take the +next step.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXV</h2> + + +<p>Neale had set the wheels of his business life whirring at +such speed and there were so many of them that they continued +to turn clatteringly around and around after Martha +had gone away, not only from him but from America; for she +had sailed at once with her father for Berlin. Neale watched +them whirring for weeks before he perceived that they were +running down, and for weeks after that before he perceived +that he felt no impulse to keep them moving. There didn't +seem to be much point to things, any more. Martha had done +what in his heart he wanted done. And yet he was far from +satisfied. He missed her outrageously, missed having her there, +didn't know what to do with himself. And yet he had not +been overjoyed at what he had been on the point of doing with +himself. He must be hard to suit, he thought, fretting to +feel himself still confused and uncertain, with no zest in things. +Damn it, what <i>did</i> he want?</p> + +<p>A week after Martha's departure he had a letter from Grandfather, +written on blue-lined paper, reading, "Dear Neale: +Wharton just came in to say he wants the Melwin spruce and +heard you had bought them. He wanted 'em for twelve hundred +(couldn't find out what you'd paid for them I guess). I +said fifteen hundred and stuck to it. He squirmed some. But +I knew through Ed that he wanted them for a New York order +he's got for big stuff. And there aren't any others around +here that'll come up to his specifications. So I made him toe +the mark. He left a check for $300 (which I enclose) and will +pay spot cash for the rest before beginning to cut."</p> + +<p>Neale sat at his desk, looking hard at the piece of cheap +paper which brought him the news that in a short time he +would have eight hundred dollars more in the bank than he had +had before. And without turning his hand over. All he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> +done was to know that the Melwin spruce were worth a lot +more than was thought by the Iowa cousin who had inherited +that distant wood-lot. Easy money! Somebody had paid him +high for that piece of knowledge,—who? Wharton, of course, +would certainly get it out of somebody's else hide, or he would +never have gone in for the deal.</p> + +<p>He sat dreaming, remembering his timber-cruising trip, remembering +the choppers and woodmen he had known around +Grandfather's. Men like that would work all a year around in +all weathers, all their days, to get as much as he would have +for doing nothing.</p> + +<p>He drew a long breath and turned to enter the check in his +check-book. A queer sort of a world. And after all, he stood +in much the same relation to the Gates family as the lumbermen +did to him, working enough sight harder for enough sight +less money. That seemed to be the way things were. But +it didn't seem quite square.</p> + +<p>A hasty mental calculation showed him that with this money +he would have over two thousand dollars. Clear. Not so +bad! He considered the matter, wondering why he felt no +more elation, and decided that it was because he could not +for a moment think of anything he specially wanted to do +with two thousand dollars. Always before this he had thought +he was making money to give to Martha. Was it possible +that he had been using Martha as an excuse? No, no, he +explained hastily to himself, the point was that Martha had, +all women had, some definite use to make of money. It bought +things they wanted and thought important, suburban houses +and mahogany twin beds and what not. Martha could easily +have spent that sum to buy things that pleased her. The +only use he could think of for it was to use it over again to +make more money. And then what? It didn't seem much +of a life to do that over and over.</p> + +<p>He looked around him at the busy outer office, filled with +haste and a sense of the importance of its processes. There +was more to it than making money. That was the foolish, +reforming-professor's idea of "sordid business." You were in +it, not because you wanted the money but because it was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> +biggest game in the world, and it was fun to win out. All right +then. He <i>would</i> win out.</p> + +<p>But no matter how much time he put into his efforts to win +out, there was a lot of time left over. Neale did not succeed +in filling that leisure to his satisfaction. He went out more +than he had ever before, accepted invitations to dinner from all +the married men in the office and lunched with all the unmarried, +and had them out for meals with him. But still there +was time left over. He went to the theater, to loud hearty +farces that made him laugh, at first; but they very soon seemed +all cut by the same pattern and he found himself sitting them +out as grimly and smilelessly as Americans read their comic +supplements.</p> + +<p>It was not that he was lonely because he was alone. Never +in his life had he found the slightest alleviation to loneliness in +merely having some one, any one, with him. The truth was +that when he was alone he fell to thinking. And he did not +know what to make of his thoughts. They mostly consisted +of an answerless question, so answerless in the nature of things, +that it was foolish to formulate it—the same old question you +always ran into when you stopped to think, "what are you +doing all this <i>for</i>, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>In football days that question had been silenced by the +instant fierce, all-sufficient answer, "For the team!" What +was the present equivalent of the team now? It looked remarkably +like Neale Crittenden, all by himself—not such +a very big inspiring goal when you stopped to think of it. +The best thing evidently was not to do much stopping to +think.</p> + +<p>One evening unwarily he allowed something alarming to +happen to him, something worse than stopping to think. After +a solitary dinner at Reisenweber's he strolled along 59th +Street, and, as it seemed too early to go back to his room and +he had nothing else to do that evening, stepped into a concert +at Carnegie Hall. He stepped in to get rid of a few hours +of his restless uneasiness and he came out so devoured by restless +uneasiness that he could not think of going to bed, but +walked up and down the streets for hours trying to forget the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> +shouts of the brass, the long sweet cries of the violins. They +seemed to call his name over and over ... to summon him +out, up, to some glory ... little by little they died away, leaving +him in the same flat, inner silence as before, hearing nothing +but the banging clatter of the elevated and the clang of the +surface-car bells. A little before dawn he went back to bed, +exhausted. What sort of a life was this, anyhow?</p> + +<p>He was less away from the city than usual, now, spent more +time at his desk, which was usually in those days heaped with +work that had formerly been done by other men. The office +was shifting its routine, rearranging the work to meet the +strain of the Manager's failing health. It was whispered that +Mr. Gates—the "young Mr. Gates"—though only fifty-three, +might have to pull out altogether. That would mean promotion +all around. Neale knew by the character of the work on +his desk that when promotion was served out, he would get +his share.</p> + +<p>Flittingly once or twice, it occurred to him that all the +managers of departments were but mortal, and that in time all +their private offices would be filled by the men now working at +desks in the outer rooms. How would he like in the end to +move into Mr. Gates' office, he wondered? This thought, +casual and fantastic though it was, moved him to inquire whatever +was the matter with Mr. Gates' health anyhow? He was +told that the older man was "threatened with a complete nervous +breakdown due to overwork." Neale like all other American +business-men had heard that phrase all his life. The +very wording of it was as familiar to him as the name of a +standard make of soap or collar. But he found he did not +after all really know what it meant. What happened to anybody +who had a complete nervous breakdown? Mr. Gates +came and went about as usual although not so regularly, looking +about the same—spare, dry, hard, well dressed, well shaved, +attentive, silent. Neale looked at him with some curiosity, +wondering how a threatened nervous breakdown showed itself, +and deciding skeptically that there was probably the same +amount of nervousness about it as about everything—less in +it than people made out—money for specialists mostly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p> + +<p>One day he was consulting a letter-file near the door to the +manager's office, which stood ajar. Over the file, Neale could +see the familiar scene: Mr. Gates' private secretary standing to +the right of his employer in a respectful attitude, a bunch of +letters in his hand. Mr. Gates adjusted his eye-glasses, their +fine gold chain gleaming yellow against the hard gray of his +thin cheeks. He took a letter off the pile and held it up before +him. To Neale's astonishment the paper shook as though +a high wind were blowing through the room. A look of anxious +effort came into the older man's face. He leaned his elbows +on the table and tried to take the letter in both hands, +but it fell out of his trembling fingers upon the desk and slid +to the floor. Mr. Gates stooped, secured it with difficulty and +lifted his head to recover his position. As he did this, with +rather a jerk to get his balance, the drooping loop of his eye-glass +chain caught on the key of the drawer and tore his +glasses off. They fell on the desk with a little tinkling clatter, +broken; and instantly Mr. Gates flung the letter from him, put +both hands over his face and burst into tears. Neale heard +the sound of his sobbing. His secretary, looking concerned, +but not surprised, sprang to the heavy door and slammed it +shut.</p> + +<p>Neale stood frozen with one hand on a letter in the file, +frightened for the first time in his life, so frightened that it +made him sick. When he recovered presence of mind enough +to move, he tip-toed away to his own desk and sat down before +it, shaken. So that was a nervous breakdown! Good God!</p> + +<p>He wasn't so sure he wanted to move up ultimately into that +office.</p> + +<p>For a long time after this he was haunted by the recollection +of that scene, and especially by the sound of those strange, +shocking sobs. Sometimes they woke him up at night, as +though it were a sound in the room. They recurred to him at +the most inopportune moments, in a train, at table, as he +undressed for the night in a bedroom of a country hotel.</p> + +<p>He would have given anything not to have heard them. He +tried everything to drown them out.</p> + +<p>He turned again at this time to books, and took down from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> +the shelves, volumes he had not looked at since college, books +of speculation, abstract thought, history. He found Gregg's +marks in one or two and wondered how Gregg was liking it +being a professor out in California. That was far away, and +so was Gregg. And so were the books. They looked different +in his hand; remembered pages had not the same message. He +could not seem to put his mind on them as he had. It +wandered to other things. A long time since he had tried to +use his mind in that way. He had had mighty little time for +reading abstract stuff.</p> + +<p>Once, starting off on a trip sure to be tiresome, with a long +wait in the late evening at Hoosick Junction, he chanced to put +into his valise a volume of Emerson. He read the newspaper on +the train up, the news, the financial page, and what was going +on in the world of sports. But he left the paper in the train, and +as he settled himself for the dreary wait in the dreary, dusty, +empty station he opened the Emerson. What were some of +those places he used to think so fine?... "Society is a joint-stock +company in which the members agree, for the better +securing of the bread to each shareholder, to surrender the +liberty and culture of the eater. The virtue in most request is +conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves not realities +and creators, but names and customs. Whoso would be a +man must be a nonconformist....</p> + +<p>"The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; +a reverence for our past act or word.... But why +should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag +about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat +you have stated in this or that public place? Suppose +you should contradict yourself; what then? It seems to be a +rule of wisdom ... to bring the past for judgment into the +thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a new day. Leave your +theory as Joseph his coat in the hand of the harlot, and +flee!"</p> + +<p>He slammed the book shut again. It made him feel as +that confounded music had, stirred up, restless, unhappy, +ashamed. It was a voice from another sort of world, a voice +that he would rather not hear, because there was nothing to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> +made of what it said. What could you <i>do</i> about it? Neale +detested stirring up ideas about which there was nothing to +be done. And he knew a great deal more now than he once +had about the many, many things that could not be done.</p> + +<p>But shutting the book, even slamming it shut, did not silence +the voice. He sat alone under the one smoky kerosene lamp, +staring into the dusty, dreary, empty waiting-room and heard +it clear and calm and summoning, "Leave your theory as Joseph +his coat in the hand of the harlot, and flee!" He looked +about him desperately, but there was not a soul in the station +save himself, nor a house near the tracks. There was not a +sound to drown out the deep humanity of that summoning, +challenging voice.</p> + +<p>He made an impatient rebellious gesture. Summoning? +That was all very well. But to what? To something better +than he had, more worth while than he was? Well, what was +there? Where could it be found? Those vague high-sounding +phrases were easy enough to write, but what could you <i>do</i> +about it in real life? What was the matter with what he had?</p> + +<p>The matter with it was that it was bare and dingy and +empty, like the room in which he sat. But what was not? +Everything was like that, if you didn't believe the nonsense +written about it, if you looked at it and saw it. It wasn't +to be supposed that he, Neale Crittenden, would go and be a +missionary, was it, or any of those pious priggish make-shift +devices to pretend that you were doing something worth while? +Or join the Salvation Army and beat a drum? He was an +American business-man. What in hell did Emerson think you +<i>could</i> do?</p> + +<p>He got up and walked restlessly around the dreadful little +room, helpless before its bareness. Nothing to read in the +place, not even a time-table. Nothing but the Emerson. He +went over to where it lay on the bench, opened his valise, put +the book back in, down among his shirts, and snapped the +valise shut on it. A whistle sounded down the track. He +looked at his watch. No, his train was not due for half an +hour yet. He went to the door and watched a through freight +roll past, noting the names on the cars as they flashed into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> +light from the station-agent's window,—N. Y. Central, Père +Marquette, Wabash, Erie, Boston and Maine,—shoes and +groceries and hardware, structural-steel, cement—all the +thousand things needed every day to keep the wheels of daily +material life moving, all made, bought and sold, shipped and +handled by men like him. All necessary honest goods, all +necessary honest work ... but that couldn't be <i>all</i> of life! +The train pounded off, the silence of the night closed in on +him, and in that silence he heard the echo of those appalling +sobs, and the slam of the door. Queer thing, human life was, +wasn't it? Think of poor Mr. Gates paying that price, and +very likely for something he didn't care so much about when +he got it. It wasn't the price you paid, that bothered Neale. +If it were something worth your while, you were willing to +pay all you had. But to pay so much, just to make money for +Neale Crittenden ... he couldn't see it that way. He'd +have a smoke on it anyhow.</p> + +<p>As he filled his pipe it came to him that once before he had +felt the same aching restlessness, so intense that it was pain. +That was the time when he had gone stale. He'd been put +out of the game, and had sat on the side-lines eating his heart +out. He was there again, gone stale, out of the game. He +had the strength, he had the speed, now as then. Why was +it he stood outside the game? Other men were giving their +souls to it. Maybe he <i>was</i> a quitter, after all. There had +certainly been quitting or <i>something</i> the matter in his +relations with Martha ... how empty life was without +Martha.... But he was mighty glad he wasn't going to +marry her.</p> + +<p>He was a fine specimen anyhow!</p> + +<p>"Well now, well now," he shook himself together, "let's consider +all this. What's the best thing to do when you go stale +and have a slump?" Atkins had showed him what to do that +other time. He had actually profited by it in the end, profited +immensely by being temporarily out of the game, so that he +could consider and understand the real inwardness of what it +was all about.</p> + +<p>Why, perhaps that was what he needed to do now, pull out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> +for a while, get away from the whole thing, look at it from a +distance, get a line on what it was all about.</p> + +<p>He sucked on his pipe, cocking his head sidewise to look at +the ceiling, his hands deep in his pockets. There was nothing +to hinder his taking a year off. He had money enough. And +not a tie on earth to prevent his doing as he pleased. He'd +lose his job, of course. But he didn't seem to be just madly in +love with his job anyhow. And there were other jobs.</p> + +<p>"Well, by George, why not?"</p> + +<p>Where should he go? Anywhere that wasn't the lumber +business. There was the whole world, the round globe hurtling +through the infinite. What in God's name was he doing in +Hoosick Junction?</p> + +<p>There was England; and France; and Italy; and after that, +why, anywhere again! Wherever he pleased ... the East, +China, and where there were Malays and jungles. When his +money gave out, if he still wanted to stay on he could earn his +living as well there as here. "There!" That meant anywhere +else. Anywhere else must be less dusty and frowsy and empty +than here.</p> + +<p>Why under the sun had he not thought of this before? +Their damned old labels do stick after all. But he would soak +them off!</p> + +<p>His heart unfolded from its painful tight compression. The +way out? Why had he been so long in seeing it? The way +out was to put on your hat and go.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BIRTHDAYS_IN_SEVERAL_LANGUAGES" id="BIRTHDAYS_IN_SEVERAL_LANGUAGES"></a><i>BIRTHDAYS IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES</i></h2> + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p class="right"> +Ashley, Vermont, May, 1904.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Horace Allen's cousin was astonished to the limit of astonishment +by the news, and cried out accusingly, "Why, I +thought the other time it was only because Flora wanted to +go. I thought you thought it would put you on the shelf altogether. +I thought you hated it."</p> + +<p>Horace considered this, sitting heavily on a bench while +cousin Hetty pruned a nearby rose-bush, rigorously. Although +she did not break in on his silence with a, "Well?" +or, "Did you hear what I said?" she made him quite aware +that she was relentlessly waiting for his answer.</p> + +<p>"Well, I did," he admitted finally, "and I do yet. And it +did put me on the shelf. That's all I'm good for now. It's +because of my experience in Bayonne they want me to take +charge of the Paris office."</p> + +<p>"You don't have to go if they do," she pointed out; and +this as she expected, brought out the real reason.</p> + +<p>"Those four years in France have spoiled me for living here," +he said and awaited doggedly her inevitable cry of amazement.</p> + +<p>"<i>You!</i>" She stood up from her shorn rose-bush, her huge +shears in one clumsily-gloved hand, a large thorned spray in +the other, "Well for goodness' sake, <i>how</i>?"</p> + +<p>He was in no haste to answer this either, meditating silently, +the spring sun pouring an incongruous flood of golden young +light on the sagging heaviness of his middle-aged face. Cousin +Hetty let him alone again, and went on with the ruthless snip! +clash! of her great shears.</p> + +<p>When he rose again to the surface, it was with a two-fold +explanation.</p> + +<p>"Everybody that's worth anything over there has learned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> +how to do his job. No slap-dash business. And there's plenty +of cheap slave-labor. You're waited on! You're made comfortable. +You've heard people talk of the charm of European +life. What they mean is cheap labor. There's nothing more +charming for the employer."</p> + +<p>"Well!" commented Cousin Hetty. After a time she remarked, +resolutely gathering up the villainously prickly shoots +she had been cutting off, "I should think you'd be sort of +ashamed of the slave-labor part of it. An American!"</p> + +<p>She was not one to hesitate, either to handle thorns herself, +or to thrust them upon others.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am," admitted Marise's father casually, and then as +though it gave him a faint amusement to shock her, "I forgot +to mention their cooking and good wines."</p> + +<p>She scorned to take any notice of this, going on, "And I +<i>should</i> think," she stayed her steps for a moment, as she +turned away to carry the pruned-off trash to the spot where +the spring bon-fire with its exquisite coils of blue smoke +faintly dimmed the exquisite clarity of the mountain air, "I +should think that if you found good workmanship such a fine +thing, you might try to do something towards getting more +of it in your own country, instead of just going off where it +grows already."</p> + +<p>"Oh, heavens! you don't see me trying to 'make the world a +better place to live in,' do you? What sort of Harold-the-Uplifter +do you take me for?" he protested, with a yawn.</p> + +<p>Cousin Hetty stepped off to the smoldering bon-fire, threw +her armful of rejected life on the flames, and came back, her +wasted elderly face looking stern.</p> + +<p>"How about Marise? Will it be the best thing for her?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, the best thing...." her father disavowed any pretentious +claims to ideas on that subject.</p> + +<p>"Horace, don't pretend you don't know what I mean. Right +in the middle of her college course!"</p> + +<p>"Shucks for her college course!" he said. "How much good +does anybody's college course amount to? Her music is +worth forty times that to her. Besides she can keep on going +to school in Paris, can't she? What's to hinder?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p> + +<p>The reference to music seemed to give her a new idea as to +his plans, an idea which she challenged with suspicion, "What +do you expect she's going to do with her music, anyhow? +What do you <i>want</i> her to do?"</p> + +<p>"What do I expect her to do with her music? Oh, what does +anybody do with music? Use it to get what she wants. I +expect her to succeed on the concert platform. And get a +lot of applause. And marry one foreign monkey after another. +And hate every other musically gifted woman, like poison. +And get so dependent on flattery that she can't live twenty-four +hours without a big swig of it from no matter whose +flask. And die of wounded vanity because a younger woman +is beginning to be applauded. That's what I expect, of course. +What else is there to expect?"</p> + +<p>At the end of this prophecy which he had brought out +slowly and coldly, with long pauses between the sentences, he +closed his eyes and relapsed into silence as though it were +all a matter of no consequence.</p> + +<p>His cousin made no comment but waited patiently for what +he had not said. He turned his bulky body sideways on the +bench, his shoulder to her, like a sulky boy, to indicate that +he had no intention of adding anything.</p> + +<p>But presently her persistent, silent demand for what was +really in his mind brought out, "Marise's music-teacher in +Bayonne was pretty near the only human being in the whole +damn town that didn't make me tired. She was pretty nearly +the only human being I ever saw anywhere who had enough +sense to come in out of the rain. She was an old-maid school-teacher, +ugly enough to stop a clock. But she was all right. +She didn't want anything for herself. She was safe. Her +music had put her where nothing could touch her."</p> + +<p>Cousin Hetty was struck by the quality of this statement. +She looked at him softly.</p> + +<p>"That is what you want for Marise," she said, and continued +to stand before him, looking down at him.</p> + +<p>He was as much annoyed as though she had cried out emotionally, +"Oh, you <i>do</i> love her! You <i>do</i> think of how to be a +good father to her!" and he cut short her sickly, sentimental<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> +display of feeling by affirming stolidly, "Well, I won't get it."</p> + +<p>"But you don't see any other chance for her."</p> + +<p>He felt that she was taking an unfair advantage of a chance +lapse on his part and, dismayed and disgusted by the pious +color of their talk, was pointedly silent, conveying the impression +that he was trying to command his patience till she should +consent to stop talking foolishly.</p> + +<p>"Marise isn't a bit old," she pointed out, half to herself, +half to him. "She's just seventeen to-day. And she's not +plain, either."</p> + +<p>"You bet your life she's not. That's why I know what her +music is going to do to <i>her</i>."</p> + +<p>"Well, for goodness' sakes, why take her out of college to go +on with it?"</p> + +<p>He evidently felt that he had more than explained this, +for he made no answer. She said then, a very plain, human +anxiety wrinkling her old face, "Do you honestly think, Horace, +that you are the right person to bring up a pretty, seventeen-year-old +girl?"</p> + +<p>"As good as anybody else," he said drily, averring the +complete incompetence of all the world for that task.</p> + +<p>"But she is getting on so well at college—she stands so +high—and the youngest in her class. She is so bright."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that hasn't anything to do with her being bright. +That comes from the schooling she's had in France. She +learned to keep at whatever she was doing till she got it right.—Lord—the +sloshy work in an American college—as easy as +sliding down hill for her. She may or she may not have a +good mind. She's learned to work, that's all."</p> + +<p>"That's what you're going back for, because of good work," +stated Cousin Hetty.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm not expecting to do any of it myself," he enjoyed +his usual satisfaction in making no pretense to virtue, "but +I like being able to hire other folks for a nickel or two, to +work like that. And I like being able to hire other folks +to make it their business to keep me comfortable. And don't +forget the cooking. And the wine. And the beds. There's +not a decent bed in America."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p> + +<p>She made him feel by a lift of the eyebrows that she considered +this a rather self-conscious, sophomoric continuance of +the pose of knowing sophistication. At this he looked nettled +and cross.</p> + +<p>A little later, as she stopped in front of him, with an armful +of pruned-off shoots, on her way to the bon-fire, she asked, +"But will Marise have a good time over there? Young folks +here do have such good times."</p> + +<p>In his turn he showed her by a lift of the eyebrows that +he considered this too unimportant to answer. She stood +looking down at her shears, cruel, steel-bright and keen, "Oh, +well ... I don't suppose I let my roses have such a good +time," she said to herself.</p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p>After supper they went out on the bench while he smoked +his cigar. Cousin Hetty did not mind tobacco smoke inside +the house, but her elderly hired girl did. They were both +still under the impression of the tepid warmth of the afternoon +sunshine, and were surprised to find the evening air so +cold.</p> + +<p>"Feels as though there were still snow on the mountains," +he remarked, recognizing the peculiar, raw, penetrating chill.</p> + +<p>"There is," she told him, drawing her shawl about her.</p> + +<p>By his tone he had intimated that he had passed out of +the prickly irritation of his afternoon mood. By hers, she +had told him that she would, as usual, meet him half-way, in +any mood he chose to feel.</p> + +<p>They sat down together on the wooden bench; he began +silently to smoke, and she to think.</p> + +<p>"My visit's over. I must take the noon train to-morrow," +he said, "and I've half a notion to ask your advice about +something."</p> + +<p>She refrained from any expression of the astonishment and +skepticism she felt and said briefly with a friendly accent, "All +right."</p> + +<p>"About Marise," he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, of course. What is it?" she asked in an altered +tone of quickened interest.</p> + +<p>But for a time he said nothing more. He waited, drawing +on his cigar. He drew so hard that it began to gleam redly +through the dusk. At this, he took it from his lips and held +it down, his fingers out-curved at his side, where he did not +see the raging coal at its tip. He had never thought consciously +about this gesture, but it was an invariable one with +him. There was something distasteful to him about the naked, +raw hotness of a newly-lighted cigar-tip. He preferred it +later on when all you could see was the ghost-form of the +burned-out tobacco, the long, fine ash held together by nothing +at all, ready to be shattered at a breath into floating particles +of nothingness.</p> + +<p>"About Flora, Flora's death," he added presently, knowing +although she had given no sign, that she was listening +intently, "I never told you. It wasn't just pneumonia...."</p> + +<p>He was silent as if he did not know just how to get on +with what he wanted to say, and finally said, irritably, "There's +nothing to it—nothing! But I can't ask you what I want +to, unless you know something about it."</p> + +<p>She divined that he would not have told her if they had +not come out where it was dark, where he could not see her.</p> + +<p>She made herself small, cowering under her shawl, and listened +forebodingly, as he went on, his intense distaste for +every word coloring his rough, abrupt statements.</p> + +<p>"I was up in Bordeaux on business and one morning didn't +I see Flora's name in the headlines of the nasty little local +paper from Bayonne! An accident at Saint Sauveur—that's +a kind of Hot Springs where Flora went sometimes for +sulphur-baths. A young man had fallen into the river, or +had jumped in. It was in flood, with melting snow. And +he was drowned. And because Flora happened to know him +and be there, the reporter who'd written up the accident jumped +to the conclusion that he and Flora ... to the conclusion +they always jump to about everybody."</p> + +<p>Cousin Hetty did not stir, allowed herself no inward comment +lest she color the impersonal attention she was giving,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> +which, she understood well enough was, with the darkness, +the only condition on which he could go on speaking.</p> + +<p>"Hell, wasn't it?" he said briefly before continuing. "I +didn't know anything about French inquests, but I could make +a guess they would take care to make this one as uncomfortable +for Flora as they could. Sounded like a good chance for +blackmail too. So I telegraphed back to the house that I'd +be back on the next train. I found out afterwards that Marise +had wired me, but I never got her telegram. Then before +the train started, I beat it to the office of a French lawyer +in Bordeaux, and found out all I wanted to about French +inquests. I found out then, that there wasn't any real danger, +that they couldn't do a thing except talk about it. But, +Heavens! their talk was apt to be a-plenty. It was up to +me to get back and look out for Flora. Poor Flora! You +know she had no more harm in her than a kitten."</p> + +<p>Cousin Hetty felt a long, rigorous tremor run through her, +partly the cold of the mountain evening, partly an inner chill.</p> + +<p>"Poor <i>Flora</i>!" she said now in a trembling voice. It was +the only word she spoke, the only comment she made on what +he had told her, on what he was to tell her.</p> + +<p>"Well, when my train pulled into Bayonne the next morning, +there was Marise to meet me, and great Scott! she almost +scared the life out of me, crying and hanging on to +me. I didn't know what <i>had</i> happened, besides what was +in the paper, what she had heard! But in a minute, she +got over that enough to tell me what <i>she</i> thought the matter +was ... her mother all shaken up from the nervous shock +of seeing somebody killed, all upset, gone to a convent for a +rest-cure. Lots of folks do that in France, instead of going +to a hospital or sanitarium, as they do here. I didn't think +from the way she spoke she even knew who it was who had +been killed. You'd better believe <i>I</i> didn't say anything about +who it was, either! I wanted to go easy and find out how +things were. I kept my ears and eyes open: but I didn't +get anything that would give me a lead from Marise, except +that I found that her music-teacher had piled right in and +stayed by her till I got there. And I was pretty sure she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> +wouldn't have told Marise anything, and would have kept +anybody's else mouth shut. It came out casually, for one +thing, that she had sequestered that newspaper I saw, before +Marise had a chance to look at it. Well, it looked as though +the first thing was to get Flora home where I could stand +guard over her, till the thing blew over." He burst out savagely, +"Good God! How was I to dream that she was so +sick!" He made some violent gesture which his old kinswoman +felt, but could not see in the darkness.</p> + +<p>"But she was. When we went to see her that afternoon, +the doctor was there with her, and told me there wasn't a +chance in a thousand for her. Double pneumonia. We saw +her for a moment that afternoon, and the minute Marise went +to bed that evening, I went back. But I was too late. Hetty, +you never saw anything like how young she looked ... like +a little girl, as if she'd died without having lived. The nice +old Sister who had taken care of her had put flowers around +her, white roses. And she was crying. She was about the +only friend Flora had, the only one of them who didn't want +something out of her."</p> + +<p>Cousin Hetty's face was wet with tears, but she let them +fall silently, not stirring a hand to wipe them away.</p> + +<p>Her cousin stirred a great deal, moving restlessly on the +bench, folding and refolding his arms impatiently.</p> + +<p>"The next three days—I never went through such a crazy +performance—enough to drive a man out of his mind. +The music-teacher I told you about took Marise off with +her, up to the mountains somewhere where her old home +was, until the day of the funeral. I don't know how I could +have managed without that. I <i>couldn't</i> have had Marise +around, while I was trying to hush up the coroner's men, or +whoever they were.</p> + +<p>"As soon as I got in touch with the dead boy's family, I +found out where a lot of the trouble came from. The police +had come down from Saint Sauveur, just as a matter of routine, +to go through the motions of an investigation and had +gone to where we lived, because they thought Flora was there. +But she'd gone to the convent, so they saw our old cook and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> +asked her a lot of questions. And Jeanne, instead of telling +the truth, which was that she didn't know a thing about +it, saw a chance for some tall and fancy lying such as she +made a specialty of. She got off a long story about how +she'd met the boy on his way to the train, and he'd told her +he was going on business, and Marise had asked him to take +a message to her mother, and he'd said her mother didn't +know him by sight—oh, God knows what! I take it she +thought she was safe-guarding the family honor, by making +out that Flora didn't know the young man, but she certainly +got everything tied up into knots. She'd beat it off +to tell the dead boy's family what she'd told the police, so +their lies would be of the same color as hers. Oh, it was +the damnedest mix-up! Of course they were all set to do +their share of lying. They wanted as much as I did to keep +the police out of it. Jeanne had beat them to it, and so they +repeated her version rather than start something new. But +naturally, rattled as they were with the suddenness of it, they +didn't get it exactly straight, and that started the police off +on an idea they hadn't had before, that maybe there was +something more in it than met the eye. They asked some +other questions around in Bayonne, and then it was all up.</p> + +<p>"Of course Jeanne's story couldn't hold water for a minute. +They found out first that he hadn't any business that could +possibly have taken him up to the mountains. And the old +hag that kept a flower-stand on our street said he had sat all +the evening before Flora went away, on the bench across the +street from our house, that she'd sold him some flowers at +eight when she shut her stall, and when she came back at +six the next morning he was there again. And our concierge +said—oh, hell, you don't need to know all the details. Everybody +was lying and everybody sure that everybody else was, +and those fool police inspectors were sure they'd unearth +something if they only kept on. Inside twenty-four hours, I +saw there was no sort of chance of getting anything straightened +out by getting down to the facts, which didn't amount +to a whoop anyhow. So we did what you always do in +France when you want to get anything done. We used a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> +pull. Garnier, this boy's father, was a business acquaintance +of mine, and quite a level-headed man. We got together, +away from his wife. She was just crazy over her son's death. +From one day to the next she looked twenty years older. +And the way she cursed us all for ever coming to Bayonne—not +that I cared. She was out of her mind, anyhow. +All the same, the things she said ... and poor Flora in her +coffin...."</p> + +<p>He drew a long breath, and cast his dead cigar from him +with a vivid gesture of disgust.</p> + +<p>"The upshot was, that Garnier got busy the right way. +He furnished the political pull, and I furnished the money. +We stopped fooling with the police and went straight to the +Préfet, and they passed the order down quick from one office +to another, to have that inquest settled at once, with no more +noise. When that hit the police who'd been bothering us, +they curled up and dropped off. I bribed a reporter and +the editor of the local newspaper, and when the music-teacher +brought Marise back to the funeral, the whole mess was +buried."</p> + +<p>In the momentary silence which followed, as he drew +breath again, Cousin Hetty's self-control gave way. He could +feel that she was shaking uncontrollably and hear that her +teeth were chattering.</p> + +<p>He was startled, having forgotten that she was there, forgotten +that this was anything but one of the sick, silent evocations +which blackened so many hours for him.</p> + +<p>"Great Scott! Hetty, you're freezing to death," he cried, +helping her roughly to her feet. "Why under the sun didn't +you <i>say</i> you were getting cold?"</p> + +<p>She did not intimate that she was shaken by anything but +a physical chill. Stiff and bent, clinging to his great arm, +unable to stop the nervous chattering of her teeth, she hobbled +back to the house beside him.</p> + +<p>The light from the fire on the hearth set them miles apart, +as she had known it would. His face closed shut. He would +never mention all this to her again. He was irritated that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> +he had spoken. He blamed her because he had spoken. But +she cared less than nothing whether she were blamed or not. +As soon as she was able to control the nervous trembling of +her hands and lips and head, she asked, "How much does +Marise know?"</p> + +<p>He said impatiently, "I don't know. I haven't any idea. +I thought perhaps <i>you</i> might have. Why <i>else</i> do you suppose +I told you about it?"</p> + +<p>"What do you think?" she persisted.</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't see how she could. That music-teacher had +gone directly to be with her, and stayed with her practically +every minute I wasn't, and I know she'd never tell her anything, +nor let anybody else. But you never know. You +never know. There are a million underground ways—in +France especially. You find out everything you ever know +through the back of your head somehow, or by putting two +and two together that nobody meant you to. Servants—gossip—though, +thank God, Jeanne had a stroke of paralysis +just then, that kept her from saying a word till after we +had left Bayonne. If Jeanne had been able to talk, I'd have +been <i>sure</i> that Marise had heard forty times more than there +was to know. Damn Jeanne! and yet she'd have died to get +Marise a new dress or something good to eat, any day! I +don't see how Marise <i>could</i> have heard anything. And of +course, if she didn't—least said, soonest mended. But if she +did, it's a dead sure thing she got it all twisted, and I suppose +she ought to have it straightened out."</p> + +<p>His old cousin broke in with a rush, "Well, I think you'd +better tell her," and felt instantly that this was not at all the +answer he had wished for. "You don't want to do it," she said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I never want to do anything," he admitted. "It's always +the easiest way."</p> + +<p>"The easiest way lands you in some pretty hard places," +she observed.</p> + +<p>He made no comment on this, but his silence did not save +him from her further going on, "Look where it landed you with +Flora."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p> + +<p>He was stirred to a moment of heat, "What are you talking +about, Hetty? By God, I never refused Flora anything she +wanted. If you call <i>that</i> the easiest way!"</p> + +<p>She flared up in a momentary impatience at his denseness, +but wasted no words on an issue no longer vital.</p> + +<p>"Well, I think you'd better tell Marise," she repeated +stubbornly.</p> + +<p>He set this on one side for a moment as irrelevant, and +said, "All I want to know from you is whether you've ever +seen a sign in her to make you think she had heard anything. +Did you ever notice when she speaks of her mother ... or +whether she doesn't speak?"</p> + +<p>She scorned, as he knew she would, coloring the truth to +win a point, "No, I never did," she stated honestly.</p> + +<p>"Well then, that's all I wanted to know. I know you'd +have seen it, if it were there, she's been so much with you."</p> + +<p>"But I think you ought to tell her," she persisted.</p> + +<p>"Why, under the Heavens, <i>why</i>?" he asked. "Why put ideas +in her head, if she's perfectly all right?"</p> + +<p>"I think everybody ought to know about everything," she +answered sweepingly, "and they're not perfectly all right unless +they do. At least, if she <i>has</i> heard anything, she ought +to know that you don't blame Flora, that you don't think +there was anything but talk. You could talk it over with her, +get it out into the light."</p> + +<p>"It would be poisoning her mind against her mother to +mention it."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe," Cousin Hetty held to her point steadily, +pale, very much in earnest, "I don't believe that the truth can +poison anybody's mind."</p> + +<p>"Well, I believe in using ordinary horse-sense about everything," +he said conclusively, with a peremptory accent.</p> + +<p>Cousin Hetty fell back from this brute assertion of his +authority.</p> + +<p>"You'd made up your mind what to do before you ever +spoke to me," she told him, not without bitterness.</p> + +<p>"That isn't fair, I didn't know enough to make up my mind. +You told me what I needed to know," he answered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I wish I <i>could</i> tell you what you need to know," she flamed +out at him.</p> + +<p>But she evidently found it useless to try any longer, and +sank again huddled in her low chair. He got up carelessly and +shook himself to start the blood through his great frame, +numbed by immobility. His eye was caught by the expression +of the old woman's face as she looked up at him. He stood +still, considering her, "You're going to miss Marise," he said.</p> + +<p>She turned back hastily towards the fire, to hide the sudden +trembling of her lips, and presently said in a dry voice, "All I +want is for her to have what is best for her."</p> + +<p>He agreed to this with relief, "Sure! So do I. Poor kid. +<i>She</i> never asked to be born."</p> + +<p>Later, as he started up the stairs, his glass kerosene lamp in +his hand, he said, "You know, Hetty, as well as I do that it +doesn't make any difference what we do, or don't do for her. +She's got to take what's coming to her just like everybody +else."</p> + +<p>His cousin looked down at the steady, commonplace little +flame of her own lamp, "I don't suppose I'll ever see her +again," she said in a low tone of profound sadness. But +she added stoically, as she began to climb the stairs after +him, "Not that that makes any difference to anybody but +me."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +Paris, May, 1905.<br /> +</p> + +<p>"Holá ... p-s-st! Allen!" called Marthe Tollet, as +Marise passed through the glass-covered verandah, on her way +to the street door. In her haste to stop Marise, she used the +abrupt surname hail which the girls thought so very chic and +truly English, which the older teachers forbade as rude and +barbarous, a typical manifestation of the crumbling down of +civilized French ways under the onslaught of modern Anglo-Saxon +roughness.</p> + +<p>"Eh bien, the little Tollet, what is it?" asked Marise in the +same vernacular, pausing in front of the concierge's door. +Marthe left the Swedish ladder, where she was twisting her +flexible young body in and out of the rungs, and coming up +to Marise remarked casually, "Oh, I just thought maybe you'd +like to go to the dormitory and see that little compatriot of +yours. She's crying like everything, la pauvre, and nobody +can do a thing with her."</p> + +<p>"The pretty little girl with blonde hair?" asked Marise, +somewhat vague as to the younger girls in the lower classes. +"What's the matter with her?"</p> + +<p>"A perfectly horrible attack of homesickness, they say. +The English teacher is up there—she's the only one who +can talk to her; but you know how likely the MacMurray will +be to put balm on a sore heart, eh? And you could make a +wooden man split his sides laughing, once you get started. +<i>You</i> could cheer her up."</p> + +<p>Marise hesitated, looked in at the clock in the concierge's +loge, and nodded. She started towards the door of the dormitory +building, stopped and called back, "O là, the little Tollet, +what's her name?</p> + +<p>"Eugénie," said the other, "Eugénie Mille."</p> + +<p>As she climbed the dark, winding, well-waxed stairs, Marise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> +reflected that that didn't sound like an American name, and +made a guess that, as had happened to her before, she would +find that the "American girl" was from Martinque, or Peru or +Saõ Paulo.</p> + +<p>But it was English, sure enough, that Miss MacMurray was +talking, as she bent over the sobbing blue-serge heap, on the +narrow iron bed. She was saying helplessly, "There now, it's +verra har-rd, I know, I'm far from home, mysel'," patting the +heaving shoulders with one hand, and anxiously looking at +her watch. She was due at a private lesson in ten minutes, +and a private lesson meant five irreplaceable francs.</p> + +<p>She welcomed the tall American girl with relief, "Ah, that's +right, that's right, you'll know how to get her quieted down," +and fled before Marise could protest that she did not even know +the homesick child.</p> + +<p>Rather at a loss, and very unenthusiastically, Marise stood +looking down on the crumpled, untidy bed, and the mass +of disordered golden hair, noting the fineness of the tailored +blue serge, and the excellently made small shoes. They were +unmistakably North American in their shapeliness. Nothing +Peruvian or Brazilian about them!</p> + +<p>What could you do for somebody who was homesick? She +certainly did not know from experience. Nobody had ever +done anything for her. She sat down on the edge of the +bed, laid her arm over the narrow shoulders, and said cheerfully, +"Hallo there, what's the matter? You'll run out of +tears, if you aren't careful!"</p> + +<p>At the sound of her voice the sobbing stopped abruptly. +The girl on the bed started, dashed the floating brilliant +hair from her face, and turned on Marise, blue eyes dimmed +with tears. She looked exhausted by her passion of sobbing.</p> + +<p>"Why, you poor kid!" said Marise compassionately. She +hadn't thought it was as serious as all <i>that</i>!</p> + +<p>The other with a rough, scrambling sprawl, got herself to her +knees and sat up, rubbing the tears away from her eyes with +the backs of her hands, and drawing long, quivering breaths. +Her lips were swollen, her cheeks fiery and glazed.</p> + +<p>Marise was touched, and putting out her arms drew the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> +other into them. "Here, you must let me help you get used +to things. <i>I've</i> been homesick, too."</p> + +<p>The girl tried to speak, was on the point of bursting into +tears again, struggled wildly to get the better of her excitement +and emotion, and finally brought out in a strangled +voice, "I'm not <i>homesick</i>! I <i>hate</i> my home! I wouldn't go +back theah for <i>any</i>thing!"</p> + +<p>The words in themselves were sufficiently astonishing to +Marise, and the raging accent with which they were cast out +made them even more disconcerting. She felt that the little +quivering body in her arms was clinging desperately to her, +and sat silent, holding the unhappy child close, because she +did not know what else to do with her.</p> + +<p>Presently, however, she ventured to ask, "Where is your +home?"</p> + +<p>"It <i>was</i> in Arkansas," said the other, in a muffled, defiant +tone. "It isn't anywheah now. It's heah."</p> + +<p>Marise not being very intimately acquainted with the shades +and phases of certain American prejudices, saw nothing peculiar +in having one's home in Arkansas. Why not?</p> + +<p>Apparently some hint of this reached the other, for after +a moment of silent, expectant tension, she lifted her face +from Marise's shoulder and looked up searchingly into her +face. How pretty she must be, thought Marise, when she +hadn't been crying. She must look like a pink lily in the midst +of the dark-skinned, dark-haired, city-sallow little girls of her +class.</p> + +<p>"Have you any of your family here in Paris with you?" she +asked now.</p> + +<p>"I haven't any family left, only some lawyers and guardians +and things," said the other. She spoke as though she +were glad of it, Marise thought, so that she suppressed the +"<i>oh!</i>" of sympathy which she was on the point of uttering. +What a strange little thing!</p> + +<p>The strange little thing now looked up at her. "Do you +know what I was crying for just now?" she said. Marise +could not understand why she asked this in an accusing tone +of blame.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No!" said Marise, as utterly at a loss as ever in her life. +"How could I?"</p> + +<p>"Because I hate myself so, because I hate my looks and my +clothes and <i>every</i>thing!" the other burst out passionately, "I +feel like po' white trash. They had plenty of money! Why +didn't they send me here befoah?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Before!</i>" cried Marise. "Why, you're only a child now."</p> + +<p>"I'm almost as old as you are," said the other. "I'm seventeen +and you're eighteen."</p> + +<p>She flung it out like a grievance.</p> + +<p>"Eh <i>bien</i>!" cried Marise in great astonishment. She had +not thought the other girl over fourteen.</p> + +<p>She said now, sitting up straight and looking wistfully at +Marise, "<i>Will</i> you be friends? You came of your own accord +to be nice to me. Tell me about things. <i>Everything!</i> I +want so like sin to know! I'll do anything to learn."</p> + +<p>"Know what?" asked Marise, bewildered, looking about her, +as if she might catch a glimpse of the things the other wanted +to know.</p> + +<p>"What they all know oveh heah ... everything <i>you</i> +know."</p> + +<p>Marise drew back with an abrupt gesture, "No, <i>indeed</i>!" +she cried, her face darkening, the words leaping out before +she could stop them.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't mean your secrets. I don't care about that. +And I don't mean the way you play the piano, although I +know some of the girls are envious of that. And I'd despise +to have to study as hard as you-all in the upper classes do. +I mean the right way to sit down and hold your hands and +speak and weah clothes."</p> + +<p>Marise began to laugh, "<i>I</i> don't know how to wear clothes. +What do you want anyhow? You're prettier than any girl in +the school, and you are wearing a dress that cost more than +anybody's else, and finer shoes than you could buy in all +Paris."</p> + +<p>"But they're not right," the girl said petulantly, "or else I +don't <i>weah</i> them right, or something! I hate them! I have +lots of money, but I don't know how to buy what I want."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> +She flung herself again on Marise, holding her closely, "Help +me!" she begged, "help me buy what I want."</p> + +<p>Marise was touched by the loneliness which underlay the +other girl's appeal. She knew what it was to be lonely! It +was the first time that any one had broken through into her +loneliness as this quivering, passionate, unhappy little thing +had done; the first time anybody had asked her for help. +From the very first word of their talk, the light chaffing manner +which was her usual shield had been torn into shreds by +the other girl's driving directness. She looked deep into the +other's eyes, fixed breathlessly on her, and said seriously, "Yes, +Eugénie, I'll help you ... all I can."</p> + +<p>"There!" said the other, "that's a specimen. My name's +not Eugénie. It's Eugenia. Isn't that turrible?"</p> + +<p>Marise did not follow this at all. "It's just the same thing, +only in English, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but it's horrid and common in English, and it's lovely +in French. Why can't I <i>have</i> it Eugénie?" She looked up +keenly and searchingly into Marise's face, and at what she +caught there, she contradicted herself hastily, before Marise +could open her lips.</p> + +<p>"No, no, I see. It would be silly to change it—to pretend. +I'd better make the best of it. There! There's one fool +mistake you kept me from making, you see!"</p> + +<p>Marise felt that the talk was on a plane different from hers, +so that she did not get its meaning, although the words were +clear enough. What was all that about Eugenia and Eugénie? +She hadn't caught the point of that, at all.</p> + +<p>Being only eighteen, she found her bewilderment rather +comic, and began to laugh. "I still don't see that Eugenia isn't +just as good as Eugénie!" she said, "I honestly don't know +what you're talking about, Eugenia, but if <i>you</i> do, it's all +right."</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>I</i> do," said the other with conviction.</p> + +<p>Marise was relieved to see that her small, pretty face, +although still flushed from her fit of tears no longer looked +distraught.</p> + +<p>"How strange!" thought Marise. They had never spoken<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> +a word to each other ten minutes before, and now they were +sitting side by side, hand in hand, like sisters.</p> + +<p>"I'm awfully glad I came in," she said.</p> + +<p>"So am I," said Eugenia, "I'd been just crazy to talk to you, +but you're so many classes higher than me. Oh, how I <i>hate</i> +my class—to be put back with all those young ones! +And study such <i>turribly</i> stupid things! And the teacher! +Such an old frump. And I'm not having <i>any</i>thing of what I +want. I'm not getting on a bit. What do I care what France +did in India before the English got there? I didn't come to +France to learn those sort of things! Marise—please can +I call you Marise? Do you suppose I'll <i>ever, ever</i> speak +French as you do?"</p> + +<p>"Why, of course," Marise answered her reasonably, "everybody +does, who lives here. Why shouldn't you?" The echo +of the famished, burning accent of the other struck now oddly +on her ear. She repeated, "Of course you will, if you care to," +and went on, "but why should you bother to care so much? +What difference does it make? They don't bother themselves +to learn English."</p> + +<p>Eugenia flashed a look of quick astonishment at her. Apparently +this was an entirely new idea to her. After an instant's +silent consideration of it, she flung it away with the +aggrieved cry, "Oh, but you <i>do</i>! You <i>do</i>!" as though, thought +Marise, that incapacitated her from having a valid opinion +about it. But this too, like the Eugénie-Eugenia discussion +had somehow taken place in another dimension than the one +she knew. She was not allowed to ponder the question, however, +receiving at this point another impassioned embrace from +Eugenia, who cried, "You don't <i>know</i> how glad I am you came! +Now it'll be all right. And I've been so miserable. Let's talk! +Let's talk!"</p> + +<p>"I must soon be going to a music-lesson," said Marise, +glancing at the little jewel-crusted watch, which hung on a +black ribbon around the other girl's neck.</p> + +<p>Eugenia caught at her despairingly. "Oh, don't go away. +I haven't <i>begun</i> yet! I haven't said a <i>word</i>!" Then struck by +another possibility, "Can't I go with you? We could talk in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> +the cab, and I wouldn't say a word at your lesson. Yes, <i>do</i> +let me."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't going to take a cab," protested Marise, "I don't go +round in cabs except when I'm dressed up in the evenings. It +would be pretty expensive, ma foi! to take a cab everywhere +I went in the daytime. Mostly I walk."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I hate to walk, let <i>me</i> take the cab," the other girl +begged, beginning hastily to arrange her hair. "I've got plenty +of money. It's the only thing I have got." She paused, the +brush in her hand. "Haven't you?" she asked, addressing herself +to Marise's reflection in the glass.</p> + +<p>Marise was passably astonished at the unceremonious question, +but answered it simply, "I haven't any of my own. I +live with my father. And he hasn't any either, but he makes a +good deal, gets a good salary, I mean. He lets me have all I +need."</p> + +<p>Eugenia's comment on this was to say bitterly, "Think of not +knowing more than to ask such a question! I told you I don't +know anything. But I can learn. I can learn in a minute if +only I get the chance. I learned then ... from the way you +looked. I'll never make <i>that</i> fool mistake again."</p> + +<p>She pinned on a very pretty, costly hat, and Marise saw +that she really did not look like a child, after all. She ran her +arm under Marise's now, and gave it an ecstatic squeeze. "Oh, +I'm so happy!" she cried, "I wish I could buy you a diamond +necklace!"</p> + +<p>The talk in the cab as they clattered over the big paving-stones +of the quiet, half-deserted left-bank streets turned on +the school, and very soon Marise was led to say, "But, see +here, I don't believe, Eugenia, you've got into the right school +at <i>all</i>. It's not a bit chic, you know, to go to a girl's lycée, and +ours is one of the plainest of them all. The teachers are terrible +grinds, the girls are fearfully serious-minded. They don't +care a thing about their looks. All they want is to pass the +competitive exams for the Ecole Normale at Sèvres, and get +in there for four more years of grind, lots and lots worse than +at the lycée. You'd better believe there's nothing <i>but</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> +what France did in India before the English got there, et ainsi +de suite."</p> + +<p>Eugenia made a gesture of despair. "<i>There!</i>" she lamented, +"that's it! Not even to know enough to pick out the right +school!"</p> + +<p>And then a curious expression of suspicion coming into her +eyes, she said skeptically, "but <i>you</i> go to that school! If it's +good enough for you...!"</p> + +<p>Here again was something in that baffling other dimension, +and this time though she understood it as little as ever, Marise +did not like it at all. She said stiffly, "I'm going because you +can get serious instruction in some things I need to enter the +classes at the Sorbonne next year."</p> + +<p>Eugenia sprang at her, remorsefully crying, "I won't again. +I don't know what made me." She kissed her once more, rubbing +her cheek against the other's shoulder.</p> + +<p>Her bewildering alternations of mood, the reckless way in +which she threw herself on Marise to embrace her; and the +way, very startling to a girl brought up in France, in which +Eugenia kissed her on the mouth like a lover, were very exciting +to Marise. Not since Jeanne's big double kisses had she +been so fondled and caressed, and never had she been kissed +on the lips before. That was something closely associated in +her mind with secrecy and passion. It made her feel very +queer; partly stand-offish and startled, partly moved and responsive—altogether +shaken up, more alive, but apprehensively +uncertain of what was coming next.</p> + +<p>"And what <i>is</i> the Sorbonne?"</p> + +<p>"It's the University," Marise explained, "I was half-way +through a woman's college in America, when we came abroad +again. So I wanted to go on and study some more here although +I have to work so many hours a day on my music that +I can't ever hope to have a degree."</p> + +<p>"College? University?" Eugenia was horrified. "Mercy! +What makes you want to do that? And music lessons, too. +I should think you'd be working every minute."</p> + +<p>"I do," said Marise.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Just study, study, study, and practise, practise, practise?" +asked the other, astonished.</p> + +<p>"Mostly," said Marise.</p> + +<p>"Why, that's <i>turrible</i>!" cried Eugenia, beginning to look +alarmed.</p> + +<p>"That's the way everybody does over here," said Marise.</p> + +<p>"They <i>do</i>!" cried Eugenia, aghast and astounded. "Why, I +thought they...."</p> + +<p>Marise corrected herself, "Oh, of course not. What am I +talking about? I mean the kind of folks I know. There are +millions of others, I suppose, yes, of course, all the rue de la +Paix clientèle, who don't work at all."</p> + +<p>Eugenia was relieved at this, and relapsed for a moment into +silence, which she finally broke by asking, "Well, wheah <i>would</i> +you go to school, if you were me?"</p> + +<p>Marise had been thinking of this, and was ready, "There's a +very grand private school, I've heard about out at Auteuil, in +what was somebody's country estate, when Auteuil was the +country, with a château and a park. It's fearfully expensive +and so it must be very chic. The girls never go out by +themselves, always have a maid, or a teacher with them; the +old ideas, aristocratic, you know, that ordinary French people +don't hold to any more. Mrs. Marbury could tell you all +about it."</p> + +<p>"Who?... Mrs. Mahbury?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she's an American, who's always lived over here, in the +American colony. Her husband and my father are in the same +sort of business. We know her. She'd be <i>sure</i> to know what +was chic."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll go to that school," announced Eugenia. "I just +<i>knew</i> there'd be a place like that, if I could only find out +wheah. I bet you I won't have to study French history +<i>theah</i>."</p> + +<p>Marise laughed, "You'll probably have to work like a dog, for +the teacher who teaches <i>la tenue</i>."</p> + +<p>"What's that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, all I know about it is what the dancing teacher used +to make us do in the convent-school I went to in Bayonne;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> +walk into a room, pretend to greet somebody, step into a +make-believe carriage and out of it, sit down with him for a +talk; and first he'd pretend to be a girl like you, and then he'd +pretend to be an older woman, and then he'd pretend to be a +man (only of course he really was that), and you'd have to +have the right manner for each one.... All that kind of +foolishness, you know."</p> + +<p>"No, I don't know!" cried Eugenia angrily.</p> + +<p>The cab drew up and stopped. "I suppose we're theah," +said Eugenia, "you tell him to wait till we come out."</p> + +<p>She was cautiously silent during the introduction to Mme. +de la Cueva, and during the hour of the lesson. But if she +gave her tongue little employment, she kept her eyes busy, +absorbing every detail of the long, bare room, with its four +long windows opening on a balcony overlooking the little, dank, +unkempt Jardin de Cluny. After the lesson, Mme. de la Cueva +stepped into another room to get some music, and Marise, +rather pale with fatigue, walked wearily out on the balcony for +a breath of fresh air. Eugenia sprang to follow her, as if she +had been wishing to do this, and had not known if it were +allowable. But before she looked down on the medieval building +below them she said in a whisper to Marise, "You're dog-tired. +Why, I wouldn't work that hard for <i>any</i>body! And +for that fat old dowd!"</p> + +<p>Marise looked down at her astonished. "I'm not working for +<i>her</i>!" she exclaimed. But this was, evidently, from the look +of Eugenia's face a fourth dimensional remark for her, for she +made no answer, turning instead to look at the gray-black old +mass of Cluny.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" Eugenia asked.</p> + +<p>Marise had not yet wholly emerged from a struggle with an +exercise which she had not been able to execute with the inhuman, +neat-fingered velocity demanded by Mme. de la Cueva. +The hour in that other world to which music always transported +her had broken the continuity of her impressions of her +new friend. She stared rather blankly at Eugenia's question, +and looked from her to the well-known medieval pile below +them. It did not for the instant occur to her, that the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> +girl did not recognize what the building was. The turn of her +phrase suggested an inquiry about the architecture, and though +she had never thought about Cluny before, the look of it stirred +recollections of a certain fierce history teacher, whose specialty +had been the transitions of the reign of Louis XII. She looked +down on the stone lacework opposite, and said doubtfully, +"What is it? Domestic Gothic, shouldn't you think? But +some of it pretty late. Those square dormer-windows are Louis +Douze, aren't they?"</p> + +<p>She looked away from the Cluny and down at Eugenia as +she finished, and had once more a shock of astonishment. The +other's eyes were flaming. "Theah, that's it," she said fiercely, +showing her white teeth as she spoke, but not in a smile. +"That's it. That's <i>just</i> it! <i>Wheah did you learn that?</i>"</p> + +<p>She dashed the question in Marise's face as though it had +been her fist.</p> + +<p>Marise positively drew back from her. Too startled to be +anything but literal, she answered, "Why, why, I don't know +where I did. Oh, yes, in my French history class, I suppose. +They make you learn everything so hard, you know. You +yourself were saying what a grind it is."</p> + +<p>Eugenia breathed hard and said, "History again, darn it! +But I didn't dream you'd learn <i>that</i> sort of thing in it." She +added defiantly, and for Marise quite cryptically, "Well, <i>I'm</i> +going to learn it without!"</p> + +<p>Mme. de la Cueva came back with the music in her hand. +"Voilà, mon enfant," she said, shaking Marise's hand heartily. +She reached for Eugenia's hand too, which was hanging at her +side, till Eugenia, seeing the meaning of the other's gesture, +brought it up with an awkward haste, a painful red burning +in her cheeks.</p> + +<p>Some one came in as they went out, another student evidently, +for he had a roll of music in his hand. He stopped and +stood aside with a deep bow to let the two girls pass.</p> + +<p>"Good-day, Mlle. Allen," he said, looking at her intently.</p> + +<p>"Good-day, M. Boudoin," she answered. Neither girl spoke +as they went down the endless, winding stairs and passed out +to the street.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span></p> + +<p>As they turned into the Boulevard, and jogged past the Jardin +de Cluny, Eugenia asked tensely, "What are those queer-looking +broken-down walls?"</p> + +<p>Marise answered circumspectly, fearing another out-burst, "I +think they're Roman ruins ... what's left of the baths the +Romans had here."</p> + +<p>Eugenia made no answer, but looked at them hard.</p> + +<p>Marise went on, "Awfully interesting, isn't it, to see Roman +ruins right in Paris, across the street from a café. But I suppose +they'd look like small potatoes to anybody who's seen +Rome. Mme. Vallery says they look comically small, after +Rome."</p> + +<p>Eugenia put her arm around her neck, and kissed her once +more, fervently, disturbingly, on the lips, "Would you like to +go to Rome? I'll <i>take</i> you to Rome. I'll hire a private car +for the two of us."</p> + +<p>And before Marise could answer, before she could even +bring out the laugh which rose to her lips, Eugenia said with +another of her abrupt leaps, "That young man is in love with +you. The one who came in afterwards. He's awfully good-looking, +too." She looked into Marise's face with her avid, +penetrating gaze, and said, "But you don't like him!"</p> + +<p>"I never thought about him in my life," cried Marise, exasperated. +She was beginning to feel desperately tired of the +mental gymnastics of such talk.</p> + +<p>"But there was something you didn't like as I spoke about +him. Don't you <i>like</i> men? Don't you like men to be in love +with you? I do, I love it." She made another flying leap, +and asked, "Are many French women like your music-teacher—so +fat—no style?"</p> + +<p>"She's not French, Madame de la Cueva."</p> + +<p>"What, then?"</p> + +<p>"A Levantine."</p> + +<p>"A what? What's a Levantine?"</p> + +<p>Marise considered, "What <i>is</i> a Levantine, anyhow? A little +of everything, I should say, and all more or less oriental and +southern. She's part Spanish, part Jewish from Asia Minor, +brought up in Cairo and Paris."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span></p> + +<p>Eugenia sheered off on another tack, "And who is Madame +Va... Va... something?"</p> + +<p>"Madame Vallery? She's a ... she's a sort of friend of +mine. Yes, she's a friend. My old music-teacher, when I was +a little girl, got us together. She's the wife of a Deputy, you +know, like our Congressmen."</p> + +<p>"Is she chic, too," asked Eugenia, "like Mrs. Marbury? Is +she young? Is she pretty?"</p> + +<p>Marise laughed, "No, she's not pretty or young. She must +be fifty years old."</p> + +<p>Eugenia was shocked. "And a friend of <i>youah's</i>!"</p> + +<p>Marise explained, "She has more brains than you and I and +forty other girls rolled into one. And I've met more interesting +people at her house than...."</p> + +<p>"Will you take me sometime—will you take me?" asked +Eugenia.</p> + +<p>"Yes, if you like," said Marise.</p> + +<p>Eugenia looked around her wildly, as if to find some way +of saying her thanks. Something in the street caught her +eye. They were passing a florist's shop. She slammed the +door open, curved her flexible little body around the frame, +and caught at the driver's coat-tails. "Stop a minute!" she +cried to him and dashed into the shop. When she came out +she had a huge bunch of mauve-colored orchids in her arms.</p> + +<p>"For you, for you," she cried, elated at her idea, thrusting +them into Marise's hands, and kissing her again. And then, +suddenly downcast, "Oh, it oughtn't to have been orchids! +What? Roses? Lilies? Violets?... Yes, violets."</p> + +<p>This time Marise protested energetically against this assumption +of meanings in her face.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what makes you <i>say</i> such things," she cried +out helplessly, half-angrily. "Orchids are lovely—<i>beautiful</i>. +How could anything be better? I never had any before in +my life."</p> + +<p>But the other was not to be comforted. "Yes, it ought +to have been violets," she murmured, and then squaring her +jaw, "And it <i>will</i> be violets, the next time. You just see!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +May, 1906.<br /> +</p> + +<p>As Marise started up the front stairway she saw Biron +emerging on the run from the foot of the servants' stairway, +his apron half-off, a net marketing-bag in his hand. His broad, +red face looked cross and anxious. Something must have +gone wrong. She turned back, meeting him in front of the +concierge's door.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mademoiselle, God be praised you're back in time. +Desolation and ruin! The sole has turned—it has been +so hot to-day. I swear on my soul as a Christian it was +fresh when I got it—unless that blackguard Gagnan +changed...."</p> + +<p>When Biron turned his torrent of objurgation on the tradespeople +who sold him eatables there was no stopping him. +Marise cut in now.</p> + +<p>"Were you going out for another? Do you want me to go?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes—only not for a sole—there wouldn't be one +left—and the dinner was <i>planned</i> for sole!"</p> + +<p>He ground his teeth, white and sound as a wolf's, "I +could send Mélanie if she had the intelligence of an angle-worm—and +yet to leave her with my sauce till I get back—I was +right in the midst of a <i>sauce piquante</i> for the...."</p> + +<p>He turned as if to rush back upstairs, distractedly, and +turned again as if to rush distractedly out into the street.</p> + +<p>Marise put out her hand for the market-bag and spoke with +the peremptory decision that was always necessary to unloosen +Biron from his temperamental tangles.</p> + +<p>"Go right back to your sauce, Biron. I'll have the fish +here in five minutes. And have plenty of onion in that sauce. +My father thought the last not well-balanced, too much vinegar. +He likes his sauces suave."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But not a sole, Mademoiselle, not a sole! Any sole that +is left on the market at six of the evening is left because nobody +would buy it. But the dinner was <i>planned</i> for sole!" +He stamped his huge, felt-slippered feet in exasperation.</p> + +<p>"A mackerel," suggested Marise, "they're good at this time +of the year."</p> + +<p>He flung his arms over his head. "A <i>mackerel</i>! A gross, +fat, dark monster like a mackerel to replace a <i>sole</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, of course not." Marise saw his point. "I didn't +think. Nor salmon, of course."</p> + +<p>He shuddered away from the idea of salmon.</p> + +<p>They stood staring at each other, thinking hard, the cook's +big, parboiled fist clenched on his mouth, his brows knit together, +like those of the <i>Penseur</i>.</p> + +<p>"Some merlans?" suggested Marise. "You can cook them +<i>au gratin</i> just <i>like</i> a sole."</p> + +<p>"But will I have time!" he groaned. "Who knows whether +the oven is hot enough?"</p> + +<p>"Well, hurry back and brighten the fire, while I rush out +and get the fish."</p> + +<p>He fled back up the stairs, his slippers flapping. She left +her roll of music in the concierge's care and darted out into +the street, market-bag in hand. Twenty minutes later the +fish were being disposed with a religious care on a bed of +chopped parsley, shallots, mushrooms and butter. Biron shoved +the baking-pan tenderly into the oven, wiped the sweat from +his face, and stopped storming at his wife.</p> + +<p>"You were not to blame, after all, Mélanie," he told her magnanimously, +and with a long breath, "But it was a close call, +by God, a close call."</p> + +<p>In the salon Marise was pouring an apéritif for her father, +brightly dishing up the news of the day with the sauce of +lively comment, and saying nothing about culinary close calls. +Her father listened to her, sipping his Dubonnet with an +air of intense satisfaction. He took plenty of time for it, +allowing each mouthful to deliver all its complicated burden +of tang and bitterness and heat before he took another one +into his mouth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Excellent stuff, Dubonnet," he said appreciatively.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you like it," said Marise. She envied her father +his enjoyments. They were, comparatively speaking, so easy +to get.</p> + +<p>Looking at her seemed to remind him of something. He +reached into a vest pocket (with some difficulty, for his vests +were more and more tightly packed with each year of good +living), and took out a little jeweller's box.</p> + +<p>"It's your birthday to-day," he remarked, taking another +careful sip of his apéritif.</p> + +<p>Marise looked at the present, a little wrist-watch, from a +very good house.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's awfully good of you, Father," she said, trying +it on.</p> + +<p>"You can have one if that funny little friend of yours +can," he advanced.</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you start giving me everything Eugenia has...!" +protested Marise.</p> + +<p>"Somebody ought to make <i>her</i> a present of a little ordinary +sense," he commented, with no great interest in the subject. +"I've seen her kind before. They tear things loose till they +get what they want, and then they don't like it."</p> + +<p>"Eugenia just loves it, every bit of it," Marise objected.</p> + +<p>"Well, let her," he dismissed her from consideration with +his usual nonchalance, and taking the last of the Dubonnet, +he rose to go into his room.</p> + +<p>In a moment Marise heard an indignant roar, "<i>Mélanie +has forgotten my hot water again!</i>" Her father came to the +door of his room, vast and bulging in his shirt and trousers, +outraged by the oversight.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," said Marise, in annoyance. "You might have +known she would. Biron has been in another tantrum and +taking her head off. It gets her so rattled she forgets her own +work."</p> + +<p>"I don't see what that has to do with <i>my hot water</i>," cried +the master of the house aggrieved.</p> + +<p>"It hasn't! It hasn't!" cried Marise hastily, running to +tell Mélanie of her crime.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span></p> + +<p>Not till the hot water was safely delivered, and her father's +comments on bad service diminished to a distant solitary mutter, +did Marise go into her own room to dress. She had no +hot water, either, but she washed in cold, scorning with all +her heart the childishness of men, and laughing childishly at +the picture her father had made, shouting and indignant, billowing +in his shirt and trousers. He and Biron! One had +always to be smoothing them down and wrapping them up +in the little things they wanted. It must be truly lovely to be +married to one, as poor Mélanie was! But, after all, Father did +his best to be good to her, when everything about the house +was all right and he could think of it. She hoped the dinner +would be all right. It was too bad about that sole. Sole was +so expensive too. Not that Father ever objected to anything +the table cost. Oh, <i>flûte</i>! she had forgotten to see if Biron +had exchanged that Bénédictine for Chartreuse. Father would +raise the roof if they served him Bénédictine again. She put +on her dress hurriedly, and hooking it up as she went, she +stepped hastily down the hall to the kitchen. She never had +any help from Mélanie in dressing, not even costumes that +hooked up on the shoulders and under the arms, because it was +important not to disturb the small quantity of gray matter +Mélanie had, at the hour of serving a meal. It was all needed +for the matter in hand.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Dinner was over, and had been acceptable. Her father had +partaken of everything with his careful appraising attention, +and had found no adverse comment to make. Coffee had +been served, and the Chartreuse—Biron had not forgotten.</p> + +<p>Out in the kitchen Biron (first, taught by much experience, +loosening the sash which bound his mighty paunch), was +sitting with his wife at table, eating and drinking like a page +out of Rabelais. The dinner had pleased his exacting and +irritable master (Biron immensely respected him for being +exacting and irritable), and it also had pleased Biron. There +was plenty of it left and this was a house where the cook +was never subjected to the indignity of having inquiries made +about <i>les restes</i>. He leaned back in his chair, undid the button<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> +at his throat, and smiled at his wife, over his glass of excellent +Burgundy.</p> + +<p>"Life is good, hein, old lady?" he said.</p> + +<p>She nodded in agreement, keeping her thoughts to herself +in the usual stealthy, secretive, feminine fashion.</p> + +<p>Over the coffee and Chartreuse, facing another well-satisfied +man sat another secretive woman, talking in one key, feeling +in another, and finding the process far from enlivening. Down +below the surface of the sparkling, chatting Marise, drooped +a listless, dispirited Marise for whom a birthday was a most +depressing occasion.</p> + +<p>"You're nineteen, aren't you, Marise?" asked her father +over his cigar.</p> + +<p>Marise nodded.</p> + +<p>"Well, that's another one gone! Congratulations on every +one you get over with," he commented, sipping the stinging +green fire of his liqueur with satisfaction.</p> + +<p>Marise thought of nothing amusing to say and was silent.</p> + +<p>Her father stirred his big body, with the air of some one +arousing himself to an effort. The effort seemed to be to +say, "Is there anything you want I can get for you?"</p> + +<p>His daughter was at a loss before the comprehensiveness +of this blanket question. "What kind of a thing?" she +inquired.</p> + +<p>He professed himself more at a loss than she. "If I had +any idea what, I wouldn't need to ask you, would I?"</p> + +<p>But he managed, all the same, at least to eliminate some +of the things he didn't mean, "Oh, not dresses or hats," and +in a moment, after another sip at the liqueur, to give a little +more definite idea of what he did, "Something going on, social +life; what girls of nineteen are supposed to want."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you needn't bother. I get enough of that," she answered, +"between Mrs. Marbury and Eugenia and Madame +Vallery." She was surprised at her father's interest. They +seldom talked together, except of what they were to eat, had +eaten, or were eating, or of the interminable games of chess +which occupied any leisure moments of his and hers which +chanced to coincide. He seemed to have something on his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span> +mind now. And he always hated the effort of bringing out +what was in his mind. He stopped beating about +the bush now and said heavily, "You're no fool, Marise. I +don't know any of the roundabout ways to say it to you, +that a woman would have, but you won't mind that. What +I mean is, I suppose—I imagine that's what's at the bottom +of all of it—is this. Are you getting a chance to meet the +right sort of young man, the kind you'd want to marry? +For you will be marrying before long, I suppose."</p> + +<p>Marise waited a long time before she spoke, so that she +would not flame out as she felt. That would not be speaking +in her father's vernacular, and if there was one thing +which every instinct of Marise's taught her, it was +to speak to every one in his own language. Nothing in the +world would have induced her to expose her own to other +people's casual comments, her own, in which she spoke to herself, +bitterly, caustically, skeptically, tragically, as no one had +ever heard her speak aloud. When she could command herself +to select the right phrase out of her father's vocabulary, +she remarked, pushing her tiny coffee-cup away with a gesture +of finality, "I don't believe I'm very much of a marrying +sort."</p> + +<p>Her father's comment on this was to say stolidly, "Oh, every +girl thinks that." But if he thought he could get a rise out of +Marise with this provocation, he was mistaken. She now +turned away from the little table and began with an indifferent +air to arrange the coal-fire in the grate. They were sitting in +the salon.</p> + +<p>"Don't you like men?" he asked presently.</p> + +<p>She laughed a little, "To dance with."</p> + +<p>He looked at her more keenly than he had and asked, "Don't +you trust men?"</p> + +<p>She turned this off by riposting lightly, "How much is it +safe to trust anybody?"</p> + +<p>It was as though a chance stroke had cut through the dyke +and let out in a rush, waters that had lain sleeping.</p> + +<p>"Never trust anybody but yourself," he told her urgently, +the words heavy with the intensity of his conviction.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span></p> + +<p>A moment later he added, more deliberately, his manner +tinged with his habitual saturnine humor, "And it's not safe +to trust yourself very far."</p> + +<p>It wasn't at all what he had meant to say to her. But +it was such an undertaking to say anything. And what was +there to say anyhow? He decided to let it go at that, drank +the last of his liqueur, fell back in his armchair and reached +for the chess-board.</p> + +<p>"I hope you got a good supply of that Chartreuse," he said, +beginning to set up the men. "It's very much better than +what we've been having. Not so syrupy. I do loathe syrupy +things."</p> + +<p>After the game was over, he took up his Paris Herald and +Marise, freed from the necessity to make talk, went to the +piano. She began to play, not Chopin as she would have +liked, but a dance from the Arlésienne Suite. Father detested +melancholy music.</p> + +<p>After she had finished, she sat still, sunk together on the +piano stool, staring at the music but not seeing it. She heard +her father rustle his newspaper as if he had lowered it to look +at her. But for once she made no attempt to arouse herself. +She continued to present to him a silent, dejected back.</p> + +<p>He must have considered this for some minutes when he +finally remarked, "I suppose there are people who <i>like</i> birthdays!" +Then with a yawn, "But for me, they always make +me think of all the ones I have still to get through with, year +after year, one by one."</p> + +<p>Marise's shoulders bowed under the weight of his words +and his accent. She still said nothing.</p> + +<p>He took up the newspaper again, but before he began to +read he exhorted her, "Oh, well, stick it out! Stick it out, +Molly, as best you can. It doesn't last so very long."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +Paris, May, 1907.<br /> +</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you <i>think</i>," asked Eugenia, looking about her, +"that anybody who could get up such a room as this, such a +perfect room, would know how to get herself up better?"</p> + +<p>"You don't suppose for a minute that she doesn't know +how to!" Marise rejoined. She added after a moment, to tease +Eugenia, "Perhaps she thinks it ordinary to be chic. Perhaps +she thinks it is more distinguished to have her very own +genre."</p> + +<p>Eugenia said with a nettled accent, "Well, wouldn't you +think if she were going in for a genre of her own, she'd pick +out one that was a little more ornamental than her flat-chested, +old-maid, provincial school-teacher variety?"</p> + +<p>Marise laughed. It always gave her a little malicious amusement +to make Eugenia uneasy. To make her still more so, +she added, "Yet you know well enough, Eugenia, in any room +full of people, let Mme. Vallery come in with that mild, oh-I'm-nobody, +don't-mind-me sort of air of hers, and everybody +else looks like a dressmaker's mannequin."</p> + +<p>Eugenia, alarmed for her standards, annoyed and aroused, +disputed the point with warmth, "That's only because you +know who she is. If you didn't, you'd take her for the concierge's +country cousin."</p> + +<p>Marise shook her head exasperatingly, "No you wouldn't. +She has <i>cachet</i>. You can see it a mile away."</p> + +<p>Eugenia suddenly conceded the point with grudging wonder, +"How does she <i>do</i> it?" she marveled, unreconciled.</p> + +<p>"Personality," diagnosed Marise, and then seeing that Eugenia's +face looked really clouded, she stopped her teasing +abruptly, ashamed of the unkind impulse which drove her to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> +it, and of the malicious pleasure she took in it. What was +the inner irritation with everything that kept her so aware +of other people's weak points and so easily led into playing +ill-naturedly on them. Now, here and now, let her resolve +she would never tease Eugenia again.</p> + +<p>But she knew she would.</p> + +<p>She did, however, resist an easy opening, given her by the +next remark of Eugenia's, as she looked across the beautiful +room, "What <i>makes</i> it all so just right? I'm going to start +in at that corner, and look at every single thing, and find out +<i>what</i> makes it right."</p> + +<p>Marise restrained the mocking words on the tip of her +tongue, and turned away to the half-open window, near which +she stood. Across the empty street in the pale gold of the +spring sunshine, the vaporous young green of the Luxembourg +showed like a mist through the tall iron palings. The light +blue sky above was veiled with hazy white clouds, stirred by +a young little spring breeze, which blew languorously on the +girl's cheek.</p> + +<p>It came over her, all of it, with a soft rush, the invitation +to life, the lovely, treacherous, ever-renewed invitation to live. +And she drew back from it, with her ever-renewed determination +not to be taken in by it. It was always too horribly +lovely in May. It made her ache, it made her want to cry, +it made her horribly unhappy. How detestable to have it +so lovely, looking so seductive as though this were only +the promise of something lovelier ... when there wasn't +anything to redeem the promise, when it was all just a part +of the general scheme to fool you.</p> + +<p>Behind her Eugenia's voice said enviously, "Where did she +get all these terribly quaint Louis XVI things?"</p> + +<p>How thoroughly Eugenia's English diction teacher had +rooted out that "turribly" of Eugenia's, thought Marise.</p> + +<p>Aloud she answered, "She began collecting years ago, before +anybody else thought of it."</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't think a teacher would have much money to +collect."</p> + +<p>"Oh, she picked them up for nothing, in corners of what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span>ever +province she happened to be in, out of barns and chicken-houses +and attics."</p> + +<p>Eugenia said complainingly, "It seems to me she always +has been able to pick up something for nothing. Look at her +husband."</p> + +<p>Marise said over her shoulder, "Oh, she didn't get much, +when she got him. He never would have been anything except +his good looks, if she hadn't taken him up. And she didn't +get him for nothing—not much! Mlle. Hasparren says—every +one who knows them says—that she made him. She +writes his speeches now. I've seen her. And never bothers +him by being jealous."</p> + +<p>"I should hope <i>not</i>," commented Eugenia. "She's ages older +than he. And he's such a ripping good-looker."</p> + +<p>Marise found Eugenia's fervent accent rather distasteful. +Not that she minded her latest fad of finding married men +so much more interesting subjects than the others. Eugenia's +affairs never lasted more than a minute anyhow. But she +wished Eugenia would pick out somebody with more brains +than Mme. Vallery's husband, somebody not so well satisfied +with himself.</p> + +<p>"He's an awful imbecile," she said.</p> + +<p>"What did Mme. Vallery marry him for, if she's so terribly +intelligent?" challenged Eugenia. She delighted in using the +words she had formerly mis-pronounced, and giving them +the purest, most colorless intonation. There was not a trace +now, in her speech, of the sweet, thick, unstrained honey of +her original southern accent.</p> + +<p>"She has brains for two," said Marise shortly, displeased +by the direction of the talk. As a matter of fact, Mme. Vallery +had once informed her why she had married her handsome, +unintelligent husband. She had said warningly one day, when +Marise had drawn back from a match Mme. Vallery had proposed +for her, "Don't carry that too far, dear child. You +will have to give in to the flesh sooner or later. You might +as well do it young, before the growth of your intelligence spoils +your enjoyment of it, as wait till you're driven to it, as I was. +It's not amusing in the least, to have to take it all mixed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> +with the contempt of your brains. You'll find you have to +take your share, one way or another."</p> + +<p>Marise looked out frowningly at a great beech tree bursting +into life in the garden across the street. It held its huge, flowering +crest proudly into the spring air. To look at it was +like hearing a flourish of trumpets, triumphal, exulting.</p> + +<p>That was all very well for trees, thought Marise, that stupid, +yearly emergence into a life that promised so much and brought +futility.</p> + +<p>Along the gravel-walk, inside the Luxembourg, under the +hedge of lilacs, under the new splendor of the great beech, +a young man and a girl in a pale gray dress were strolling. +They looked at each other, and smiled.</p> + +<p>"That's the way my father and mother probably walked +together," thought Marise, wincing. "That" was one of the +clumsiest, most obvious parts of the general conspiracy to +fool you. But when you had the key to the code, as Marise +had, there was little danger that you would be taken in.</p> + +<p>"I think I hear them coming," said Eugenia, "I do hope +Monsieur is with her! Not that he ever condescends to pay +the slightest attention to me!" She assumed carefully a pose +of unconscious ease on her small, spindle-legged chair. Marise +turned around from the window and looked at her with appreciation. +Was it only two years ago, that Eugenia had +scrambled up from the crumpled bed on which she had lain +a-sprawl?</p> + +<p>"Nobody can say <i>your</i> genre is not decorative, Eugenia," +she remarked with the sincere intention of pleasing the other +girl, "that's a perfectly glorious toilette, just right. And oh, +how divinely that broadcloth is tailored."</p> + +<p>Eugenia looked at her resentfully, with a flash of her old +suspicion that she was not being treated as an equal.</p> + +<p>"I haven't any <i>cachet</i>, and you know it," she said, "if Mme. +Vallery can have <i>cachet</i> do you suppose I'm going to be satisfied +with just chic?"</p> + +<p>Marise felt one of her claps of laughter rising within her, +but kept it back, as the beautifully proportioned paneled +door opened to admit their hostess. A tall, spare, stooped,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span> +gray-haired woman, dressed plainly in fine black, with a shrewd, +wrinkled, fresh-colored face, well-washed and guiltless of the +smallest trace of powder. She looked like an elderly Jesuit, +one who wields a great deal more power than he likes to show.</p> + +<p>"Good-day, my children," she greeted the girls in a clear +voice, with the utmost simplicity and directness of intonation. +"Have we kept you waiting long? I told Auguste that we +were a little late."</p> + +<p>Auguste, magnificently tall and magnificently bearded, having +now followed her in, the four sacramental hand-shakes were +accomplished, Eugenia's this time the promptest of all.</p> + +<p>After the equally sacramental exchange of salutations and +questions and answers had been achieved, questions as to health +and general news, which did not in the least denote any interest +in these matters, answers which were pronounced with +perfunctory indifference and received in the same way, the +necessary civilized preliminaries were considered disposed of, +and the first moves of the game could be taken. M. Vallery's +gambit was to say, looking admiringly at Eugenia, "Such a +piece of the month of May oughtn't to be within four walls. +Come over to the balcony a moment, and let me show you +your sister, the Luxembourg, in flower."</p> + +<p>Mme. Vallery's move was to sit in the winged, brocaded, +deep-cushioned <i>bergère</i>, and motion Marise to sit beside her.</p> + +<p>"Let's get our business done and off our hands first of all," +she said, smiling up at the tall girl in an admiration as frank +as her husband's for Eugenia, and for Marise, vastly more +valuable.</p> + +<p>The others, in a little chiming burst of chatter and high +spirits, moved off towards the balcony. Mme. Vallery glanced +after them with an inscrutable expression and then at Marise +with a brisk, business-like manner.</p> + +<p>The matter at issue just then, the occasion of the girls' call, +was a fête de charité at the lycée, over which Mme. Vallery's +sister was Directrice, shoved up to that position, so the lycée +teachers said, by the political pull of Madame Vallery herself. +But even they could not deny that the connection was highly +advantageous for the lycée. There was not another one in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span> +Paris, which felt itself more "protégé" in high places, more sure +of its standing with the Ministry of Education. And its annual +charity fête, from being the usual small-bourgeois bazar with +home-made aprons and pin-cushions on sale, and perhaps an +inexpensive conjuror pulling rabbits out of silk hats in the +assembly-room to amuse the children, had become one of the +most elaborate and unique annual events of the city. A good +part of Tout-Paris lent its highly ornamental presence to these +affairs, and helpless before Mme. Vallery's energy and acumen, +always left much more of the contents of its purse than it had +the slightest intention of leaving in the amusingly decorated +stalls where pretty, well-trained amateur salesgirls sold the +goods furnished at cost (under pressure from Mme. Vallery), +by the most fashionable shops in Paris.</p> + +<p>This year Marise had been asked to play, along with two +other de la Cueva pupils, in the afternoon concert which was +the <i>clou</i> of the three days' fête. Mme. Vallery had written +her to ask her to come to talk over the choice of music, and +to Eugenia's surprise and extreme pleasure had mentioned +casually that she would be glad to see her pretty friend, Miss +Mills, also. Marise had instantly wondered what she wanted +to get out of Eugenia, and now behind her fresh, open, unlined +young face she was hiding a determination to find out +what, and to keep Eugenia from being unduly exploited. She +might tease Eugenia herself, but she had an elder-sister feeling +of protective care towards her. Eugenia was so awfully defenseless, +in spite of her money, and so naïve still in spite of +the sophisticated lore and manners which she had so energetically +acquired. She had not learned that thorough-going suspicion +of everything, which is the only valid protection against +life.</p> + +<p>But Mme. Vallery said nothing whatever about Eugenia, +other than to comment in passing on how excessively pretty +she was, a real late-Régence type, such as one seldom sees nowadays. +Marise found herself, as usual, quite helpless before +the Vatican antechamber suavity of the older woman, and +reflected, not without some resentment, that she probably +seemed as naïve to Mme. Vallery, as Eugenia did to her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span></p> + +<p>After some desultory talk about other features of the fête, +they got out a pile of music, went together to the piano, where +Marise tried the effects of various combinations, and finally +decided on a desirable one.</p> + +<p>All this time M. Vallery and Eugenia spent on the balcony, +leaning over the railing, the sound of their voices and occasional +laughter coming in pleasantly through the open windows. +They came in together, when Mme. Vallery summoned +them to share the Muscat and hard sweet biscuits which +it was part of her genre to serve at four o'clock instead of the +newly introduced tea.</p> + +<p>"Business is over," she announced, settling herself in the +chair back of the little stand, where the tray stood. "Now +for some talk." She put her hand to the crystal carafe and +held it there for a moment. Another of the ecclesiastical details +of her appearance was the beauty of her hands, white +and shapely.</p> + +<p>M. Vallery seated the girls and then himself, smiling into +his beautiful, glistening brown beard. Eugenia too was smiling, +with a dazzled look of pleasure. Mme. Vallery looked +down at the wine she was pouring. Marise suppressed a qualm +of distaste for M. Vallery, and started the talk by laughing +outright as at a sudden recollection of something comic. She +explained that she had just had a letter from America, from +an old cousin of her father, who always kept her au courant +of the quaint and humorous goings-on of the country-side.</p> + +<p>"Her letters are as good as a comic paper," said Marise, +sipping her wine.</p> + +<p>"Translatable?" asked M. Vallery, "most of the comic things +that happen in the French country-side aren't. But they're +very funny for all of that." He laughed reminiscently and +stroked his beard.</p> + +<p>Memories of Jeanne and Isabelle, and what they considered +comic stories rose blackly to Marise's mind. She turned a gay, +laughing face to M. Vallery and translated for his benefit Aunt +Hetty's latest story about what happened when a skunk got +into the hen-house, and she and Agnes went to the rescue at +midnight in their night-gowns and night-caps. It was as much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> +to drown out what was going on inside her own mind, as to +amuse the others that she did her liveliest best by the story, +telling it with the gusto and brio which made her a favorite +with people who liked youthful high spirits. It was broad +farce, nothing else, and she did not draw back from the farcical +color it needed to carry it off. It was a story, she told +herself, that either made people laugh <i>aux éclats</i>, or it was a +failure. Her audience was certainly laughing <i>aux éclats</i> when +she finished the account of the homeric night-battle, laughing +and wiping their eyes.</p> + +<p>"That reminds me," said M. Vallery, his eyes glistening +with mirth, "of a story about a love-sick dog that my uncle +used to have."</p> + +<p>"You're not going to tell that story here," announced his +wife, with the calm accent of mastery, which once in a while +slipped from her in an unguarded moment. He went through +the form of protesting, claiming that it was nothing—nowadays +people were not prudish—but his wife settled the +matter by taking the floor herself, turning to the girls, and +saying laughingly, "That uncle of my husband's—he was one +of the old school—out of a Balzac novel of the provinces. +There aren't any more like him. It was through a to-the-death +quarrel with him that Auguste and I met each other."</p> + +<p>This slid her easily along into talk of early days, a quarter +of a century before, when she was in one of the first lycées, +at the time when lay-school teachers were an abomination and +a hissing to the decent church-going bourgeois.</p> + +<p>Dryly, with the inimitable terse picturesqueness of phrase +which made her famous as a talker with people who demanded +a great deal more than youthful high spirits, she took them +back with her, twenty years, into the remote provincial city +where she had encountered every narrowness possible to bigotry +and reaction, and had wound it all around her little +finger. Through her highly amusing recital of how she had +played on the prejudices of those provincials, how adroitly +she had employed against them their very vices, their jealousy +and suspicion of each other, their grasping avarice, their utter +dumb-beast ignorance of what modern education meant, through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span> +all this played, like a little sulphurous flame, her acrid scorn +and contempt for them, her vitriolic satisfaction in having +cheated and beaten them, in having turned them inside out and +made fools of them, without their ever once suspecting it. Her +husband's admiration of her powers was boundless.</p> + +<p>"That is now one of the most prosperous and successful lycées +in eastern France," he told the girls, "and every year they +have a big dinner with my wife as guest of honor, with speeches +and things, and somebody lays a wreath on her as though she +were a statue. Quite a joke, hein?"</p> + +<p>"Well, that must be an enjoyable occasion indeed," thought +Marise, seeing the scene as though she had been there; the +simple-minded provincials, trying simple-mindedly to honor the +founder of their lycée; Mme. Vallery sitting at the right hand +of their Mayor, with her mild air of deprecating the too-great +honor done her—and her little sulphurous flame of vitriolic +contempt playing over the convolutions of her brain. "Yes, +it is a very pretty world we live in," thought Marise, laughing +heartily at Mme. Vallery's satirical imitation of one of the +clumsy speeches made in her honor on the last occasion.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>She thought it still a prettier world, when in the cab as +she was accompanying Eugenia back to Auteuil, Eugenia said, +radiating satisfaction, "I'm to have my part in the fête-de-charité, +too!"</p> + +<p>"You <i>are</i>!" said Marise, "what are you going to do?"</p> + +<p>"I'm going to give the money to pay for the appearance of +a Russian dancer ... the very newest thing. It will be the +<i>clou</i> of the entire fête. And my name is going on the program!"</p> + +<p>"Eh bien!" cried Marise in the liveliest surprise, "why, I +didn't hear a word about all this."</p> + +<p>"No, it was in talking with M. Vallery that the plan was +made. He hadn't dreamed of their being able to afford such +a thing. It was my own idea. He was quite carried away +by it, couldn't see how I came to think of it."</p> + +<p>Marise was silent, meditating profoundly on the prettiness +of the world in which we are called upon to live. The more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> +she meditated, the hotter grew her resentment. It was all +very well to be cynical, and it was foolish and raw to be +surprised at cynicism, but this was a little ... really a <i>little</i> +excessive! She flushed angrily as she went over in her mind +the oiled exactitude with which each cog had slipped into +the next, the casual invitation to Eugenia, M. Vallery's admiration +of her beauty, the talk on the balcony ... oh, poor +Eugenia! what a fool she must have seemed, with her naïve +impression that it was her own idea! And how that fatuous +barber's model must have laughed with his wife after they +had left! The shameless team-work with which they had +turned the talk to something far-away, and kept it there ... +and, she flinched, her vanity cut to the quick, her own naïve +blindness to the little game they were putting up on her. +Well, she would know better next time. She had unpeeled +one more layer from this pretty, pretty world of ours.</p> + +<p>Speaking on impulse, she now said rather abruptly, to Eugenia, +"I wouldn't have much to do with the Vallerys, if I +were you. He's really an awful cad."</p> + +<p>Eugenia looked at her with a knowing smile, "You're jealous," +she said laughing, "he didn't take <i>you</i> off to show you +the Luxembourg in spring!"</p> + +<p>Marise was for an instant stricken so speechless by this +idea that she could only stare. And by the time she could +have spoken, she perceived that there was nothing to say, no +comment on the prettiness of the world and the people who +live in it, that began to be adequate.</p> + +<p>At the great gates of the school-parc, Eugenia and her +maid descended. Eugenia kissed Marise good-by, the correct +kiss on each cheek this time. Nothing annoyed Eugenia +more than any reference, intended or imaginary, to the time +when she had gone about kissing her school-mates on the +mouth.</p> + +<p>After the other two had rung the clanging bell and been +admitted, Marise stood for a moment, hesitating. Then she +decided to walk home, although home was a long, long way +from Auteuil. It would do her good, she thought, setting +out at the powerful, swinging gait she had for the long walks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span> +which for her, as for the more energetic of her classmates, +had been the only form of outdoor sport accessible.</p> + +<p>She had decided to walk so that she could cool off, and +think over the Vallerys' manœuver, and as she walked she +had it out with herself, going deep. By the end of the first +mile she knew it was foolish and futile to resent the afternoon's +comedy. That was the sort of thing everybody tried to do, +only few people were as successful as Mme. Vallery. She +knew well enough what she would get, if she pelted right in +on them now, as they sat laughing over their little triumph. +They would never dream of denying it, any more than she or +her father would deny being the author of a far-laid plan in +chess, which led to an opponent's defeat.</p> + +<p>It was all a part of the game, and she might as well make +up her mind to it, and renew her determination to keep out +of the game as far as she personally was concerned. They +were no worse than other people, only more intelligent and +more interesting. She could tell, to the very turn of the +phrase, what Mme. Vallery would say to her if she should +have the crassness to go in and make a scene.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, no power on earth can protect naïveté! +It is a lamb whose wool belongs to the best shearer. Let +her sharpen her wits, your young friend. She'll need to, +sooner or later. It ought to have been the best of practice +for her, a little skirmish like the one we just furnished her. +She would do well to practise before she gets into a serious +skirmish with somebody who <i>really</i> wants something out of her. +What is this fête-de-charité for? To please me? Not at all. +To make some money for poor people, mothers and anæmic +babies. Show me another woman in our circle who puts herself +out as much as I do for the poor! Your pretty friend +has more money than is good for her. I'm only securing +a little of it for the needy."</p> + +<p>That was true, too, thought Marise. Mme. Vallery really +did a lot of good, and very unostentatiously. If people were +only far enough beneath her in intelligence and social position +and money, she would do anything for them, very simply, +in the nicest sort of way. And if she took a rather horrid de<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span>light +in making fools of people more pretentious, what had +Marise to reproach her with—she who could not refrain +from malicious teasing! It was part of the same thing. +Everything was part of the same thing. And the same thing +always turned out to be very much the same. Also, Mme. +Vallery had really always been very kind to Marise, seemed +really fond of her, had given her innumerable opportunities +which otherwise she would never....</p> + +<p>"What does she want to get out of <i>me</i>?" Marise suddenly +asked herself, struck by a sudden suspicion and wondering +why she had never thought of this before.</p> + +<p>Pondering this, unpeeling another layer, an acrid odor in +her nostrils, she struck out into a longer, swifter gait, at her +old futile trick of trying to hurry away from what was inside +her heart.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The tall, slim, lithe girl, walking swiftly through the sweet +spring twilight looked like the personification of spring-time +with her fresh young face, her dewy dark eyes, her sensitive +mobile young mouth, red as a dark red rose. She looked +like Youth itself, welcoming in the new season. Several +people glanced after her, and smiled with sympathy for her +freshness and bloom and untouched virginal candor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XL</h2> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p class="right"> +Paris, May, 1908.<br /> +</p> + +<p>Eugenia had been complaining that her new teacher in advanced +French diction was very ill-natured and exacting, and +had asked Marise to go with her to a lesson to back her up in +a protest against his unreasonable demands.</p> + +<p>The two girls drove up to the Français in Eugenia's inevitable +cab, and leaving her inevitable maid to wait in it, passed +through the dingy little side-door into an ill-lighted corridor +and felt their way toilsomely up a stairway not lighted at +all. A dingy, stone-colored corridor with painted and numbered +doors on each side, like a needy old-man's home or ill-kept +reformatory. A knock at one of these, opened by a bald, +pale, elderly man, with a knobby nose and several chins. A +tiny, cluttered, stuffy room, with a lumpy sofa, two chairs, an +easel and a window.</p> + +<p>After her presentation to M. Vaudoyer, Marise sat down +on one of the hard chairs to await developments. The actor +was in a long, paint-stained blouse, and excused himself by +saying that his pupil was a little ahead of time, "A real American," +he said, smiling at both of them. He had been painting, +he explained, waving a wrinkled old hand towards a canvas +on an easel.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you are twice an artist," remarked Marise, doing as +she had been taught to do, automatically turning a pretty +speech. As a matter of fact, she thought the sketch anything +but artistic.</p> + +<p>The old man's face clouded. "To be a painter, that was +all I ever wanted," he said, looking with affection at the very +mediocre landscape, and adding sadly, "All my life ... all +my life."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But to have been—to be such an artist as you are on the +stage—surely that ought to be enough," said Marise. This +time she spoke sincerely, out of a very genuine admiration for +his acting.</p> + +<p>"One does what one can, what one can," said the old man, +resignedly, unbuttoning his blouse and dragging it off, revealing +snuffy and crumpled black garments. He looked, thought +Marise, like the parish priest of a very poor and neglected +parish. And he had been for years—why, for a life-time, +one of the most solidly esteemed and admired actors in the +finest theatrical company in the world. "What more does any +man want?" Marise asked herself, wondering why his face in +repose was so bitter and melancholy.</p> + +<p>Before beginning his lesson, he gave a last look at his painting, +"What do you think of it? What do you think of it?" +he asked suddenly, turning on Marise, the question like a +loaded revolver at her temple.</p> + +<p>Much practice had steadied Marise's nerves against any +sort of hold-up that could be practised in social relations. +She said instantly, "I think it shows one of the most charming +landscapes I ever saw. Where in the world is there such +a delightful composition?"</p> + +<p>She was dealing with some one infinitely more practised than +she, who was not in the least taken in by her evasion. Sighing, +he turned the canvas with its face to the easel, and told +her over his shoulder, "It's in my own country, where I ought +to have stayed and been a dumb-beast, and happy. Nowhere +you ever heard of, a far corner of the Pyrenees. Saint-Sauveur +is the name." And as if, in spite of himself, to pronounce the +name moved him, he broke out, "It's the most beautiful place—a +little heaven on earth—why should any one leave it to +spend his life in this boulevard hell of malignity? Such noble +lines in its mountains, such grand pacifying harmony in the +valleys—enough to reconcile a man to being alive! Such details +as it has too! There is a gorge there where the <i>gave de</i> +Gavarnie rushes down. Always on the hottest, dustiest, most +blinding summer day, it is cool there, the air green like Chartres +stained-glass, and alive with the thunder of the water."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span></p> + +<p>He frowned, shook his head, put his hand to a book on the +table, and said, dismissing his evocation with a shrug, "Eh +bien ... eh bien...!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The lesson began but Marise heard not a word of it, not a +word. She sat straight on the hard chair, her face a blank, +and walked up the street with Jeanne, seeing in the blue twilight, +the pale face of Jean-Pierre Garnier approaching them. +The alcove curtains hung close before her, and Jeanne's voice +was on the other side. And then, the burst of men's laughter +from across the landing, cut short by Jeanne's closing the door; +and then the heavy, dragging step in the corridor, the loud, +harsh breathing. She waited, tense with fright, to see the curtains +twitch open, and Jeanne's dreadful face appear ... +some one was speaking to her, urgently, insistently, by +name....</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"Marise, Marise...." It was Eugenia speaking to her, +"Help me explain to M. Vaudoyer that I haven't the least desire +to become an actress, or to know every word of Molière +by heart! That I simply want lessons in how to pronounce +French correctly, the kind of lessons my English-diction teacher +gives me." She spoke with an impatient accent, and Marise +coming to herself saw the two facing each other with angry +looks.</p> + +<p>M. Vaudoyer said indignantly, "It's not worth my while +to give instruction to a student who will not do the necessary +work."</p> + +<p>"I will do any <i>necessary</i> work," Eugenia answered hotly, +"but what has reading a lot of deadly dull old books to do +with pronouncing French correctly? And if I'm not going +to be an actress or a singer, what <i>is</i> the use of all those idiotic +ah! ah! oh! oh! fee! fee! exercises?"</p> + +<p>M. Vaudoyer sat down abruptly, and reaching for a large +red-and-white checked handkerchief, mopped his bald head +and perspiring face with it. He was evidently containing +himself with difficulty and waiting till he could be sure of +speaking with moderation before he opened his lips.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span></p> + +<p>Eugenia explained to Marise with dignity, glad of the opportunity +to state her case, "I come to M. Vaudoyer for lessons +in diction. I don't come to study singing or seventeenth-century +history. I hate history and all those dull studies. +I don't see why everybody should always be trying to force me +into them. M. Vaudoyer gets very angry because I will not +practise singing lessons and because I cannot find the time to +spend hours in the Bibliothèque Nationale reading all about +everything that happened in Molière's time. What do I care +what happened in Molière's time? What I want, what I am +paying for, is a very simple thing. Instruction in French diction. +I don't see that I am getting it."</p> + +<p>Her accent showed that she considered her case unassailably +good and reasonable.</p> + +<p>M. Vaudoyer listened with attention, looking at her very +hard, and when she had finished he nodded, "You are right, +Miss Mills. I am not the teacher for you. I am a poor, old, +impractical Frenchman, incapable of satisfying a practical +American girl, who knows what she wants and has the money +to buy it. You are the race of the future, you Americans, +I of the past. There is no common ground between us." He +spoke mildly. Eugenia stared. Marise winced.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean, M. Vaudoyer?" asked Eugenia. "Are +you sending me away?"</p> + +<p>He said with a little smile, "You have sent me away, Miss +Mills, far away. And as to what I mean, if you like, I will +try to tell you. But you will not understand. I cannot talk +the American language. I can only speak the French language." +He paused, wiping his perspiring forehead again with +his checked handkerchief. "There are two parts to every art. +One is the thorough command of your medium; the other is +the personality you express through your medium. Neither +has the slightest value without the other. Neither is to be +had without paying the price of all you have ... <i>all</i>, all!</p> + +<p>"You must have perfect command of your medium, just +in itself, as a tool. Listen," he stood up, his heavily jowled +face grim and stern, drew a long breath, as if he were about +to speak, and then as at a sudden thought, paused, the expres<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span>sion +of his face changing with comical suddenness to a broad +smile, and began to laugh. The girls stared at him in amazement, +wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. Apparently +something very funny had popped into his mind, just as +he was about to go on with his statement to them. It must +have been really <i>very</i> funny indeed, for he could not stop his +laughter, try as he might. It was too much for him. Both +hands on his hips, throwing back his head, he pealed out an +irresistible, "Ha! Ha!" as though he would burst if he did +not laugh. Seeing their astonished faces, he tried to stop +to tell them the joke, choked himself down to rich chuckles, +opened his mouth to speak, and, the joke striking him afresh, +went off again in a huge roar of mirth that made them +both smile and then laugh outright in sympathy.</p> + +<p>At this, his face instantly resumed its sad, stern expression, +and he was looking at them severely as before, breathing +quickly, it is true, as though he had been running, but without +a trace of any feeling.</p> + +<p>"There you see," he said drily. "That is an example of +what I mean by command of a medium. To be master of <i>my</i> +tool I must not only be able to laugh, when I feel like it, +but whenever I need to laugh, whether I feel like it or not. +And I assure you, young ladies, I do not feel in the least +like laughing now, having had this glimpse of the future as +it will be, shaped to the American mold, by the people of the +future."</p> + +<p>The girls were stricken silent by all this, their lips, frozen +in astonishment, still curving in the set smile that was all that +was left of their foolish, induced mirth. Marise was nettled +and angry. He had no business playing tricks like that on +them. She had been made to appear foolish, horribly foolish, +and she resented it.</p> + +<p>"Well, Miss Mills," he went on, addressing Eugenia, "you +cannot get such a control of your medium, you cannot learn +to speak any language beautifully, without long, long dull +hours of the oh! oh! ah! ah! practice that you scorn. You +cannot buy such a command of your medium, not for millions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span> +of your great round dollars. No, not the wealthiest, sharpest +American who ever lived can possess European culture, by +buying little pieces of it here and there, and hanging it up +on his wall. By changing the very fibre of your being, that +is the only way to become anything that is worth becoming. +And you cannot change the fibre of your being without +dying a thousand deaths and knowing a thousand births."</p> + +<p>He puffed out a scornful breath and went on, "And for +the other half, Miss Mills. You want to learn diction by +reading to me. But what you read has sense. It is not just +consonants and vowels. And to read it well, you must +understand it. And to understand it, you must know something—do +you understand me? You must <i>know</i> something. +I soon found that you could not understand Molière, +because you know no history, no literature, nor anything else +you should have been learning. You cannot read with any +over-tones in your voice, unless you understand the over-tones +of what you are reading. You cannot read Molière, or anybody +else, as if you were reading,</p> + +<p>"'<i>Barbara; celarent; darii; ferio; baralipton.</i>'</p> + +<p>"Or at least—" His carefully repressed indignation burst +for a moment from his control; he said in a roar, "At least you +cannot in <i>my</i> loge—not, not even an American, not even a +representative of the people of the future!"</p> + +<p>He had risen to his feet, trembling with his anger, a high-priest +rebuking a blasphemy. The girls shrank back, startled.</p> + +<p>At once he extinguished the flame, went for a moment +to the window, and when he turned back, said quietly, "You +must excuse an old man's bad temper, Miss Mills, and you +must look for a politer, more practical teacher. I can give +you the address of one who will suit you. I can, in fact," +he said smoothly, "give you the addresses of several hundred +who will suit you perfectly. I will send the addresses of +several to you. Good-day, Miss Mills. Good-by, Miss...." +He was vague as to Marise's name, but murmured something +with an absent courtesy. He stepped to the door, opened it +with an urbane inclination of the head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span></p> + +<p>Eugenia held in her hand the sealed envelope which contained +the usual fee for a lesson, and now looked down at it, +uncertain whether she dared offer it. He saw her glance at it, +and relieved her of her uncertainty, "No, no fee to-day, Miss +Mills. I have given you no lesson." As they passed before +him, he added under his breath, "No lesson, that is, that will +be of any value to you."</p> + +<p>Marise glancing over her shoulder, saw him turn at once +to the easel and reach for his palette and brushes. He had +dropped them from his mind. It was the airy, finishing +touch to their humiliation. She burned with anger and +shame.</p> + +<p>They groped their way down the darkened stairs in silence, +neither trusting herself to speak, lest she burst into tears.</p> + +<p>At the bottom Marise said neutrally, "I have a music lesson +now. Would you like to come along?"</p> + +<p>Eugenia said in a loud, quavering voice, "I should think not! +I have had enough of their hatefulness for <i>one</i> day!" She +went on, her voice shaken by suppressed sobs which did not +at all fit what she was saying, "And I h-have an appointment +w-with the hairdresser anyhow." She fumbled with a desperate +haste in her little gold-beaded hand-bag, jerked out a +lacy handkerchief and wiped her eyes angrily. But more tears +came, a flood of nervous, excited tears, which ran down in +big drops. She flung her arms around Marise's neck and hiding +her face on her shoulder, cried out pitifully, "Oh, Marise, +don't you ever just want to go back <i>home</i>?"</p> + +<p>Marise's heart was very full of compassion, very barren +of consolation. "I haven't any home to go back to, any +more than you," she said in a whisper.</p> + +<p>Eugenia reached up, pulled her head down and kissed her, +still sobbing. Marise kept her cheek pressed against the +other's tear-wet face, aching with her helplessness, burning +to find some word of comfort, finding nothing but loving +silence to express her tenderness and pity.</p> + +<p>A door opened upstairs, laughing voices sounded on the landing +above. The two girls drew apart and moved towards the +door hand in hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p>Mme. de la Cueva had been crying and Marise guessed +that she was getting ready to have a new husband. She +seemed to have had bad luck in husbands. The one who +had just been put to the door was the second Marise had +known in the four years of her study with the pianist, and +there had been at least two before that. It was a terrible grief +to her always to find out that she no longer cared for the +one she had; but she faced the facts with courage, allowing +herself no dissembling, no bourgeoise timidity. The old one +disappeared, and in a few months a new one was there.</p> + +<p>"Good-day, my child," said the pianist affectionately, pulling +Marise down to kiss her on both cheeks. "No lesson to-day +nor to-morrow," she spoke solemnly, the tears in her eyes.</p> + +<p>She began to cry openly.</p> + +<p>Marise sat down by her, startled out of her own mood of +resentment. "Why, dear Madame de la Cueva, why?" she +asked, "What has happened?"</p> + +<p>"I am going to America," said the older woman. "Georges +Noel and I are booked for a concert tour of the world. We +will be married in Australia."</p> + +<p>The inevitable first thought of the magnificent egotism of +youth was for itself, "Why, what shall <i>I</i> do?" cried Marise +aggrieved.</p> + +<p>Mme. de la Cueva did not resent this. She never resented +anything which she recognized as natural. And this seemed +to her pre-eminently natural and proper. She took Marise's +hand in hers tenderly, maternally.</p> + +<p>"It is for your good, my dear child, the change, though I +know how you will miss me. You need some one else. A +year with the old Visconti will be the making of you."</p> + +<p>"The old Visconti!" cried Marise, "but he lives in Rome!"</p> + +<p>"But it is perfectly possible for other people to live in Rome +too! My dear child, a year in Rome at your age ... it +will be the making of you! You will always bless your poor +old de la Cueva who secured it for you. Youth, talent, beauty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> +Rome!" she drew the picture with envious admiration of its +possibilities.</p> + +<p>There was no use trying to reason with her, as one would +with any one else, Marise knew that from experience—no +use trying to show the material, practical obstacles in the +way. What would her father say? How could she go alone +to Rome to live? Not that Mme. de la Cueva would have +hesitated at any age to go anywhere alone to live—but +she would not long have remained alone! How like Mme. +de la Cueva to dispose of her so calmly! Even as Marise +said all this to herself she was aware by a sudden warm gush +of pleasure and excitement in her heart that she was delighted +beyond measure with the plan, that she had been longing for +some change in her life, that she had been growing deathly +stale in the same old round, the absurdly life-and-death consultations +with Biron in the kitchen, the same old professors +at the Sorbonne with the same old glass of sugar-and-water +and the same high-keyed nasal delivery of the same old lectures, +even Mme. de la Cueva with her same old clichés about +mass and bulk in the bass. She felt no guilt about this last, +for if there were one person in the world who understood +entirely the fatigue at the recurrence of the same old things, +it was Mme. de la Cueva! The pianist looking at her young +disciple with discerning and experienced eyes, saw something +of this and smiled sympathetically.</p> + +<p>"You have been working, working, working, and now it is +time to run a little free, my Marisette," she said, patting her +hand, "you are ... how old?"</p> + +<p>"Twenty-one to-day," said Marise.</p> + +<p>"Exactly! As though Fate had timed it. Very likely +Fate did." She had a great faith in Fate provided one did +not hang back before the doors Fate set open before one. +Personally she had never hesitated to step through every one +that had been even ajar.</p> + +<p>"A year in Rome with the old Visconti, who has the most +wonderful sense of rhythm of any man alive—the real, the +living rhythm—the life, the personality of music! Make +yourself a docile little pair of ears and nothing else when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span> +talks to you of rhythm! And pay <i>no</i> attention, none, do you +hear, to his fingering! It is <i>infecte</i>, <i>ignoble</i>! Then after a +year, I shall be here again to see what else you need before I +launch you—good old Maman de la Cueva will be thinking +of you all the time...."</p> + +<p>"But I am not in the least sure I can manage a year in +Rome," protested Marise, breaking in with a hurried protest +against this taking-for-granted of everything, "I never dreamed +of going to Rome! My father...."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you can manage it," Madame de la Cueva assured +her carelessly, "one can always manage whatever one really +wants to do. Especially if it depends on a man."</p> + +<p>She crossed the room now to pull at a bell-cord and to +order tea of the stout, elderly maid who came. Such a cosmopolitan +as Madame de la Cueva would of course have tea.</p> + +<p>"We shall have tea together, my dear, to celebrate your +birthday and my new plans, and to have a last talk together, +the last talk before you grow up."</p> + +<p>Her tears were forgotten. They had been shed, and that +was the end of them. It was thus that one should live, she +believed, crying heartily when one felt like it, and having it +over with. She detested what she called the "brain-sickening +Anglo-Saxon mania of bottling up emotion till it grows so +intense you get no enjoyment out of it," and she was much +given to cautioning against this mania those few of her pupils +whom she took seriously and for whom she labored her valiant +best, pouring out for them all her wisdom, musical and otherwise.</p> + +<p>She came back now, and sat before the piano, her amplitude +overflowing the stool as a mighty inflooding wave overflows a +rock.</p> + +<p>"While Giuseppina is making our tea, I'll play to you," she +announced. She put her beautiful hands on the keys like a +millionaire plunging his hands into a coffer of jewels and +offering a choice between pearls and rubies, "What will you +have? What do you feel like?"</p> + +<p>Marise felt more like an earthquake in full activity than +anything else, and chose accordingly, "If I'm going to Rome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> +for a year, I feel like fireworks," she said with a rather breathless +laugh, "something Hungarian ... Liszt, perhaps."</p> + +<p>Madame de la Cueva settled herself and was off, Marise's +heart galloping beside her in the wild rush over the plain. +The little lean, wiry, ewe-necked horse under her tore along, +sure-footed, as carried away by the stampede as his rider. +There was a lance in her hand, a lance with a little blood-red, +ragged flag, fluttering loudly against the wind of their forward +rush like a bird struggling to escape and fly. Marise heard +its throbbing struggle above the rhythmic thunder of the +hoofs and felt her heart fluttering like a caught bird in sympathy. +And now, with a long, rending slide from bass to +treble, it tore itself loose, the wind caught it and whirled it up +high over their heads as they plunged along. There it rode +among the clouds, like a scarlet storm-bird, sinking and falling +and advancing to a longer, nobler, more ample rhythm +than that of their many-hoofed clattering. Marise's heart +soared up with it, soared out of the noisy clattering, up to +the clouds, to the noble, long curves of the wind's soundless +advance ... soundless ... the piano was silent. Madame +de la Cueva had played the last half-heard, velvet note that +was prolonged, prolonged by the sweep of that noble line. She +and Marise floated with it for a moment, and then as it swept +on and left them, they slowly eddied down to the ground like +dry leaves.</p> + +<p>Giuseppina came in with the tea. Madame de la Cueva +turned round on the piano-stool, a fat, elderly woman with +three chins.</p> + +<p>"Not so bad for the old lady, hein?" she said, well-pleased +with herself and with Marise's dazzled look.</p> + +<p>Marise attempted no thanks, no comment. Silently, like +a person hypnotized she took the proffered cup, nodding her +desire for two lumps and lemon; and silently, like a person +hypnotized she listened to Madame de la Cueva's monologue. +The music like a rich wine had unloosed the musician's tongue. +In a mood like this she "turned the faucet and it ran."</p> + +<p>"My little one," she said fondly to Marise, "my little one, +so here you are on the beach ready to take the plunge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span>—twenty-one +to-day! And your poor old de la Cueva will not +be here to advise you. Oh well, there's only one mistake that +is worse than giving advice, and that is taking it. Never take +anybody's advice, my darling, nobody's at all."</p> + +<p>She drank the half of her cup of tea, not by any means +noiselessly, wiped her mustache with the tiny, beautifully +fine, embroidered tea-napkin, and hanging lovingly over the +plate of patisseries, chose the fluffiest with a sigh of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"The only thing not to do, the only mistake possible to +make, is to stand shivering on the beach, not to plunge in +and breast the waves. Breast the waves!" she showed by a +wide gesture of her powerful arm what she meant.</p> + +<p>"And you can't swim with anything or anybody hanging +around your neck. The moment they begin to weigh on you +... p-f-f-t! off with them! Nothing you can do will help +people who can't swim themselves. They'll only drag you +down with them.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, remember this, that if there is an element +in life hateful to the free human soul it is what is called permanence. +The only permanent thing any human being should +recognize is his tomb. From everything else he must climb +out and go on, go on.</p> + +<p>"Above all, beware of permanence in love. It is a paradox +ever to speak of love and permanence in the same breath. +Life and death! They cannot exist together. Women as a +rule, all women who are not artists, make their mistakes in +that way. You are a woman now, and an artist, it is the +duty of an older woman and an artist to warn you against +it. The only way not to be a life-long victim of men is to take +love as they it ... for the pleasure. Men wish nothing from +love but their pleasure. It is a vain and foolish striving to +try and give them more, or to try and get more from them."</p> + +<p>She took another éclair and said on a softer note, "I +don't deny that women are more naturally given to the folly +of seeking permanence in love than men. I myself have a +weakness in that direction." Marise looked down into her +cup to hide an involuntary smile at this. "Each time I love,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span> +the illusion is that it is now for eternity. Each time the +wrench costs me tears.... You saw my tears, my dear!</p> + +<p>"No, the only thing to do is to use it, as men do, to feed +one's art. You heard how superbly I played that Liszt! +That is Georges, that is the new flame leaping up from a lamp +that was burning out!"</p> + +<p>She poured another cup, and seasoned it with care. Marise +ventured to say mildly, "I'm afraid I'm rather cold. I don't +... I haven't ever cared much for men."</p> + +<p>Madame de la Cueva shook her head, "Every unawakened +girl thinks that. And once in a while there is a monster born, +sometimes a man, more often a woman, who is born really +cold—like a born half-wit or a two-headed cat. But any +one of experience can feel them in the room, as you feel a snake. +<i>You</i> are not cold, my darling. No one who can play The +Tragica as you do, is cold. You are only a child. You Anglo-Saxons +take so long to ripen. But all the better for your technique—that +quaint prolongation of infancy. But <i>now</i>," she +put down her cup and looked at Marise deeply and masterfully, +"now your infancy has lasted long enough. In with +you! Dive from the nearest rock! Head over heels! I +shall hear the splash from across the world and rejoice."</p> + +<p>Marise laughed a little nervously, partly because she was +amused and partly because she was excited. That great mass +of personality, radiating magnetism, would excite a statue on a +tomb, she thought to herself, even though you didn't at all +share her tastes, or like the things she did.</p> + +<p>"And when I say, 'in with you,' I don't mean any of the +sentimental slip-noose business of becoming a house-mother +with children—oh, whatever else, my dear, no children. +The only artists who can afford to have children are men, +because men never really love their children and can abandon +them at any time they need to. No woman can do that. Even +<i>I</i> could never have done that!</p> + +<p>"You see, carissima mea, in love a man always keeps most +of himself for himself, as in everything else. You must do the +same if you are not to be cheated in every bargain that life +offers you. It is a hard lesson to learn. It will cost you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span> +many tears. But tears are valuable. You cannot live and +be an artist, without tears. Shed them freely and you will +see how you will grow."</p> + +<p>She looked at her watch, "I expect Georges at five," she +explained, and swept on to her peroration, "Remember, think +of all I tell you when your wise old friend who knows life is +far away. Remember! None of your Anglo-Saxon nonsense +about trying to get along without sex-life. Take it, take all +you need of it, but keep it separate from your real life as +a man does, and it will never poison or embitter you." She +laughed a little, triumphantly, "You will <i>do</i> all the embittering +instead of enduring it. You have beauty. You can buy +anything you want with it, if you learn how to use it. You +have what will advance you more than any talent for music! +You have a nice talent, but you will go ten times as far as a +woman with a big nose and poor hair. Make your brain a +little mint, my darling, coin your good looks into legal tender, +and buy success."</p> + +<p>She kissed the girl and dismissed her, with another look +at her watch and then into the mirror.</p> + +<p>Marise stumbled down the stairs, a little dizzied by the +sudden removal of that pressing, urgent, magnetic personality. +To step out suddenly from under it, was like stepping into a +vacuum. Her ears rang.</p> + +<p>At the street-door she paused, waiting for the mist to clear +from before her eyes. She peered out into the quiet street, +as if she were looking into life itself, the life that Madame de la +Cueva had so magisterially set before her. And she loathed +in anticipation everything that was waiting for her there.</p> + +<p>There lay the world, grown-up life, Rome, her career, before +her, and apparently there was nothing in it which she would not +detest. Love ... the love that Madame de la Cueva had +shown her how to get ... she shrank away from it with a +proud, cold scorn, her nostrils quivering. Music ... there +was no music in that program, only an exploitation of music +to buy personal success for her. And she loved music ... +fiercely she clung to that, as the one thing that would not betray +her, the one thing she dared love with all her heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span></p> + +<p>She stood on the threshold of the street-door, dreading to +take even one step forward into it all, till the concierge looked +at her hard, with a disagreeable smile, suspecting a rendezvous +with a lover. Marise saw the look, knew what it meant, +felt it push her forward, knew in anticipation how that sort +of look and what lay back of it would be always pushing her +forward into what she hated.</p> + +<p>With a long breath she stepped into the street, into the +road that stretched before her. She held her head high, with +an angry pride. The concierge-soul of the world must never +know what was inside her life. The thing to do, the only +thing she saw that was tolerable to do, was to take care that +she was not being fooled. Well, she thought with a grave, +still bitterness, she certainly ought to know something about +that.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_END_OF_ALL_ROADS" id="THE_END_OF_ALL_ROADS"></a><i>THE END OF ALL ROADS</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 100%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XLI</h2> + + +<p class="right"> +1909<br /> +</p> + +<p>Neale sat idly in front of the black-and-white façade of the +Orvieto Cathedral, trying idly to make up his mind on a matter +of no importance whatever and not getting on very fast. In his +pocket was his ticket back to New York and his ship sailed +in a week. But, of course, it did not sail from Orvieto. +Should he go south to Naples where most of the passengers +took ship? If he did, he could stop over four or five days in +Rome. It might be interesting to revisit Rome. Or should he +go north to Genoa, where the ship was due to stop the day +after leaving Naples? He had not seen Genoa at all and he +might be missing something worth while. It ought to stir +any American's imagination to hang about the docks where +a certain visionary, middle-aged sailor-man had gone up and +down trying to raise the funds for a mad attempt to prove the +world absolutely different from what everybody else had +thought.</p> + +<p>He sat there looking up at the Cathedral, deciding now for +Genoa and now for Rome, and in between times forgetting all +about the matter, so evenly balanced were the advantages, so +unimportant was the whole business. When he finally stood +up to go back to his inn, he remembered that he had still not +settled which train to take.</p> + +<p>He took a coin out of his pocket. He'd toss up. Heads +for Naples, tails for Genoa.</p> + +<p>The coin flashed up in the sun, and fell on the stone steps. +In the intense, somnolent silence of the little provincial square +its tinkle sounded loud and clear. All the loungers turned their +heads quickly at the sound. Neale stooped over it.</p> + +<p>Heads, Naples. All right. He'd inquire when he got to +Rome if they didn't perhaps run a boat-train down, just before +sailing time.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>As he was unstrapping his suit-case that night in his room in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span> +the Roman pension, it did not greatly surprise him to have +Livingstone knock at the door and step in. Livingstone had +been at that pension before, during Neale's first leisurely sauntering +visit to Rome; Livingstone had turned up at the pension +in Florence before Neale left; he had run across Livingstone +in a Paris café sitting alone at a table, looking as much like an +attaché of the Embassy as he could manage. Livingstone +was no tourist but one of the professional inhabitants of +Europe; an American, that much he admitted, though neither +hints nor direct British questioning had ever extracted from +him his birthplace in the States. He was the sort of man who +had learned how to cross his long thin legs elegantly so that +the toe of one slim foot pointed downward. As at the +same time he was wont to fold his arms over his hollowed +chest, stoop his shoulders and droop his neck, and as he wore +gray gaiters and carried a walking stick he had good reason +to flatter himself that he had altogether the distinguished, +pinched, sickly, aristocratic look of the traditional promising +young-old diplomat. Neale was not surprised to see him in +Rome. He would not have been surprised to see him anywhere—except +perhaps at work. It was Neale's guess that +three or four years from now he would have screwed up his +courage to wearing a monocle.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Crittenden," he said, "it <i>is</i> you, is it? When Michele +told me you had turned up again, I was sure he must be +mistaken. I understood you were on the high seas, on your +way back to the land of the free and the home of bad cooking."</p> + +<p>Without being invited, he sank down in a chair to watch +Neale unpack and wash, asking, "You were going back to +New York, weren't you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I still am. I'm only in Rome for five days. But I +won't be long in the States. I'll be on my way to China +and the East."</p> + +<p>Livingstone was mildly interested. "You don't say so! +Well, you might really get there by starting off to New York. +But I admit I don't see the connection. Why don't you take +a P. and O. for India?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A little business to attend to first. A small inheritance to +cash in on."</p> + +<p>"Inheritance!" cried Livingstone, sitting up straight. "The +very word makes my mouth water. Why doesn't that ever +happen to me?" The expression on his face was like that of +the loungers in front of the Cathedral when they heard the +coin drop.</p> + +<p>Through the lather of soap-suds on his face, Neale laughed, +"A very two-for-a-cent inheritance. An old great-uncle I +hardly knew—never saw him but once or twice, years ago +when I was a kid, left me his home and his little old-fashioned +saw-mill and wood-working plant, back up at the end of nowhere +in Vermont."</p> + +<p>"<i>No money!</i>" sympathized Livingstone. "But then of course +you can sell all that for <i>some</i>thing. But no real money at +all?"</p> + +<p>"There's what he had in the savings bank—about four +thousand dollars, the executor writes. Just enough to do +nothing at all with."</p> + +<p>Livingstone made a mental calculation. "I wouldn't wonder +if you might get fifty dollars a month out of the whole thing. +And that's enough. Ma foi! That's enough if you cut corners +a little. <i>I</i> only have eighty-five. And then you can always +give an occasional English lesson to piece out. You won't need +ever to do a lick of work or ever live in the States. Mes felicitations! +That's the life! You'll be knowing Europe as well +as I do, next. How soon will you be back?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not coming back," said Neale, buttoning on a clean +collar. "When I've cashed in and got what I can out of my +uncle's business I'm going overland to San Francisco, and from +there to the East."</p> + +<p>Livingstone considered this, "Well, they do say that Chinese +cooking is super-excellent once you get used to it."</p> + +<p>"I'm not going for the cooking."</p> + +<p>"No? What <i>are</i> you going for?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," said Neale rather sharply. "Because +I feel like it. Why shouldn't I?"</p> + +<p>Livingstone perceived that he had run on a hidden reef and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span> +backed off. "Don't you want to come on into the salon and +let me present you to the crowd?" he asked standing up and +moving towards the door. "Since you were here some awfully +nice people have come over from the Pension Alfierenti. +Poor old Alfierenti died suddenly and his place is shut up for +the present."</p> + +<p>"No, thanks," said Neale. "I'm going up on the roof for +a smoke before I go to bed."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," Livingstone remembered, "you always did prefer +the terrazza and your solitary pipe to the society of the ladies. +Well, there is a nice view from up there; but between a view +and a pretty girl who could hesitate?"</p> + +<p>"Who, indeed?" said Neale dryly, going off up the stairs.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The plaster floor and low walls of the terrazza gleamed white +and empty. As Neale had hoped there was not a soul there. +Below him spread the roofs and domes and streets of Rome, +richly-colored even in the white light of the moon, hanging +like a great lamp over the city.</p> + +<p>He took the corner that had been his favorite before, in the +black shadow cast by a thick-leaved grapevine, and perching +on the edge of the wall, looked down meditatively on the city +as he filled his pipe.</p> + +<p>Well, so here he was in Rome—just as if something had +pushed him here, where least of all places he had expected to +find himself again. Odd that his year of travel should end with +a second visit to the first European city that had stirred his +imagination, that had given him a hint of what it was he had +come to Europe to see. It was during his first stay in Rome +that he stopped being a dumb, Baedecker-driven tourist, that +he first got the idea of what Europe might teach him better +than America could. It was here that he first thought of trying +to get from Europe some idea of what men during a +good many centuries had found worth doing.</p> + +<p>For, unlike America, Europe was crammed full of objects +little and big that men alone or in groups had devoted their +lives to create. America had tried a number of experiments—once; +but Europe had tried them all, so many times, at such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span> +different periods, in so many, so various centers of civilization! +Such a crowded graveyard of human endeavor might perhaps +suggest a satisfactory motive (if one existed) for going on +living.</p> + +<p>For a long time he had made no headway, had discovered no +general underlying motive—indeed much of what he saw +filled him with utter astonishment at the things men had cared +for, even to the point of giving their lives to win them.</p> + +<p>He still remembered that morning during his first stay, when +he had stared with stupefaction at the rows of portrait-busts +in the Capitoline Museum. So many men, most of them apparently +intelligent had schemed and plotted through long +years—and what for? To be the conventional head of an +unworkable Empire, top-heavy with administration; to endure +the hideous tedium of ceremony and pompous ritual +which the office had imposed; to be forced to work through +sycophants and grafters, to be exiled from healthy human life +into a region where in the nature of things you could never +hope to see one spontaneous sincere expression on any human +face; where your life, your work, your reputation hung on +the whim of the Prætorian Guard or the disgruntled legions +on a distant frontier—why, if you lay awake nights you +couldn't think of a more thankless job than being a Roman +Emperor! And yet for centuries men had sacrificed their +friends, their honor, their very lives to hold the office. Those +old Romans, for all they looked so like ordinary everyday men +you meet in the street, must have had a queer notion of what +was worth-while in life!</p> + +<p>Then he had left Rome and gone away without plan, anywhere +the train would take him; and wherever he had gone +he had walked about, silently attentive to what men had done +with their lives. That was what he had been looking for as +he walked around on battle-fields, or gazed up at Cathedrals +or looked seriously at the statues thick-sown as the sands of the +sea all over European cities; that was what he had been looking +for as he sat alone in a pension bed-room reading a history +or a biography that helped him fit together into some sort +of a system all the diverse objects he had been considering.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span></p> + +<p>Wherever he went, wherever he looked, he was like an +archæologist raking over an inexhaustible kitchen-midden—he +was surrounded by relics of innumerable generations crowding +the long centuries during which men had lived and died on this +old continent. Perhaps if he looked hard enough at what they +had left behind them he might find out what men really wanted +to do with their lives—perhaps he might get some hint +of what he could do with his own life.</p> + +<p>That was a subject he had never stopped to consider in +America. Nothing in American life had suggested that you +might have any choice except between different ways of earning +your living. And yet he reflected it was rather an important +question—at least as important as which baseball league +you were going to root for.</p> + +<p>It was so absolutely new to Neale to consider that question—any +abstract question indeed—that for some months +after he had shut down his desk in the office of the Gates Lumber +Company, he felt his head whirl at the notion of trying +to find an answer—an answer to any question, let alone so +compendious a one as what it was that men wanted to do with +their lives. The cogs and wheels of disinterested impersonal +thought which had started to work in college, were stiff with +disuse and refused to turn. All he had been able to do +was to wonder, and stare, and read memoirs and histories, +feeling like a strange cat in a very much cluttered garret. Was +there anything in Europe that would really mean anything to +him, to an American who was not esthetic, who refused to +pretend, who frankly thought the average picture-gallery a +dreary desert?</p> + +<p>And then, very slowly, he had begun to make a guess that +there was an arrangement in what looked so wildly hit-or-miss; +as on the day when happening upon the little triumphal arch +in Rheims he had at last got under his skin the idea of the +Roman Empire, far-reaching, permeating with its law, customs, +speech, the tiniest crevices of the provinces. To think +of Romans living and governing and doing business in a little, +one-horse, Gallic town like this! Maybe it hadn't been such +a crazy aspiration to want to be Emperor—sort of like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span> +being President of the Standard Oil Company to-day. You +knew in your heart that the job was too big for any man, but +it was warming to your imagination even to pretend you were +running a machine that covered the whole known world. And +probably all of them had an illogical hunch that <i>they</i> would +get away with it—and, by Jupiter, a lot of them had, and +died peacefully in their beds. After all, so far as ordinary +horse-sense went, wasn't devoting yourself to gathering together +a great deal more money than you could possibly use, at least +as odd a way of spending a human life as trying to hang on to +the tail of the Roman Empire? And yet there were countless +thousands of men all over Europe as well as in the United +States who were hoping with all their souls that Fate would allow +them to do just that. And a few did get away with it—just +as some of the Emperors had. But it killed a great +many—the Manager of the Gates Lumber Company, for +instance. Every man knew that it might be the death of him, +just as in the first century an Emperor knew he'd be lucky if +he were killed quick. But nobody hung back for that in either +century. Nobody really believed it would get <i>him</i>! Why, a +year ago, Neale Crittenden himself had been tearing along towards +it as hard as he could pelt.</p> + +<p>Well, good God, you had to do <i>some</i>thing with yourself. +You couldn't float along, your boneless tentacles rising and +falling with the tides, like that jelly-fish of a Livingstone!</p> + +<p>What was there for a man to do with himself? At all times +evidently, some men had been satisfied in producing art of +some kind or another—that wasn't any good for Neale. +He hadn't an ounce of artistic feeling, wasn't even a craftsman, +let alone an artist. And many men in every epoch had cared +about fighting. That was more his sort—if you were sure +you could find something worth fighting for! And many men +had wanted to run things—not only for the feeling of personal +power, but to straighten out the hopeless muddles humanity +was always getting itself into.... He had lost the frail +thread of his thought in a maze of speculations, comparisons, +half-formulated ambitions.</p> + +<p>But he had always come back to his problem. He did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a></span> +hurry. He had left the Gates Lumber Company so that he +would not need to hurry! Sometimes he had caught a glimpse +of the thread, lost it, felt it between his closing fingers, let it +slip again. And whenever it escaped him and he found himself +staring again at a jumbled confusion with no clue to its pattern, +he had lit his pipe and smoked reflectively, his eyes fixed +on whatever detail of European life chanced to be before them, +a stained-glass window at Chartres, a crowded noisy café in +Milan, the hydraulic cranes unloading cargoes from the Congo +under the tower of Antwerp Cathedral. What men had left +behind them looked from the outside like a heaped-up pile of +heterogeneous junk, some good and some bad, and no way of +guessing how any of it came to be. But Neale hung fast to +that guess of his that there might be some meaning for him +in it all, if he could only be patient enough and clear-headed +enough to pick it out. He had never been an impatient temperament +but he certainly had not of late years been especially +clear-headed. During this reflective pause in his life, he felt +his mind re-acquiring its capacity to do some abstract thinking. +Released temporarily as he was from the necessity for +immediate activity his head slowly cleared itself from the +cloudy fumes given off by energy automatically rushing into +action, blindly, planlessly. He began to perceive that he had +been carried off his feet by the conviction of his time that +activity, any activity at all, is all-sufficient, provided it is taken +with speed, energy and decision. Neale had acquired speed, +energy and decision in activity, but he'd be damned, he told +himself once in a while, if he'd run his legs off any longer without +seeing which way he was going.</p> + +<p>As he sat now alone on the roof, overlooking the many, +many monuments left as token of what men had wanted to do +with their lives, he brought up and considered the few conclusions—the +guesses at truth—the year had brought +him. They didn't seem to amount to much, they were ridiculously +slight as the sum-total of a year's earnest thought, but +all this sort of thinking was so new and hard for him! At +least such as they were, they were his own thoughts—he +hadn't taken them on anybody else's say-so; and simple and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span> +inadequate as they seemed from the outside, they might be the +first step towards understanding the truth—the truth for <i>him</i>.</p> + +<p>To begin with, he hadn't in the least found out what men +wanted or why they wanted it—all his classification had +been like pressing wild-flowers and sticking them in a herbarium +with the right Latin name tacked on—it cleared up +some of the clutter, perhaps, but it left you mighty far from +understanding life. All that he had learned from his classification +was that men wanted a lot of contradictory things, and +what one man would sell his soul to get, would break another +one's heart to have. Well, wasn't that perhaps a clue? +Wasn't it just that innate diversity which was at the root of a +great many tragedies? Wasn't the trouble that men wouldn't +let themselves act as individuals? Men were so hopelessly tied +to the fashion of their century. Yes, men were fashion-ridden: +they had no call to laugh at women's continuous-performance-vaudeville +of big-sleeves, tight-lacing, hobble-skirts! Women +cared about clothes, and every woman except a few dowds was +out to look like every other woman, and just a little more so; +men cared about the business of the world, and every man except +a few freaks felt that he ought to outdo every one else +at whatever all the men of his time were doing. And nobody +wanted to be a freak. But the truth was that there were all +sorts of men in the world all the time—who ought normally +to do all sorts of different things. But did they? No, they +didn't. No matter what you really wanted to do with your +life, no matter what your particular life was best suited for, +human tradition was always inflexibly insisting that you try +to cut your life by the pattern considered fashionable at the +time and in the place where you lived—try to be an Emperor +in Imperial Rome, try to be a millionaire in twentieth +century New York. People didn't seem able to consider even +for a moment that there must be lots of men so made that they +would prefer anything to the process of becoming an Emperor +or a millionaire.</p> + +<p>There rose before Neale now the restless, unhappy face of +the young Frenchman he had come to know in Bourges, who +one evening as they sat in the park near the Cathedral,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a></span> +poured out to him in a bitter flood his horrified sense of the +closing in on him of bonds which he hated, which were being +forged around him by the irresistible forces of social tradition +and family affection. Fighting helplessly against overwhelming +odds, he was slowly being shoved into becoming a <i>petit +fonctionnaire</i> in Bourges for all his life.... "<i>Here</i>, in this +<i>hole</i>!" he had cried looking around him with wild young eyes, +like a rat in a trap. But there was his dear Maman's certainty +that this feeling was mere youth, that he would soon settle +down, and be contented in his office, and always, always be +quite close to her; there was the relief of the family far and +wide, now that he was <i>safe</i>, safe for life in a good little position +with a nice little pension at the end! "Safe! How I loathe +being safe!" he had cried. "Why wasn't I born three hundred +years ago, so that I could have gone out with Champlain! Or +later with Du Chaillou?"</p> + +<p>In spite of all his sympathy for the poor kid, Neale hadn't +seen then nor could he see now why anybody need wait for a +Champlain or a Du Chaillou to come along. It looked as +though the boy's grievance was because what he was meant to +do didn't happen to be in fashion when he lived. Neale +couldn't see what prevented him from getting right up on +his feet from off the bench where he agonized, and marching +off to the nearest port to work his way to Senegal, if that was +where he thought he'd have the chance to use that latent +stifled something in him which could never live in Bourges. +Of course, it would give his mother a jolt, but if she was any +kind of a mother, she'd want her son to have what was best +for him. That was sure, if anything was. And as for the +cousins and the aunts and uncles butting in ... to hell with +them! What business was it of theirs?</p> + +<p>Neale had a suspicion that very likely the boy would be +horrified by Senegal, not get on a bit better than in Bourges, +and be mighty glad to come back to the safeness and comfort +that irked him so now. If he had had pep enough to get on +in Senegal, or anywhere else on his own, wouldn't he have +had pep enough to cut loose from his leading-strings before this? +Now was the time to do it, now or never, before he had ac<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span>quired +any personal responsibilities of his own choosing, that +would <i>really</i> be an insuperable barrier to change. Neale felt +nothing but the profoundest sympathy for people who found +out they were in the wrong pigeon-hole after they had tied +themselves up so they couldn't move. That was so awful a +fate, that it did seem as though all grown-ups ought to league +together in an impassioned effort to give youth as free a choice +as possible. Instead of which—look what they'd done +to this poor kid! Neale knew by the look of him how nervously +sensitive he was. They'd trained nervous sensibility into +him, instead of energy and combativeness. And then they +brought to bear on him the thousand-pound-to-the-square-inch +pressure of public opinion which provincial and family life +in a small French town exerts on youth, to prevent its ever +guessing at its essential freedom to seek out its own.</p> + +<p>What sheep men were! ... making long detours through +open country to get around fences that had long since blown +down.</p> + +<p>In all the centuries of Roman Emperors had there been a +single one of the misfits with good enough sense to see that he +had got into the wrong job, and energy enough to pull out? +Galba had declined the nomination a term or two, but in the +end he'd accepted office—and got his throat cut inside a +year. Even a high-class mind like Marcus Aurelius could +think of no solution except, after office-hours, to write a book +sympathizing with himself, like a fine-haired Corporation President +solacing his soul by collecting cloisonné.</p> + +<p>Of course the fashion of the country and the century was +sure to fit some men. Old man Gates now: he <i>had</i> wanted to +succeed in business, to be a millionaire, as much as Vespasian +had wanted to be Emperor, and he had furiously enjoyed +every hard-hitting moment of the life-and-death struggle which +had carried him up from owning a small saw-mill in Connecticut +to being the head of a rich and powerful company. He +had died at eighty, as lusty and hard and sound an old condottiere +as any other professional fighter who bestrode a bronze +horse in an Italian piazza. But how about his son? What +perhaps would the "young Mr. Gates" have liked to do with <i>his</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span> +life, if it had ever been suggested to him that he might do something +else than go on making money by selling lumber for as +much as possible above the price that had been paid for it?</p> + +<p>What life-long mal-adjustment had resulted in that dreadful, +twisted, weeping, elderly face which even now Neale could +not forget?</p> + +<p>Neale puffed a while silently, staring over at the Janiculum +Hill, black with its dense trees beyond the moonlit city, until +the distressing memory became less acute and he could go +back calmly to his own problem. He was that much to the +good anyhow. At least he'd found out what he did not want +to do. He did not want to give his life to doing something +simply because a lot of other men thought it was the only +thing to do. At least he was sure that failure was certain +along that road. And he was convinced that happiness—satisfaction, +at least—was possible in human life. All his +stored-up and accumulated health and strength and vitality +made him sure that a sort of happiness was probable, even +inevitable, if you had the good sense to get hold of the job +you were intended to do. But what did he, Neale Crittenden, +want to do? What was he intended for? He had asked himself +that question a great many times and never had answered +it yet. He looked again over at the Janiculum from which the +beacon was flashing its message of red—white—green across +Imperial Rome, across the Vatican. Over there stood the +Garibaldi monument. There was a man who had known what +to do with his life. He had created something. Oh, he was +a product of his time, no doubt, and the busy little frock-coated +Cavour had played a necessary part, but admitting all that, +where would the Risorgimento have been without Garibaldi? +In the fire and passion of his great heart, he had forged the +sword of Italian Unity. Out of chaos he had created something +with an ordered unity of its own. That was real creation. +Was there any of it left to do—some little corner +that an ordinary man could tackle?</p> + +<p>Alone on the roof he pondered this, his hands clasped across +his knees, his head tipped back, looking across the ancient city +at the man who had kindled a fire in those old ashes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span></p> + +<p>And then, little by little, as the silence and beauty of the +night spread out before his eyes in widening silver circles, he +ceased pondering, ceased thinking even vaguely of himself, his +life, other men's lives. He sat dreaming, his eyes as wide as a +child's, his lips relaxed, his face absent and unconscious of self +as that of one who listens absorbed and entranced to distant +music. Moonlight—Italy!</p> + +<p>Aware that he was no longer alone, he turned his head slowly +and saw that a tall girl in white had come silently up the +winding iron steps and was standing at the top looking at the +sky. The moon shone full and soft upon her, from head to +foot. He saw her as clearly as though it had been noon, and +yet she looked as unearthly and mysterious as the night. +She evidently thought herself alone. She stood perfectly +motionless, her dark eyes fixed on a palely distant star. Neale +thought he had never in his life seen anything more touching +than the profound sadness of her young face.</p> + +<p>He had not moved, had scarcely had time to draw breath; +but she had felt him there. She turned her face toward where +he sat, her head a little bent, searching the darkness of the +corner from under long, finely-drawn brows. She saw him, +looked straight into his eyes, her own shining deep and soft +upon him. He was still too lost in his own enchanted dream +to be able to move, to look away. He gazed at her as though +she were part of the night, of the beauty.</p> + +<p>Without a sound she turned back and sank like a dream from +his sight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLII</h2> + + +<p>The next morning very early when he stepped out of his +room, he saw at the end of the hall a little group of three +people, the half-grown burly boy who carried water-pitchers and +blacked shoes, the tall, aproned, black-moustached house-servant +who swept the rooms and waited on the table, and the girl +he had seen on the roof the night before. He knew her at +once although she was in a street-dress now, and he saw only +her back and the gleaming coils of her hair. He found that +he had no intention of doing anything in the world but of +going to speak to her, somehow; and turning down the tiled +corridor he walked towards the three. They had their backs +towards him and were all talking Italian with extreme rapidity. +"Oh!" it came to Neale with a shock, "she was an Italian!" +Of course, with those dark eyes and hair. It had not once occurred +to him, during the night, that she might be an Italian. +He felt hot with vexation. Damn it! He spoke so little +Italian!</p> + +<p>He stopped short in the passage-way irresolute, suffering that +most wretched and miserable of human embarrassments, the one +that began with the Tower of Babel. He wasn't going to make +an idiot of himself trying to talk to her in that horrible broken +tourist-Italian of his. His disappointment was so acute that he +could not for an instant collect himself enough to turn away, +and stood glowering at the three backs.</p> + +<p>They were talking far too rapidly for him to understand what +they said, but by their pantomime it was plain that the girl +was moved by something which left the two men quite unaffected, +that she was making a low-toned agitated appeal to +them, which they received with the shrugged shoulders and +uplifted eyebrows of reasonable men before an unreasonable +idea. She was pointing out, leaning forward, shrinking back, +she was saying, "Oh! oh! <i>oh!</i>" her low voice rising to a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[Pg 395]</a></span> +wail of distress that went to Neale's heart. He looked over +their backs out of the window following the direction of the +girl's hand, and saw at first only the beautiful, early-morning, +myriad-winged swoop of the Roman swallows filling the bright +air with their rhythmic wheelings. He had watched them for +hours on his former visit, had thought them one of the most +purely lovely elements of the city's charm.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried the girl again, and covered her face with her +hands.</p> + +<p>Neale saw at last what she saw, a lean yellow cat crouching +in ambush in a corner between a dormer window and a +sky-light. As he looked the cat sprang up suddenly, a streak +of murdering speed high into the air, and seized an incautious +swallow swooping too low.</p> + +<p>The two men at the window looked at the girl, shrugged +their shoulders again and went back coolly to their work. +The comedy was finished. What could any one do about it? +Most evidently nothing. The man lifted his broom to sweep. +The boy stooped to take up his water-pitcher. The girl took +her hands from her face, and turned away from the window. +Neale had expected to see her look agitated and excited; but +her pale face was set in an expression of unsurprised endurance. +It was evident that she too perceived that there was nothing +to do about it.</p> + +<p>"Well, there <i>was</i> something to do about it!" thought Neale +wildly, feeling a fury of resentment at the two men. He'd +show them!</p> + +<p>He sprang past the girl with a great bound to the window +and saw that, as he thought, a slope of tiled roof lay below it, +the slope so gentle, the tiles so rough that it would be quite +easy to keep his footing on it, although the drop to the court +below would be dizzying if he stopped to look at it. But he +did not stop to look at that, or anything but the cat, slinking +slowly off across the roof beyond, the swallow in her mouth.</p> + +<p>He took one long step out over the low window-sill and +stood on the tiles. He heard the girl behind him give a +cry, and it sped him forward. He ran along the narrow slope +of tiles, one hand on the wall to steady himself till he could,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[Pg 396]</a></span> +with a leap, reach the roof where the cat was making off +towards the ridge-pole with her prey. Here it was easier, +a wide stretch of tiles over which he could really run.</p> + +<p>The cat heard him, saw him, paused an instant, dazed by +the suddenness of his appearance, turned her head and flattened +herself for a leap forward. But his leap was quicker than +hers. He reached her, and pounced on her with a swoop +that was part of the forward rhythm of his running, pounced, +seized her firmly, and forced open her jaws. The swallow +dropped out on the tiles, wet and ruffled, its eyes closed, its +poor, slim, gleaming head bent limply to one side as if its +neck were broken.</p> + +<p>Neale stooped and picked it up, stroking it pityingly and +smoothing its pretty, rumpled plumes. He had been too late +after all. But as it lay in his hand it seemed to him he +felt its delicate body stir. Perhaps it was only half dead with +fright. Did it move a little or had he imagined it? As he +stood astride the ridge-pole of the roof, the level rays of +the early sun shone straight into his eyes so that he could +not see whether the bird's eyes had opened or not. He turned +his back to the sun and held his hand, with the bird in it, +closer to his face. Why, yes, the eyes were open, soft dark +eyes that looked wildly and despairingly into his. The intensity +of that sudden look gave him a start. He opened his +fingers and the bird burst out of his hand with a loud beating +flutter and soared up into the air. Neale threw back his +head to watch it, moved almost to a shout of exultation as the +twittering flock swooped past his head.</p> + +<p>Then he saw that the cat was calmly making her way +back to her ambush corner. "Hey, there!" he shouted gaily +at her, and, sprinting along, snatched her up. "You're going +back down cellar to catch rats, kitty mio," he told her aloud, +laughing. He was astonished at his own high spirits. High +up on the richly colored old roof, close to that glorious sun +with the swallows dashing, twittering about his head, the rescued +one among them, he could have flung his arms about +and danced for sheer lightness of heart.</p> + +<p>What he did was to tuck the protesting cat under his arm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[Pg 397]</a></span> +and make his way back with considerably more caution than +he had gone up. The passage along the narrow slope of tile +below the window was worse than he had thought, made him +a little sick to face. A damn-fool performance anyhow, he reflected, +picking his steps, looking carefully away from the +sheer black drop to the stone-paved courtyard below him. A +very damn-fool performance for a serious-minded man of +twenty-six to go careering over roofs like that.</p> + +<p>With a short, quickly-taken breath of relief, he stepped over +the window-sill back into the corridor. The men and the girl +who had been leaning tensely out, watching him, stepped back +respectfully to give him room.</p> + +<p>Before he could turn to the girl, the servant had snatched +the cat from under his arm, and with a fine air of virtuous +indignation was cuffing her savagely over the head, pouring +out on her a loud, highly-articulate flood of vituperation. The +boy lifted his hand to join in the game, crying out, "Bestia +del diavolo," "animaluzzo dannato!" and the like.</p> + +<p>"Oh, good Lord!" thought Neale impatiently. "Isn't that +just <i>like</i> them! Hey, <i>stop</i> that!" he cried aloud, and as +the man paid no attention to this he seized him somewhat +roughly by the shoulder in a grip that paralyzed the arm. +He caught the cat as she fell and held her up over his head. +He was so tall, so long-armed, that she now dangled high +in the air, quite out of reach, yowling at the top of her voice, +a ridiculous scene altogether!</p> + +<p>He tried sternly to explain his feelings and issue his commands, +but as was to be expected his Italian gave way under +the strain: "Troppo in ritardo punire il gatto ... it's too +late to jump on the cat <i>now</i>, you poor chump; she wouldn't +have any idea what it's for. Gatto non capisce ... it's not +her fault anyhow. She doesn't know any better. Take her +down cellar, dans la cave; she's all right catching rats. That's +what she's for! And look here," he stopped his pitiful attempt +at Italian and ended fiercely, trusting to a grim eye and a set +jaw to make his meaning plain, "Don't you try any funny +business on the cat when I'm not around, or I'll knock your +heads together till you can't see."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[Pg 398]</a></span></p> + +<p>He heard the girl speak to the men in an Italian that was +so rapid it made him dizzy and at the end caught the phrase, +"do you understand?" The men nodded, by no means pleased +at the rebuff, the boy motioned Neale to give him the cat, +and carried her off carefully down the corridor.</p> + +<p>"That was the very most splendid thing for you to do," the +girl said to him, with a soft energy of accent.</p> + +<p>He whirled about towards her, the immensity of his relief +flooding his face. "Oh, you <i>do</i> speak English! You're <i>not</i> +Italian!" he cried, the intonation of his phrase seeming to +indicate that she had lifted from his mind an apprehension +of infinitely long standing.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," she said, smiling and looking directly at him, +"of course I speak English. I'm an American girl. My name +is Marise Allen."</p> + +<p>Neale was so affected by the sweetness of her smile on him, +by the softness of her shining dark eyes, that he felt himself +blushing and stammering like a little boy. "M-mine is Neale +Crittenden," he answered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[Pg 399]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLIII</h2> + + +<p>The dream-like Arabian Night unexpectedness which had +descended on Neale the evening before, on the roof, continued +shimmeringly to wrap everything in improbability. Instead +of receiving his unfamiliar name with the vague, conventional +smile of a new acquaintance, the girl raised her eyebrows high +in a long, delicate arch and cried out, "You are! Really! +The one who has inherited Crittenden's?" Seeing Neale's look +of almost appalled amazement, she broke into a sudden laugh. +Neale had never heard any one laugh like that, almost like +some one singing, so clear and purely produced was its little +trill. And yet it had been as sudden and spontaneous as a +gush of water from a spring.</p> + +<p>"I don't wonder you look astonished," she told him. "But +you see when I was a little girl I used often to play in and +out of old Mr. Crittenden's house and mill. I've never seen +anything since in all my life that seemed as wonderful and +mighty to me as the way the saw used to gnash its teeth +at the great logs and slowly, shriekingly tear them apart into +boards. Didn't you use to love the moss on the old water-wheel, +too?"</p> + +<p>"I never saw the mill or the house," he told her. "I never +saw my great-uncle but once or twice in my life." He was +too amazed to do anything but answer her literally and baldly.</p> + +<p>"Why, how in the world...?" she began to ask, and +then as a bell from one of the innumerable church belfries +outside began clangorously to strike the hour, she glanced at +her wrist-watch, and shook her head. "It's breakfast-time," +she said. She nodded, smiled and turned away, stepping down +the corridor with a light, supple gait. Neale had never seen +any one walk like that, as though every step were in time to +music.</p> + +<p>He went back to his room to wash his hands and brush<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[Pg 400]</a></span> +his clothes, which showed signs of contact with dusty Roman +walls and roofs. When, ten minutes later, he went into the +dining-room, five or six people were already at table, Livingstone +among them. Miss Oldham, the head of the pension, +introduced the newcomer to the others, mentioning names on +both sides. To Neale's surprise, Miss Allen did not explain +(as he had opened his mouth to do) that she had already +seen and talked to Mr. Crittenden that morning. Instead, she +now gave him the conventional smile he had expected ten +minutes before, accepted the introduction as though she had +never seen his face and went on drinking her café-au-lait.</p> + +<p>More Arabian Nights. What did <i>this</i> mean? Neale swallowed +the reference he had begun to their earlier meeting. +Miss Oldham said to him with the wearily playful accent of +the conscientious pension-keeper, fostering cheerful talk +around her table, "I understand, Mr. Crittenden, that you and +Miss Allen are in a way related, as I might say."</p> + +<p>Livingstone joined in with his usual sprightliness: "Yes, +Crittenden, why didn't you tell me you had a fellow-townswoman +in Rome? Last evening when I went back into the +salon and told the assembled company about you and your +inheritance there was Mademoiselle Allaine, who had often, +in her remote childhood, climbed on the respected knees of +Monsieur your Great-uncle."</p> + +<p>Miss Allen smiled quietly over her cup, remarked that it +would have taken a bolder child than she had ever been to +climb on the knees of old Mr. Crittenden, and, looking at her +watch, rose to go. "Music, divine music?" inquired Livingstone.</p> + +<p>"Yes, divine music," she answered lightly. "We are getting +ready to play at a soirée at Donna Antonia Pierleoni's. I'm +due there at half past nine to try out the piano in a new position +in the room."</p> + +<p>"Clear out there by half-past nine!" cried Livingstone, as +if exhausted by the idea.</p> + +<p>She did not seem to consider that this required any answer, +made a graceful inclination of the head to the company at +table and went off.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[Pg 401]</a></span></p> + +<p>Neale was repeating to himself, in mortal terror of forgetting +it, "Pierleoni. Pierleoni." He drank his coffee and ate his +roll as though he had a train to catch, and, rushing back to +his room, seized his hat and made off to the nearest café +to consult the directory. With a sigh of relief he found +that there was only one Pierleoni, and that the address was +indeed as Livingstone had said, far away in the rich, new, +fashionable quarter. He set off on foot, but before he had +walked five minutes he was overcome with panic lest he be +late, and hailed a rickety cab. Thinking of nothing but the +precious address which he had committed to memory, he +shouted it out to the cabman. Half-way there, he suddenly +remembered that he had no possible business at that address. +He had a horrid vision of driving up to the door, having the +<i>portiere</i> ask him his errand, perhaps of having Miss Allen +look out of the window and see the scene.</p> + +<p>This threw him into such a fright that for an instant he +could think of no escape and sat passive, borne along to his +fate by the unconscious cabman. Then his wits came back +to him, he called out to the cabman to drive to number +seventy-five and not a hundred and twenty; and having thus +snatched himself from destruction, perceived that they were +even then turning into the street. At number seventy-five +he descended, hastily paid the driver a good deal more than +was due him, stepped into the house, inquired if a gentleman +by the name of Robinson lived there, professed surprise and +regret on hearing that he did not and walked on, settling his +necktie nervously.</p> + +<p>He told himself that he was acting like an imbecile, but he +could not seem to consider that important fact seriously. +Having started in to do anything, naturally he liked to put +it through. Everybody did. And he really would like to +know how under the sun a dark-eyed girl in Rome happened +to know anything about his Great-uncle Burton. Any one +would feel a natural human curiosity on that score. And he +had only five days in Rome.</p> + +<p>The idea that he had only five days in Rome fell on +him like a thunderbolt, as though he had had no idea of it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[Pg 402]</a></span> +till that moment. Had he said he had only five days in +Rome?</p> + +<p>He walked along, looking up at the green waves of feathery +foliage which foamed down over the fawn-colored walls from +the verdure of the gardens inside. What a beautiful spot +Rome was! He had not begun to appreciate it on his last +visit. It was wonderful! Such light! He had never seen +such sunlight anywhere.</p> + +<p>Ah, here was number a hundred and twenty, a fine great +doorway in the wall, with a gleaming brass plate, marked +Pierleoni, at which Neale looked with pleasure. He walked +on some distance, as far as he could go and keep the house +in view, and, crossing over, walked slowly back. He was +not now in the least ashamed of his conduct. By this time +it seemed quite natural and suitable to him, just what any +one would have done in his place. Of course he wanted to +know about his great-uncle. Who would not?</p> + +<p>He had made the trip to the end of the street and back +perhaps a dozen times, his pulse beating more and more +quickly, when from a distance he saw a little door beside +the great one open, and a tall girl in a familiar light gray +street-dress step out. But she was not alone. Beside her +walked a man, a tall, stooped old man with a black coat and +a wide-brimmed black felt hat. The girl's hand was on his +arm. Neale felt as astonished and grieved as though he had +caught his best friend cheating him at cards. It had never +occurred to him that she might not be alone! And yet he +now remembered that she had said "we."</p> + +<p>He walked along behind them at a considerable distance, +feeling for the first time rather foolish, a sensation which +instantly took wings as he saw them, after turning into another +street, stop at a door in the wall and ring. Perhaps she was +going to leave him there. Neale gave a great start forward.</p> + +<p>But perhaps she was going in with him? He halted where +he stood, feeling very sick of himself and angrily resolving to +turn his back on them and go off about his business. He +had never played the born fool so in his life!</p> + +<p>But he did not turn his back on them. He stood observing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[Pg 403]</a></span> +them, while they went through a leave-taking which seemed +to him very formal and long-drawn-out; and when the old +man went in and the infernal gate actually shut behind him, +Neale started forward with a bound.</p> + +<p>But he reflected at once that it was too absurd to meet her +here, in a quarter of Rome where no business of his could +possibly have brought him at that hour. The cautious, adroit +thing to do was to walk along behind her at a distance, till she +had turned into a thoroughfare with shops, where he might +conceivably be strolling. While he was making this sagacious +plan, his feet bore him rapidly up beside her, where he took +off his hat and said, "Good morning, Miss Allen," with a +wide smile of satisfaction which he knew must look nothing +less than imbecile.</p> + +<p>Well, he had done what he had set out to do.</p> + +<p>She gave him a "good morning, Mr. Crittenden," that showed +no surprise, and with great tact began the talk on the only basis +which gave him a reasonable claim on her time. "You want +to hear how somebody in Rome knows about your great-uncle +Burton, don't you? I'm afraid it's like so many other things +that sound mysterious and interesting. It will only be quite +flat and commonplace when you really know. It is no more +than this. When I was a little girl in America, and then later +when I was in college for a couple of years, I was sent to +spend my summers in Ashley, visiting an old cousin of my +father's." She looked at him from under her broad-brimmed +blue hat, with a mock-regretful air, one eyebrow raised whimsically, +and made a little apologetic gesture with her shoulders. +"That's all," she said, smiling and shaking her head.</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>no</i>, it's not all!" Neale cried to himself with intense +conviction.</p> + +<p>Aloud he said, "But I want to hear more about what kind +of a place it is. You see, to tell the truth, I'd forgotten that +I had any Great-uncle Burton. And I never was in Ashley. +Think of being in Florence and getting a letter saying that a +saw-mill in Vermont has suddenly become yours!"</p> + +<p>"I should call it a most nice sort of surprise," remarked the +girl with a quaintly un-English turn of phrase which he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[Pg 404]</a></span> +already noticed and thought the most delightful thing in the +world.</p> + +<p>"And I'm on my way back to America now to see about it."</p> + +<p>"What does that mean—to 'see about it'?" she inquired.</p> + +<p>"Oh, sell it, of course."</p> + +<p>She was horrified. "<i>Sell</i> it? To whom?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, to anybody who'll buy it."</p> + +<p>"Sell that darling old house, and those glorious elms. Sell +that beautiful leaded-glass door, with the cool white marble +steps leading up to it, and the big peony-bushes, and the +syringas and that cold pure spring-water that runs all day +and all night in the wooden trough. Sell that home! And +to anybody!" She paused where she was, looking at him +out of wide, shocked eyes. Neale was profoundly thankful +for anything that would make her look straight at him +like that.</p> + +<p>"But, you see," he told her, "I hadn't the least idea about +that darling old house, or the elms or the spring-water or +anything. I never heard a word about it till this minute. +I think the only thing is for you to start in and tell me +everything."</p> + +<p>As she hesitated, professing with an outward opening of +her palms that she really didn't know exactly where to begin, +he prompted her.</p> + +<p>"Well, begin at the beginning. How in the world do you +get there?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you want to know from the beginning," she told +him, "I must tell you at once that you change cars at Hoosick +Junction. Always, always, no matter from which direction +you approach, you must change cars at Hoosick Junction, and +wait an hour or so there." Seeing on his face a rather strange +expression, she feared that he had lost the point of her little +pleasantry, and inquired, "But perhaps it is that you do not +know Hoosick Junction."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I know Hoosick Junction all right." He said +it with a long breath of wonder. "<i>I</i> changed cars at Hoosick +Junction to get here!"</p> + +<p>"Eh bien, and then a train finally takes you from Hoosick<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[Pg 405]</a></span> +Junction. You sit pressing your little nose against the window, +waiting to see the mountains, and when the first one heaves +up softly, all blue against the horizon, you feel a happy ache +in your throat, and you look harder than ever. And by and +by some one calls out 'Shley!' (you know he means Ashley) +and you take your little satchel and stumble down the aisle, +and the conductor lifts you down the steps and there is dear +old Cousin Hetty with her wrinkled face shining on you. She +only gives you a dry little peck on your lips, quick and hard, +and says, 'Well, Marise, you got here, I see,' but you feel +all over you, <i>warm</i>, how glad she is to see you. And you +hug her a great deal till she says, 'there! there!' but you know +she likes it very much."</p> + +<p>She was talking as she walked, as if her words were set +to music, her voice all little ripples, and bright upward and +downward swoops like swallows flying, her hands and arms +and shoulders and eyebrows acting a delicate pantomime of +illustration, the pale, pure olive of her face flushed slightly +with her animation. Every time she flashed a quick look +up at him to make sure he was not bored, Neale caught his +breath. He felt as though he were drinking the strongest kind +of wine, he had the half-scared, half-enchanted feeling of a man +who knows he is going to get very drunk, and has little idea +of what will happen when he does.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and then, and then?" he prompted her, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Well, and then you get into a phaeton. Oh, I don't suppose +you have ever seen a phaeton!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have," he contradicted her. "I've driven my grandfather +miles in one when I was a little boy."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you <i>know</i>, then, about this sort of—you have perhaps +lived in a place like Ashley?" She was as eager as though +it had been a question of finding that they were of the same +family.</p> + +<p>"I spent all my summers in West Adams, not so very far +from Vermont."</p> + +<p>"Ah then, you can understand what I tell you!" she said +with satisfaction. "And in the phaeton you jog through the +village, past the church, under the elms, with the white houses<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[Pg 406]</a></span> +each under its thick green trees, and such green, green grass +everywhere—not like Italy, all brown and parched; and +then down the road till the turn-off for Crittenden's. For, +you see, I also go to Crittenden's. My Cousin Hetty's home +is one of the three or four houses that stand around your +great-uncle's house and mill. And so up the road to Crittenden's +between the mountains closer and higher, up into the +quiet valley." Her voice deepened on the last words, and +so did her eyes. She was silent a moment, looking out unseeingly +on the tropical palms and bright, huge flowers of +the Pincian Gardens through which they were now walking.</p> + +<p>"Eh bien, since it's you who are going home, you drive +on a little farther than my Cousin Hetty's house, until up +before you slopes a lovely meadow, smooth, bright, shining +green, like the enamel green field in the Limbo where Dante +puts Electra and Hector and Cæsar. At the top of the slope, +a long line of splendid, splendid elms, like this, you know ..." +with her two hands and a free, upward gesture of her arms, +she showed the airy opening-out of the wineglass elms, "and +back of them a long old house, ever so long, because everything +is fastened along together, house, porch, woodshed, hay-barn, +carriage-shed, horse-barn." She laughed at the recollection, +turning to him. "You've seen those long New England +farm-homes? I remember a city man said once that you could +see the head of the lady of the house leaning from one window +and the head of a cow from another. He thought that the +most crushing thing that could be said, but <i>I</i> think those +homes perfectly delightful, homely, with a <i>cachet</i> of their +own, not copied from houses in other countries. And really, +you know," she turned serious, thinking suddenly that perhaps +he needed reassurance, "really, it's just as <i>clean</i> as any +other way of living. You're just as far away from the animals +as with any other barn, because you have so much woodshed +and hay-barn and things between you."</p> + +<p>To see her face with that quite new, housekeeping, matter-of-fact, +practical look gave him the most absurd and illogical +amusement. He laughed outright. "Oh, don't think for a +moment that I would object," he cried gaily. "I'm not a bit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[Pg 407]</a></span> +fastidious. I wouldn't care <i>how</i> near the cows were—if they +were nice cows!"</p> + +<p>She thought for an instant he might be laughing at her, and +peered keenly into his face, a more openly observing look +than she had as yet given him. What she saw evidently +reassured her, for she went on with a lighter tone, "Truly it +has its own sort of architectural beauty. It doesn't have a +bit of the packing-box, brought-in-and-dumped-down look that +most dwelling-houses have, no matter how they're planned. +It seems to have grown that way. The long, low old farm-house, +weathered so beautifully, it looks like an outcrop of +the very earth itself, like a ridge or rock or a fold in a field."</p> + +<p>It was about at this time that Neale began to lose the +capacity of listening to what she was saying. With the best +will in the world he could not keep his mind on it. He found +that he felt a giddy, dazzled uncertainty of where he was +putting his feet and tried to pull himself together. He must +really notice a little more what he was about. Her quick, +rising and falling, articulate speech, her quick, flashing changes +of expression, the play of her flexible hands and shoulders—no, +how could he listen to what she was saying?</p> + +<p>But she was asking him a question now. She was saying, +"You're not really going to <i>sell</i> all that, to just <i>any</i>body?"</p> + +<p>"But really," he answered, helplessly honest, "it sounds +wonderful as you tell it, but what could <i>I</i> do with it? I +couldn't very well go to <i>live</i> in Ashley, Vermont, could I?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" she asked. "A good many people have."</p> + +<p>"Well! But ..." he began, incapable of forming any answer, +incapable of thinking of anything but the dark softness +of her gaze on him. What was it they were talking about? +Oh, yes, about selling out at Ashley. "Oh, but I have other +plans. I am just about to go to China."</p> + +<p>"<i>China!</i> Why to China?"</p> + +<p>Neale lost his head entirely ... "notice more what he was +about?" He had not the least idea what he was about. He +said to her rather wildly, "I hardly know myself why I am +going to China. I'd like, if you will let me—I'd like ever +so much to tell you—about it. And see what you think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[Pg 408]</a></span> +You know about Ashley, don't you see?" He was aware that +the last of what he had said had no shadow of connection +with the first, but that seemed of no importance whatever +to him.</p> + +<p>They were standing now near a low wall, under some thick +dark ilex trees, a fountain dripping musically before them. +Mechanically they sat down, looking earnestly at each other. +"You see," began Neale, "I'm trying to find my way. I was +in business in the States, and getting along all right ... 'getting +on,' I mean, as they say. And then I got to wondering. +It seemed as though, as though ... I wasn't sure it was what +I wanted to do with my life, just to buy low and sell high, +all my life long. Perhaps there was more to it than I could +make out. It certainly seemed to suit a lot of folks, fine. +But I couldn't seem to see it. I was all right. Nothing the +matter. Only I couldn't ... why, I tell you, I felt like a +perfectly good torch that wouldn't catch on fire. I couldn't +seem to <i>care</i> enough about it to make it worth while to really +tear in and do it. And I thought maybe if I got off a little +way from it ... sometimes you do see the sense of things +better that way. So I went away. I took a year off. I'd +saved a little money, enough for that. And I've been trying +to figure something out. Of course I've been enjoying the +traveling around, too. Perhaps that's the real reason why +I want to go to China, just to keep going, see new things, +get away, keep free. But I think about the other a good +deal ... what can I do with my life ... that's sort of +<i>worth while</i>, you know, if only in a very small way. I'm a +very ordinary man, no gifts, no talents, but I have lots of +energy and health. It seems as though there ought to be +<i>some</i>thing ... doesn't it?"</p> + +<p>He had stumbled on, breathlessly, involuntarily, hardly +aware that he was speaking at all, aware only that she was +listening. With her head bent, her eyes fixed on the ground, +the pure pale olive of her face like a pearl in the shadow +of her hat, she was listening intently. He knew, as he had +never known anything else, that she was listening to what he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[Pg 409]</a></span> +really meant, not to what he was saying in those poor, plain, +broken words.</p> + +<p>And yet, how could he go on?</p> + +<p>The sudden plunge he had made, deep into an element +new to him, the utter strangeness of his having thus spoken +out what he had before but shyly glanced at, the awfulness +of having opened his heart to the day, his shut, shut heart.... +Good God, what was he doing?</p> + +<p>At his silence, she raised her face towards him. To his +amazement her eyes were shining wet with tears. And yet +there was no sadness in her face. She was smiling at him, +a wavering, misty smile.</p> + +<p>She stood up, made a little, flexible, eloquent gesture with +her hands and arms and shoulders, as if to explain to him +that she could not trust herself to speak, and, still smiling at +him, the tears still in her eyes, walked rapidly away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[Pg 410]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLIV</h2> + + +<p>After dinner that evening Miss Allen came up to where +Mr. Livingstone and Mr. Crittenden stood together near the +window and said to them, "Would it interest you at all to go +to the soirée at Donna Antonia's to-morrow? She has been +kind enough to offer me some cards of invitation, and it occurred +to me—if you haven't anything better to do that +evening—?"</p> + +<p>Livingstone carried one hand to his heart, the other to his +brow, and professed inability to recover from the shock. "My +dear young lady, it's inhuman to shatter my nerves with a +bomb-shell like that without a word of warning! You know +well enough I'd gladly give one of my ears for an invitation +to Donna Antonia's. Why then the false modesty, as who +should say, 'If you've nothing more interesting on hand just +step up and let me make you a Duke, do!'"</p> + +<p>Miss Allen acknowledged the facetious intention of this +with a suitable laugh and looked at Neale. He said, "Oh, of +course I shall be glad to go."</p> + +<p>"That's good then. I shall hope to see both of you."</p> + +<p>When she had turned away to another group in the salon +Livingstone put his head on one side and smiled down at his +cigarette. "That's what comes of a little judicious attention +bestowed in the right direction," he informed Neale. "I've been +getting up at the unearthly hour that girl takes her breakfast +for a fortnight now. Quite a charmer, isn't she?—though nothing +to her friend Miss Mills. It's Miss Mills I'm interested +in. Just wait till you see <i>that</i> joint production of American +cash and European civilization! M-m-m! Hair like gold +thread, and scads of money in her own right." He added +seriously, "Miss Allen hasn't, you know—money, I mean, +too bad, isn't it? Her father is only a salaried man—something +or other for Paris for the something or other sewing-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[Pg 411]</a></span>machine +company. Oh, no, I believe it's mowing machines,—or +maybe twist drills—anyhow one of those missionaries +from our own little home-paradise of cogs and gears. But of +course the fair Allaine may make a lot herself if she really does +get on the concert stage. Still you never can tell. There's an +awful lot of interior wire-pulling to be done, managers and +musical critics and so on, before anybody really is allowed +to get to the bacon in the concert business, and is she really +anywhere near professional skill, who knows? However, a +pretty girl always stands enough sight better show than a +plain one; or than a man. If she uses those dark eyes of +hers to good account I should think 'most any manager or +music critic would fall for her. <i>She</i> has a good skin, too; quite +pleasant, that clear olive, though of course it's awfully common +here in Italy. Just the same, a dark woman never has the +<i>éclat</i> of a blonde. Wait till you see Miss Mills."</p> + +<p>Neale broke in on his flow to remark in a suffocated voice +that he had letters to write, and disappeared.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The soirée was horrible to Neale, a nightmare, a glittering +wall through which he could by no means break to reach her, +over which he could scarcely see at an immense distance her +slim figure, dressed in yellow, a thin gold fillet binding her +smooth dark head. She was talking, smiling, animated, at +ease; and after she had played, much acclaimed. There was +nothing surprising about <i>that</i>, thought Neale, applauding with +all his might. Heavens, how beautifully she made music, how +beautifully, how intelligently, with such a clear, sure certainty +of her own powers! Of course everybody there admired her, +paid court to her, made her the center of one group after +another—always except the group where he stood! He felt +heart-sick to be so cut off from her. As a matter of fact he +was not in the least literally cut off from her. She kept +relentlessly introducing him to one person after another +whom he did not wish to meet. She kept coming up to him +every time he had succeeded in shaking off a tiresome companion +and was standing alone at last in a corner, looking +everywhere over the curled, powdered, bobbing, restless, grin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[Pg 412]</a></span>ning +crowd to catch a glimpse of her. There she would be +at his elbow, gliding up from nowhere. He restrained an +impulse to snatch at her and hold her there, because each +time she melted away after she had said, "Won't you let me +take you to Donna Antonia Pierleoni," or "to Miss Mills," or +"to Signor Ambrogi," or to somebody or other with whom it was +necessary to talk and on whom it was necessary to try to keep +those wandering, seeking eyes of his. He took them in with +the top-layer of his consciousness, one after another of the +people with whom he was forced to talk. Donna Antonia Pierleoni, +a haughty, elderly Roman lady who was, as Neale said +to himself, feeding her haughty Roman face as though she +scorned and despised lemon ice but <i>would</i> eat it since it seemed +to be her duty. It amused him greatly to observe that after +finishing one she took another at once.</p> + +<p>Miss Mills—oh, yes, this must be the girl Livingstone +had been yarning about. Of course after praise from Livingstone +it was to be expected that she'd look like a very +high-priced wax image in a hair-dresser's window; and yet +Neale's attention was caught for a moment by her pronunciation +of a French phrase. Her inflection reminded him of +Marise Allen's, and he hung about her for some time in the +hope of hearing it again. Every time she repeated it, which +she often did, he smiled down broadly on her. She was a +pretty little thing. Livingstone was right. She was really +quite an object of art, if that was what you called them.</p> + +<p>Signor Ambrogi turned out to be in politics, an assistant +Minister of Commerce or Industry or something. Why, he +looked for all the world like a New York business man—might +be old man Gates as he had been at forty-five. As +they tried to talk to each other in French that was not very +fluent on either side, Neale was reflecting that the Roman +governing type had changed very little. This strongly-marked, +clean-shaven, heavy-jowled head with its thick, hooked nose, +bold eyes, hard mouth and wrinkled forehead, could be put +without change in among the portraits of Roman Emperors.</p> + +<p>They talked in their halting "lingua Franca" of business, +of railroads, of the use of commercial fertilizers on Italian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[Pg 413]</a></span> +fields, of the conversion of water-power into electrical energy, +and, finding Neale a good listener, the Italian told him about +a power-plant in a volcanic region of Italy that ran its +machinery by the steam escaping from the thin crust of earth +over internal volcanic goings-on. For an instant Neale was +quite stirred by this conception. It seemed a very neat idea, +and it tickled him to have Italians turn such a traditionally +American trick.</p> + +<p>"Pretty good, pretty good!" he said applaudingly. "That's +beating us at our own game."</p> + +<p>"Pas si bête, en effet," said the other, well pleased by +Neale's comment.</p> + +<p>But this interlude was the only time when, even for a +moment, Neale was delivered from his desolation at seeing +her so far from his world, from any world he could possibly +hope ever to make his own. That brilliant musician—how +wonderful to be able to play the piano like that!—that beautiful +young woman of the world, the center of this brilliant +cosmopolitan crowd, friend of titled Roman ladies, and ministers—was +it she whom he had followed in the street like +any pushing, thick-skinned bumpkin, to whom he had poured +out what he had never before breathed to any living being? +What on earth could she think of him? For what kind of +a flamboyant idiot did she take him? Well, the best thing +to do—Great Scott, the <i>only</i> thing to do was to shut up +and back out. As he walked home with Livingstone at midnight +he had made up his mind to take the first train to Naples +the next morning.</p> + +<p>But he made no move whatever to do this, when the +morning came. Dumb and stupid as a sheep, he made his +way doggedly to the dining-room at the earliest hour, to see +Miss Allen take her café-au-lait. As he went in at the door, +he realized that his calculations were all wrong, that she had +been up late the night before and would certainly sleep late +that morning. But Livingstone had already seen him and +hailed him. It was too late to go back and wait. He sat +down, gloomily stirred the sugar into his coffee and listened +to Livingstone fizz all over the place about the evening's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[Pg 414]</a></span> +entertainment which had uplifted him to exaltation. "You +don't <i>realize</i>, Crittenden, what an opportunity that was to +see exclusive Roman society, the kind that foreigners like +us never meet, not the flashy, big-hotel, off-color crowd. Why, +I was introduced to name after name that sounded like a page +out of Roman history."</p> + +<p>Neale thought with a passing grim irony that Livingstone's +phrase was accurately turned—"introduced to names"—yea, +verily. Well, names were what Livingstone was after.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you up already, Miss Allen," said Livingstone, springing +to seat her with an agility for which Neale hated him. +He himself sat like a lump, incapable because of the sudden +rush of blood to his head, of anything but nodding a silent +answer to her greeting.</p> + +<p>Livingstone needed no help in keeping up the conversation. +He flowed on, delightedly passing in review every detail of +the evening of which he had not missed a single one, apparently, +from the way Donna Antonia's maid did her hair to +the dandruff on the coat-collar of the old Visconti. "Of +course I know he's a great musician and all that, but really +if you will let your hair grow so long, you ought to have +a pocket clothes-brush and <i>use</i> it, oughtn't you? Why don't +you do it for him, Miss Allen? Every one says he is absolutely +gone on you, that you could do anything with him!" +He passed from this without transition to Miss Mills' toilette +which had been, so it seemed, a veritable triumph.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, wasn't it beautiful! Eugenia's clothes are simply +wonderful." Miss Allen broke in to say enthusiastically, "She +has the most never-failing taste."</p> + +<p>"A never-failing pocket-book," corrected Livingstone. "You +don't get far with mere taste <i>dans ce bas monde</i>."</p> + +<p>Miss Allen finished her coffee, and, setting down her cup, +remarked, "You two Americans seem to have made a most +agreeable impression last evening. Donna Antonia called me +back to say that Signor Ambrogi would be glad to see more +of you. She wished me to ask you both if you couldn't come +to have tea with her and with Signor Ambrogi this afternoon +at five."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[Pg 415]</a></span></p> + +<p>Livingstone fell back in his chair, dramatically. "The long +struggle is over, Crittenden. Our fortunes are made!" he +cried with his usual facetiousness, but by the expression on +his face he was really moved and dazzled. "Kindly convey +to Donna Antonia Pierleoni the assurance of our condescending +regards and say that if we can spare the time from the press +of other more important duties...."</p> + +<p>Neale said plainly and bluntly, "I'm afraid I'd better excuse +myself. I have a previous engagement."</p> + +<p>The other two turned on him with faces of astonishment. +"You're not <i>going</i>?" cried Livingstone, appalled.</p> + +<p>"Why should I break an engagement?" said Neale.</p> + +<p>"Why <i>should</i> you?" Livingstone gaped at him. "Only the +trifling, insignificant reason that Donna Antonia is one of +the greatest <i>grandes dames</i> in Rome, and Ambrogi one of <i>the</i> +coming men in the government."</p> + +<p>"Has that anything to do with me?" Neale asked with the +sincerest incapacity to imagine any reason why it should. He +was stricken with anticipatory boredom at the idea of having +to make talk again with that disagreeable old woman.</p> + +<p>Livingstone wondered if Crittenden had really understood +from whom the invitation came. "Don't you remember meeting +her? The one with the wonderfully high-bred type?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I remember her all right, the old lady with the predatory +sharpness of beak and claw that's called aristocratic," +said Neale, trying to get a rise out of Livingstone. That +was usually easy enough, but he was now too genuinely concerned +to defend his standards. "Now, Crittenden," he said, +laying down his napkin and speaking from his heart, "to +seem not to wish to continue the acquaintance of a lady who +makes a civil advance—it simply <i>isn't done</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, go on!" said Neale, laughing at the idea. "Much she'd +care what an impecunious American in a pension does or +doesn't do!"</p> + +<p>Livingstone had recovered himself enough to reflect that +Neale's refusal would not at all hinder his own acceptance—in +fact, on the contrary—"Well, well, no matter," he said +with a change of manner, "perhaps you're right. Without a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[Pg 416]</a></span> +knowledge of the language, conversation in a small group <i>is</i> +rather—Five o'clock, did you say, Miss Allen?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, five," she answered. She went on, with a manner +suddenly gay, "Perceive the difference in human fate. At five +you will be taking tea with personages, and I shall be scurrying +to take a belated music lesson."</p> + +<p>"Why at <i>that</i> hour?" inquired Livingstone.</p> + +<p>"I've put it off to help Eugenia get settled here. For she's +coming over, bag and baggage, Joséphine and Mlle. Tollet, to +live with us for a while. Isn't that jolly?"</p> + +<p>Livingstone was visibly affected. He flushed a little, and +cleared his throat before he asked with a careful reassumption +of his usual airy manner, "Might I perhaps, if it is not indiscreet +to ask, be permitted to breathe out upon the air +a request to be informed what possible reason any one can +have for leaving the golden bath-tubs (if I may so express +myself) of the Grand Hotel, and sojourning at the respectable +but hardly luxurious Pensione Oldham?"</p> + +<p>"That's what I asked her last night when she told me. But +it seems she's just tired of gilded bath-tubs (if I may borrow +the expression) and wants a change."</p> + +<p>"I might say without exaggeration that she would be reasonably +sure of getting it," surmised Livingstone, looking around +him.</p> + +<p>Neale could think of nothing to add to the conversation. +You never could get a word in edgeways when Livingstone +was in the room, anyhow. His mind was full of something +else too. "A music lesson at five." The name Visconti was +as apt to be in the directory as Pierleoni had been.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>At five he saw her go into the little gate in the wall from +which during the next hour he did not take his eyes. He +stood in the doorway of an apartment house across the street, +and when the <i>portiere</i> came out responsibly to ask whom he +wished to see, Neale told him in English, seriously with a long +breath, "The girl I've lost my head over." As he accompanied +this unintelligible information with a large tip, as his clothes +were respectable, as he was evidently a foreigner, and had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[Pg 417]</a></span> +moreover a rather strange spark of excitement in his eyes, the +<i>portiere</i> pocketed the tip, looked with respect at Neale's +powerful proportions, and went discreetly back to his own +affairs.</p> + +<p>When she came out at six Neale was struck speechless. He +had spent the entire hour thinking how she looked, remembering +every detail of her beauty. And yet it was as though +he saw for the first time that noble carriage of her head and +shoulders, that heart-taking curve of her long fine brows, the +smooth pale oval of her face, the touching wistfulness, the +<i>seeking</i> look in her dark eyes. That was before she saw +him. When he came up to her she broke at once into a laugh, +her face sparkling and merry, a delicate malice in the mobile +lines of her red lips.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mr. Crittenden, I've been wanting to see you! To +share a joke with you! Such a joke! That invitation to +tea, you know. You see, <i>you</i> were really the one Signor +Ambrogi wants to see, you were the only one Donna Antonia +spoke of. But I knew it would hurt Mr. Livingstone so, if +he were left out. I made her understand that. So she said, +'Oh, well, if you insist, he can come too.' It's rather—don't +you think it is?—rather a joke?" She began to laugh again. +"Don't you see it, the scene when he walks in alone—the +good Livingstone in his best clothes, so happy and so important, +with his best brand of European conversation in +the show-window—a comparison most likely of Caravaggio's +theory of treating wall spaces with Correggio's. And what +Ambrogi wants to discuss is American railroad terminal facilities! +Ambrogi is a man of the people. He's made his +own way up from the bottom. He has probably never heard +of Correggio in his life. And doesn't see why he should," +she finished with a peal of laughter.</p> + +<p>Neale laughed, but he did not find it as comic as she. "I'd +no idea of all that," he said uncomfortably. "Perhaps I ought +to have gone. It rather looks like putting poor old Livingstone +in a hole."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; oh, <i>no</i>," she reassured him. "They'll be good to +him. They may look at each other once or twice. But nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[Pg 418]</a></span> +more. He'll never know. He <i>doesn't</i>, Mr. Livingstone—often +he doesn't know."</p> + +<p>"Not much, that's a fact," agreed Neale, reflecting that he +did not seem to either.</p> + +<p>She asked him suddenly, "But really why <i>didn't</i> you accept?"</p> + +<p>"Do you want to know?" he asked warningly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I really wonder."</p> + +<p>"Simplest reason in the world. I didn't like Donna Antonia +Pierleoni very well. She seemed to me like a bad-tempered, +stupid old lady, mightily full of her own importance. Why +under the sun <i>should</i> I go and have tea with such a person?"</p> + +<p>"Eh bien...!" she breathed out a long, soft ejaculation +of surprise, looking at him very queerly.</p> + +<p>"You're thinking I'm very rude to say such a thing about +a friend of yours," he said, hanging his head.</p> + +<p>"I'm thinking no such thing at all," she contradicted him. +"I don't believe you could <i>imagine</i> what I'm thinking."</p> + +<p>"You never said a truer thing," Neale admitted ruefully.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll tell you," she said, "though it couldn't be interesting +to anybody but me. I was thinking that I had never +heard anybody before who spoke the truth right out about +somebody who had wealth and position."</p> + +<p>"You mustn't blame me for it!" Neale excused himself. +"I'm a regular outsider on all that sort of thing—you remember +the Sioux Indian in the eighteenth century who was +taken to see the court at Versailles? How he strolled around +in his blanket and couldn't make out what all the bowing +and scraping was about? Well, he and I are about on a level +of blank ignorance of social distinctions."</p> + +<p>"But you don't <i>wish</i> to know," the girl divined, "you don't +care if you <i>are</i> an outsider. Why, I believe," she said with +a little burst of astonishment, "I believe you'd rather be an +outsider."</p> + +<p>He looked apologetic. "That's part of my dumbness, don't +you see? I just can't conceive why anybody should bother +his head about it. <i>I</i> tell you," he hit on the right phrase +of explanation, "I just don't know any better."</p> + +<p>"Would you learn?" she pressed him more closely.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[Pg 419]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not if I could run faster than the person who was trying +to teach me!" he confessed helplessly.</p> + +<p>The girl broke into another laugh. There never was anybody +who laughed like that, with her lips, and her gleaming, +dancing eyes, and her eyebrows—even her hands had a droll +little gesture of delightedly giving him up. What in the world +had ever made him imagine that her expression was pensive +or her eyes wistful?</p> + +<p>"Do you mind?" he asked, rather uncertain what she was +laughing at, and hoping it was not at him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I <i>like</i> it!" she told him, heartily. "But it's the very +first time I ever ran into it. It makes me laugh, it's so unexpected."</p> + +<p>"Well, it has its disadvantages," he broke in, seeing an +opening to say something that had been on his conscience +for two days. "It makes you do all sorts of unusual and +unconventional things without meaning to at all. Like my +talking to you yesterday morning, for instance, in the corridor +of the pension, when I hadn't been introduced to you."</p> + +<p>She stopped laughing, her face all blank with surprise. +"Why, that was not unconventional! People at the same +pension never wait for introductions. And anyhow I'm not a +<i>jeune fille du monde</i>. I'm just a music-student. If you only +knew how <i>some</i> people try to take advantage of that! Why, +what in the world made you think it was not all right?"</p> + +<p>"Well, when you didn't say anything about it at the breakfast +table, when Miss Oldham introduced us, the way you +looked as though you'd never seen me before. I thought you—I +thought I—well, why <i>didn't</i> you mention we'd just been +talking?"</p> + +<p>"Oh—" She remembered the incident. "Why didn't I? +Why <i>should</i> I? You always hide what you don't have to tell, +don't you?"</p> + +<p>Neale pondered this negligent axiom for a time, and then +said hesitatingly, "But if the servants happened to mention it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh," she explained quickly, as if mentioning something +that went without saying, "oh, of course I told the servants +not to speak of it."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[Pg 420]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You did!" He felt that he was looking through what he +had always thought was the opaque surface of things, and +seeing a great deal more going on there than he had dreamed. +"But can you count on them?"</p> + +<p>She continued to be as surprised at his surprise as he at +the whole manœuver. "Oh, of course you can never count +on servants unless there's something in it for them. I gave +them a little tip apiece."</p> + +<p>"You <i>did</i>!" He could only stupidly repeat his exclamation. +"What did they say?"</p> + +<p>"Why, they found it perfectly natural. They won't mention +it—not of course unless somebody else tips them more, and +I don't see why anybody should, do you?"</p> + +<p>Neale stood looking at her, a little consternation mingling +with his astonishment. This was what it was to have been +brought up in what people called a civilized way, this smooth +mastery of concealment ... how easy it had been for her, +at the breakfast table yesterday, not to give the faintest hint +she had just been talking animatedly with him; and this morning +not the faintest hint to Livingstone that she was laughing +at his expense. Why, that lovely face was just like a mask. +You hadn't the least idea what was going on behind it.</p> + +<p>There was a silence. She was looking up at him with a +new expression, almost timidly. "You don't like my hiding +things?" she asked him, coming to a stop. They were near +the pension now, standing in the twilight on a deserted street.</p> + +<p>He aroused himself to shrug his shoulders and answer +evasively, "Oh, it's not in the least any business of mine."</p> + +<p>"But you don't like it?" she insisted, looking straight at him +with the deadly soft gaze that always made him lose his head +entirely. "It's of no consequence—none," he murmured. But +she still looked at him. He tried to think of some other evasive +answer, but in the confusion of his mind he could not think +at all. And he must say <i>something</i>. With alarm, with horror, +he heard himself saying baldly, as he would to a man, to an +intimate, the literal truth, "Well, no, not so very well, if you +really want to know."</p> + +<p>It was as though he had seen himself swinging an ax at an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[Pg 421]</a></span> +angle that would bring the edge deep into his own flesh. He +felt it cut deep and bleed. He dared not look at her. He +wished to God he had gone on straight to Naples.</p> + +<p>Somehow he <i>was</i> looking at her. Her face was deeply +flushed. She looked as though he had struck her in the face. +Well, now it was certainly all over. He might as well turn +around and walk away and never look at her again.</p> + +<p>He said blunderingly, in a trembling voice, "I'm <i>so</i> sorry! +I didn't mean to say that. It's no business of mine. I'm +awfully ashamed of myself. <i>Please</i> forget it. What do <i>you</i> +care what I think? I'm nobody, nobody at all."</p> + +<p>"Why did you say that?" she asked him in a low voice, +with a driving intensity of accent, as though more than anything +else she must have an answer from him.</p> + +<p>"Well, you asked me," he said in abject misery, aware +of the hideous, flat futility of such an answer. If only he +were an expansive Italian now, he could think of some way +openly to abase himself, instead of standing there callously +and dully. "Oh, please don't think of it again," he implored +her, wishing he could get down on his knees to beg her +pardon.</p> + +<p>She drew a long breath and put her hand to her heart. +"It's the first time anybody ever told the truth to me, you +see," she said faintly, with a strange accent. "I ... I'll like +it ... I think ... when I can get my breath."</p> + +<p>To his amazement he saw that she was trying bravely to +smile at him.</p> + +<p>To his greater amazement he snatched up both her hands +and carried them roughly and passionately to his lips.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[Pg 422]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLV</h2> + + +<p>During the interminable process of hanging the skirt of that +yellow dress for Donna Antonia's soirée, Marise kept thinking +of the Pantheon. The dressmaker's lodging was near there. +If they could only be done with those draperies she would +have time to step into the place which she loved best in +Rome. She cast a look at herself in the cracked mirror which +was all the inexpensive little dressmaker could afford. "I'm +afraid it's higher on the right hip," she said, and settled +with a sigh to endure more pinnings and unpinnings. "Strange, +how important it is for the correct playing of Beethoven," she +thought ironically, "that the drapery on one hip shall not be +higher than on the other." She caught a glimpse of herself +as she thought this, and frowned to see her lip curled in a +cold, ugly line of distaste. Her thoughts were showing more +and more on her face. She knew well enough what Mme. +Vallery would say. She would say, "Don't pretend, dear +child, that you don't know perfectly well that the kind of +dress you wear has a great deal to do with everything that +anybody cares about, and that the kind of people you must +depend on to make your music profitable are the kind who +care nothing about music and altogether about looks."</p> + +<p>That was true, of course, but all the same it did make +Marise sick to have people call a "soirée musicale" what really +was a "sartorial evening." Of course it was understood that +people were hypocritical about everything. She granted that +they never called anything by its right name. But she did +wish they would leave music alone! She <i>cared</i> about that!</p> + +<p>"That's right now," she said aloud, looking intently from +one hip to the other. "Perhaps a <i>little</i> more—no, it will +do as it is."</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>She would have time for the Pantheon after all—ten minutes +at least. Ten minutes for the Pantheon! She had been three-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[Pg 423]</a></span>quarters +of an hour with the dressmaker! That was her life! +She walked in through the gray old portico, and, still fretting, +her mouth still in the cold, ugly line, she stepped through +the huge bronze doorway and stood under the vault ... "<i>ah!</i>"</p> + +<p>She always forgot how it affected her or she would come in +every day as other people said their prayers. It was as +though it had been made for her and had waited till she +came, sore-hearted, to look at it and find a passing peace.</p> + +<p>She lifted her face to the huge open circle at the center +of the dome high over her head. Quiet strength came into +her heart from those great gray stones. Century after century +they had enclosed that lovely circle of open sky and sunlit +cloud and swallow-flights. Every other ancient roof in Rome +had gone down to heaps of rubbish, save only this, steadfast, +enduring, letting in the innocent clear light of every day down +to the heart of the old temple.</p> + +<p>Daylight—that was what made the Pantheon a place apart +for her—honest daylight. How cheap beside it was the theatrical +yellow of the windows back of the altar in St. Peter's!</p> + +<p>She looked about her for a place to sit, and, seeing no +chair, took a prie-dieu and sank to her knees on it as though +she were praying. She was praying in her way. She continued +to look up at the heaped golden clouds, at the infinite depth +of the blue, blue sky, at the ineffable clarity of the light, +pouring in through the great round opening. It seemed to +smile at her, an honest, loving, reassuring smile that flooded +her vexed, somber heart as it flooded the somber, ancient +building. What strength, what strength in those gray stones, +to hold together where everything else had been broken and +dispersed! How beautiful primitive things were! How consoling +and healing—the hardness and strength of stones, the +clarity of light, the transparency of the sky! If you could +only somehow make your life up of such things—strength, +sunshine, simplicity—and music!</p> + +<p>She continued to gaze up, her hands clasped. Yes, she +was praying, she was praying for a little share of all that.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>What was that absurd Mr. Livingstone saying? Marise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[Pg 424]</a></span> +glanced up sharply from her book and listened. Why, he was +talking about Crittenden's—old Mr. Crittenden dead and had +left that lovely old mountain home to some indifferent nephew? +To make sure, she put her book down and asked a question +or two. How strange that she should be talking about <i>Ashley</i> +to people here in a Roman <i>pension</i>! Ashley! Crittenden's! +Cousin Hetty!</p> + +<p>She seemed to have gone again back to her book, but she +was not reading. She was looking at a sunlit green valley, +a white road winding through it, a glass-clear little river +chanting under willows, low, friendly homes under tall elms, +ugly old people with plain speech and honest, quiet eyes, smiling +down lovingly on a skipping, frisking little girl.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">"... I see them shining plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The happy highways where I went<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And may not go again."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>After a time she closed her book and went up on the roof +for a quiet moment alone, to go back to Ashley, to look at +those blue, remembered hills.</p> + +<p>But there was some one else on the terrazza. She made +out a man's figure under the grapevine. Being a girl, she +thought impatiently, she was obliged to turn back and shut +herself up in her stuffy room. It continued to be exactly as +it had been in Bayonne. The world was one great Jeanne, +with a nose twitching for scandal. Ashley was far away!</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>She had watched the horrid little tragedy of the swallow +with such intensity that when the catastrophe came she almost +felt those curved claws sink into her own flesh ... <i>bon Dieu!</i> +What was that man doing climbing out of the window—a madman! +No, <i>he</i> had seen the cat, too! What a leap! And +now how he ran—like a <i>prestissimo alla forte</i> passage! <i>Ah!</i> +He had caught that wretched cat. But the swallow was dead. +He was too late! How gently he picked it up. Did <i>men</i> ever +feel compassion for things hurt?</p> + +<p>Oh! <i>oh!</i> the swallow had flown out of his hands! How +it soared up and up! Who would not soar, saved by a strong, +kind hand from such terror!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[Pg 425]</a></span></p> + +<p>He had turned to come back. It was a good face—but +after she had seen the expression of the deep-set, steady eyes +she could see nothing but that. Eyes that looked kind, but +not weak. In the world about Marise it had been an understood +axiom that only weak people were kind.</p> + +<p>And what now—eh <i>bien</i>! To defend the cat! What +did he care about a cat?</p> + +<p>Yet she saw it at once. What he wanted was justice. Think +of any one's wanting justice for anything—let alone a <i>cat</i>!</p> + +<p>No—how quaint, how amusing—one unexpected thing after +another!—he wasn't a bit conceited about what he'd done—how +<i>funny</i> that he was embarrassed and shy! Why, no +man with Latin blood could have restrained himself by any +effort of self-control from a little flourish of self-satisfaction +after such a dashing exploit. He wasn't thinking how she +must be admiring him. He wasn't thinking of himself at all. +How—how <i>nice</i>—to see him blushing and stammering like a +nice, nice boy. She could scarcely keep back the laugh of +touched and pleased amusement that came to her lips.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Eh bien, he might blush easily and be shy, but he knew +as well as any Latin how to catch at a chance indication from +a woman, and how to be at the right place at the right hour. +When she and il Maestro came out of Donna Antonia's door, +she saw his tall figure at the end of the street. Ridiculous, +what a start it gave her! And as soon as Visconti had left +her there he was beside her with one long bound. Now she +would really look at him enumeratingly and see what sort of +face he had.</p> + +<p>But when she looked at him she saw that his eyes were +smiling down at her, and she went no further than the eyes +again.</p> + +<p>She began to tell him about Ashley, of which she had +dreamed the night before, the first time in so long. It had +been a good dream, all about going home to Cousin Hetty and +playing dolls up in the attic again. And it was good, how +good, to talk to some one about it, the first time—why, since +she had left Ashley! He seemed like—like what Americans<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[Pg 426]</a></span> +meant when they spoke of their "own home folks." Marise +had never had any such. There was a real reason to give +herself the fun of telling about Crittenden's too, since this +Crittenden was soon to be there. She would just let herself +go for once!</p> + +<p>But how she did run on when she let herself go! She +hardly knew herself, chattering like this, as fast as her tongue +could wag. Chattering and laughing and gesticulating—and +not able to stop—the foolish way people do who have drunk +too much champagne, the foolish way a canary does when you +take the dark cloth from his cage and he sees that the sun +is shining, the way silly girls do the first time they have +a conversation with a young man. Yes, that was the way +her voice sounded. Why could she not stop chattering and +laughing? What must he be thinking of her? She would +stop. She would change the subject. She would look at her +watch and say that she was late for an engagement and must +take a tram-car and leave him.</p> + +<p>Forming this plan, she led him rapidly through the gate into +the Borghese Gardens where there are no tram-cars, through +which lay the longest possible way home. She thought glancingly +of this inconsistency, but it did not seem very important +to her, because she began to be aware of something that startled +her a little. She was now taking him all over the old house +at Crittenden's. Yes, it was as though she had taken his +hand and were leading him through those fine old rooms. +She was aware of him—like that—as though their hands really +did touch, warmly and actually touch—and she liked it! +She who detested above everything else the slightest physical +contact with another human body—who hated men for only +looking at her bare arm as if they would like to touch it.</p> + +<p>Oh, well, oh, well, it was nothing—she brushed it aside, +it was gone. She told herself hastily in a phrase she had +heard Mme. Vallery use, that a very fine physical specimen +of a man exercises a sort of unconscious magnetism on every +one near him, that has no more real human significance than +the way a pebble naturally rolls down hill and not up. And +he certainly was what any one would call a fine physical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[Pg 427]</a></span> +specimen, so tall, so solidly, vigorously built, with such a long, +swinging step—she glanced at him as she talked—but it wasn't +his strength that gave him his individuality—it was his <i>quiet</i> +look.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>They had come out from the Pincian now, stopped and were +looking at each other, under the ilex trees. From the way +he had answered her astonished question about China she had +known that he was going to say something to her, really something +that he meant, as people never do, something from far +underneath the surface. But she had never dreamed that he +would so throw open the doors of his heart and let her look +in to see something she had never thought was in any one's +heart,—the honest desire to do something with his life beyond +getting out of it all he could for himself. It was like daylight +shining down, clear, into dark shadows.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Marise dreaded Donna Antonia's musical entertainments. +They were nightmares, at least for a girl with no recognized +definite rung on the social ladder as her own, at least for a +paid entertainer who was paid not only to play a Beethoven +sonata, but to look well, to add to the social brilliancy of +the evening, to make up for Donna Antonia's prodigious inertia +by rushing about, seeing that everything went smoothly, +that the servants did not sequester half the ices, that each +guest had some one to talk to. If she could only come in, +play her Beethoven and go away again!—That was really +all she was paid for. No, of course the pay for the rest of +what she did was Donna Antonia's "taking her up," her familiarity +in the great house, those occasional condescending "cards +for her personal friends," all that Donna Antonia could do +for a young pianist's future. Every one told her that her +fortunes were made, now that Donna Antonia had taken a +fancy to her, every one expected her as a matter of course +to make the most of her great opportunity, to flatter Donna +Antonia, to run briskly on her errands, to accept with apparent +pleasure the amused, patronizing friendliness of a capricious +great lady who on some days was caressing and petting,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[Pg 428]</a></span> +like a person with a pet cat, and on others was cold and +distant, like a person who has no use for cats. She was not +only to play for Donna Antonia whenever she was asked, +but sit on a cushion, let her hair be stroked and talk intimately +with Donna Antonia of things Marise would much +prefer not to know about; or on another day to be willing +to dash out in a cab to get a delayed dress from the dressmaker's +because the maid was busy with hair-dressing; or, +as on this evening, act the part of helpful daughter of the +house, when her real position (which all the guests knew perfectly +well how to make her feel) was that of temporary toy +and amusement. What really underlay all that advice to make +the most of this great opportunity was a doubt whether she +was genuinely gifted enough to make her own way by her +talent, was the feeling that the best way to make up for +deficiencies in her musical equipment was by accumulating +personal influences of social importance on her side. The +"great opportunity" which Visconti's other pupils so envied +her was nothing more or less than making the acquaintance +of these wealthy, important, unmusical people, and being +more adroit in making use of them than they of her. This +was perfectly understood all around—especially by the men +watching to find a weak spot, who looked at her admiringly +and found graceful things to say about her playing and her +arms and her hands and her hair and everything else they +dared mention; especially by the old Ambrogi, with his brutal +certainty that as long as he was mounting in power, any +woman—oh, they made her <i>sick</i>!—Donna Antonia and Ambrogi! +Such <i>old</i> people, with bags under their eyes and +flabby necks! And they really didn't care a sou about each +other—he wanted only to make use of the position that Donna +Antonia's birth gave her, and she only wanted to have the +prestige of owning a politician; or perhaps the prestige of +showing that in spite of bags under her eyes she was still not +too old for that sort of thing.</p> + +<p>Before she ran up to make sure that no guests were stranded +in the library without being served with ices, Marise looked +cautiously into the dark corner on the landing to make sure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[Pg 429]</a></span> +that Ambrogi was not there. Horrid—an old man like +that who could not keep his hands off women thirty years +younger than he! But as for that, the old Visconti himself +could not keep his off women fifty years younger than +he! As she sped swiftly along the upper hall, a crocus-colored +Atalanta in her pale-yellow dress, she was saying +to herself, "Oh, well, that's the way men are, none +of them can keep their hands off women"—all except self-conscious +posing marionettes like that absurd Livingstone, or +men like her father, who took it out in caring about what +they ate and drank. How harmless that was—in comparison! +How <i>nice</i> it was in comparison! Had she ever been impatient +with Father because he cared so much about what +he ate and drank? She felt a little wave of affection for him. +She really must try to get back to Paris for a few days, and +make sure that Biron was keeping up to the mark.</p> + +<p>There, the last person was served. And everybody had +somebody to talk to. Oh, how tired she was, how sick of all +this! This was a soirée musicale! These were the people on +whom she was to count for musical success. She was supposed +to be here to play Beethoven! She broke into a nervous laugh +at the idea.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Of course she had known that Mr. Livingstone would be +enchanted at the invitation from Donna Antonia. And of +course Mr. Crittenden would be too. Anybody would. To +have made such an impression on Ambrogi—it was remarkable!</p> + +<p>But he wasn't enchanted. He said he wasn't going. What +under the sun did that mean? Did he think he could get +an invitation to dinner if he held off from this one to tea? +Yes, probably that was it. Well, she wasn't sure, that was +the way to work Ambrogi. Still you never could tell. Perhaps +the boldness of it might take Ambrogi's fancy.</p> + +<p>How funny, funny, funny, the head Ambrogi would show +at the tea-table when poor Livingstone turned up alone with +that self-conscious, naïvely-sophisticated manner of his, so +proud of seeming a man of the world. And Ambrogi despising<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[Pg 430]</a></span> +men of the world for imbeciles! She would tell Mr. Crittenden +about it, when she next saw him, and make him laugh too.</p> + +<p>But when she told him he did not laugh—not so very +heartily. He seemed concerned about Livingstone—of all +people! Was it possible that he <i>liked</i> Mr. Livingstone? Could +it be he was standing up for him whether he liked him or +not, as he had for the cat?</p> + +<p>And now what a queer question he was asking her—about +why she had said nothing at the breakfast table about having +already met him. Why, how naïve that would have been! +Why should you? And he kept on talking about it as +though he saw something in it she did not. He was looking +at her very queerly, not at all admiringly. How strange it +seemed to have any man look at a woman and not pretend +at least to be admiring her—strange—and rude—and uncomfortable! +She must make him <i>say</i> something. He'd be forced +then to smile and turn it off—whatever it was, with a pretty +phrase that pretended to be admiring.</p> + +<p>Oh—horrible! How could any one be so rude! Why, it +was as though he had struck a blow at her! Brutal! And +why? Why? What harm had she done him? Why did he +want to hurt her? He was cruel! She had not known any +one could be so cruel and hard—hard as a stone (where was +it she lately had seen great hard stones?).</p> + +<p>What could you do when some one was rude to you? What +did any one do who was so affronted?</p> + +<p>Beyond the dark fury of her amazement, her resentment, +her anger, her bewilderment, a light began to break slowly like +a distant dawn. As she looked at him, stammering, remorseful, +horribly unhappy, aghast at what he had said, but never +once dreaming that he might simply unsay it, she became +aware of what had really happened:</p> + +<p>She had asked him a question and he had told her the truth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">[Pg 431]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLVI</h2> + + +<p>"This is the life!" thought Livingstone many times during +the next weeks. He had not enjoyed himself so thoroughly +since he came to Europe to live. He was now provided, as +he expressed it, with all the cultural advantages of Europe +and all the social atmosphere of an American summer-resort; +for Miss Mills seemed to wish to try, along with pension life, +the unchaperoned familiarity of real American girl-life. Mlle. +Vallet, her old school-teacher, companion-dragon was unceremoniously +left behind, or sent out by herself to do the conscientious +sight-seeing which took all her evenings to record +in her diary.</p> + +<p>Miss Mills did sight-seeing too. The tacit understanding +which grew up at once was that they were all four seriously +to see Rome and to make up for the very haphazard way +in which heretofore they had been profiting by their situation. +It was certainly, thought Livingstone, a most agreeable way +to do sight-seeing, in the company of two such good-looking +girls, one of them with money to burn. Of course he could +have wished, they all would have preferred, some one less +lumpish than that great, grim Crittenden to complete their +quartet. But not every American is capable, thought Livingstone, +tying his necktie in the morning and looking at +himself in the glass, not every American is <i>capable</i> of taking +on European polish. And of an American business-man what +could you expect? Livingstone admired and did his best +to imitate the exquisite good-breeding of the two young ladies, +which kept them from ever showing the slightest impatience +with Crittenden. As far as they were concerned it would +have been impossible for Crittenden to guess that he was not +in the same class with the other three. An occasional quick +look of astonishment from Miss Allen when Crittenden made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">[Pg 432]</a></span> +one of those crude speeches of his, and a recurring expression +of quiet fatigue on Miss Mills's face when they had had a +little too large a dose of Crittenden were the only traces of +their real feelings which showed on the surface.</p> + +<p>That famous soirée at Donna Antonia Pierleoni's had seemed +to be the start of all this agreeable new period of sociability. +Livingstone abhorred fatuous men, but it really was rather a +remarkable coincidence that after seeing him for the first long +talk they had ever had, Miss Mills should at once have +decided to come to the <i>pension</i> where he was staying. She +had never had a real opportunity to know him before that, +Mlle. Vallet always shadowing her around, the conversation +always stiffly in French in deference to Mlle. Vallet's feelings. +That, after her first real impression of him, she should immediately +have moved into a room three doors down the corridor +from his—any man might be pardoned for considering it +marked, really marked. It quite fluttered Livingstone with +the idea of the possibilities involved—although he scorned +fortune-hunters above all other men. It was not her fortune, +it was her wonderful little person that he admired, the perfection +of the finish of every detail of her body and mind. +Livingstone often felt a sincere reverence as he looked at her +beautiful hair and skin and clothes and hands and feet that +had cost—oh, nobody knew how much to bring them to that +condition. And her accomplishments, her exquisite French +and pure Italian, her knowledge of art-critics, and which +Luini was considered authentic and which spurious! The +harmonious way she sat down or stood or sat at table! There +was a product of European civilization at its finest! How +crude and coarse-grained the usual striding, arm-swinging +American girl would seem beside her, like a rough, splintery +board beside a finished piece of marquetry. Even Miss Allen, +who was, one might say, carelessly and indifferently European +simply because she happened to have been brought up in +France, often seemed rough and abrupt compared to her. +There was nothing of the deliberate, finished self-consciousness +about Miss Allen's manners, which Livingstone had learned +to admire as the finest flower of sophistication. It was true<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">[Pg 433]</a></span> +she really did play the piano very brilliantly. But still she +had to make her living somehow! One could be reasonably +sure with her good looks that she was counting on using +the concert platform, if indeed she got to it, as an angling +station from which to fish for wealthy eligibles. Crittenden +needn't fool himself that she would ever look at <i>him</i>, with +that ridiculous little inheritance he had played up so, on +his arrival in Rome!</p> + +<p>Not that Crittenden seemed to be trying to make an impression! +Quite the contrary. Was there anybody who, more +than that poor fellow, seemed possessed to put his worst foot +foremost? If they hadn't been pitiable, Livingstone could have +laughed at the breaks Crittenden constantly made, at the way +he was everlastingly showing himself up as entirely an outsider +to their world.</p> + +<p>That evening, when they fell to talking of their favorite +dishes, was a sample. As a parlor amusement they had been +challenging each other to construct imaginary meals such as +would be perfection if you could only get them together,—sole +frite from the Ambassadeurs; roast duck with the inimitable +sauce of Foyot's; Asti Spumanti, the <i>real</i>; Brie straight from +the only farm in the Seine-et-Marne that made it right ... +all that sort of mouth-watering, exquisite imaginings. When +Crittenden's turn came, had he risen to the occasion? Had +he made the slightest effort to make a decent appearance? No, +he had said, "Oh, count me out on this. I have a regular +hired-man's appetite, and if it begins to fail, I go out and +run a mile and then I can eat anything!"</p> + +<p>Livingstone tried his best to cover up such breaks with +hasty, tactful improvisations of talk, but he had noticed the +amazed stare with which Miss Allen had received this particular +revelation of Crittenden's crudity.</p> + +<p>Miss Mills had stared, too, or as near to it as she ever +came, over in the Capitoline, when she had asked Crittenden +if he happened to know anything about Constantius Chlorus, +at whose ugly face they were just then looking. Crittenden +had answered in that coarse, would-be comic jargon he occasionally +affected, that he didn't remember reading a thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">[Pg 434]</a></span> +about him, but if there was anything in physiognomy he must +have been a ward-heeler who had sandbagged his way to the +head of the machine. Miss Allen had not been able to avoid +laughing at him outright then, and Miss Mills's look had been +all too eloquent.</p> + +<p>But the worst was the pig-headed provinciality of his attitude +about picture-galleries, his avowal of a regular commercial-traveler's +ignorance of paintings and his refusal to try to +learn to appreciate them. "There are only, so far as I can +make out," he said, "about a dozen canvases in all Europe +that I really <i>like</i> to look at. And you don't catch me trailing +around till my feet drop off, looking at all the thousands of +second-raters that give me a pain. Why should I?"</p> + +<p>Livingstone was so shocked and grieved by the crassness +of such a statement that he really longed to take Crittenden +in hand. He knew so well how to learn to like pictures, because +(although he would not have admitted it to any one) +he had begun as crassly as Crittenden. He <i>knew</i> what to do; +he could tell Crittenden step by step how to pull himself up +to a higher level, because he had done it himself. You read +esthetic books, lots of them, and all the descriptions of paintings +you could lay your hands on, and all the stories you +could find in Vasari or any one else about the lives of the +painters (Livingstone had a whole shelf of books of that sort +that were <i>fascinating</i> reading—as amusing as La Vie Parisienne)—and +you read what Ruskin and Symonds had thought +about this or that canvas, and what Berenson's researches had +proved about its authenticity. If you could, you took the +book right along with you to the gallery, reading about the +picture as you looked at it; and you kept at it till you <i>did</i> see +in it what people said was there. That was the way to form +your taste! Even Crittenden could get somewhere along +those lines if he tried.</p> + +<p>But he seemed to have no interest in anything but history +and Michael Angelo; Crittenden was perversely fond of dragging +them over to the Sistine Chapel till their heads were ready +to drop off with the neck-breaking fatigue of staring up at those +sprawling figures.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">[Pg 435]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was, however, one advantage about the expedition +to the Sistine Chapel. They were always so fearfully tired +afterwards that they took a cab back to the Piazza Venezia +and had ices together at a café. It was the first time since +he had lived in Europe that Livingstone had been able to walk +into a café with a handsome woman and watch the other +men stare. That was a European manœuver which he had +not somehow been able to accomplish, a tailor-suited, low-heeled, +sailor-hatted American girl-tourist with her Baedecker +in her ungloved hand, being by no means a figure to make +other men stare. Of course it was perfectly evident that Miss +Mills and Miss Allen were only nice girls (he hoped it was +not <i>too</i> apparent that they were only Americans), but they +were handsome and Miss Mills was always stunningly dressed. +It was next best to what Livingstone had always secretly longed +to do, as, eating his frugal demi-glace, he had watched a +medaled Italian officer or monocled, heavy-eyed man-about-town +sitting opposite a conspicuous woman-de-luxe with high-heeled +slippers, a provocative gown, and a huge hat shading her +black-rimmed, roving eyes, the only movable feature of her +spectacular face, painted and powdered to a hierarchic immobility.</p> + +<p>That was the life! That was what Livingstone would love +to do! Thus to <i>afficher</i> yourself with a really bad woman, +how deliciously un-American and cosmopolitan! On the other +hand, those women were said to be very expensive and hard +to handle, rapacious, without the slightest scruple as to how +they emptied your pockets. Livingstone was in mortal terror +of letting one of them get any hold on him and his tiny resources. +He knew he would be no match for her. And anyhow +all he wanted of one was to sit, jeweled and painted +and conspicuously non-respectable, across a table from him at +a café, so that other men would look at him as he now +looked at other men. He often wished he could hire one just +to do that.</p> + +<p>However, in the meantime, it was a very pleasant pastime +(and might, by George, <i>lead</i> to something, who knew!) to sit +across the table from two merely nice but really very good-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">[Pg 436]</a></span>looking +and well-dressed girls and listen to their innocent +prattle.</p> + +<p>And although they were Americans, they had lived abroad +so much that they had many European ways which Livingstone +found very fascinating and superior. For instance, they were +quite at home in Roman churches, and whenever they went +to listen to special music in some chapel the girls had a +quick, easy capacity for dropping to their knees in a quite unself-conscious +way that made them to Livingstone's eyes fit +right in with the picture. If it had not been for Crittenden, +whose stiff provincial American joints never dreamed of bending, +he would have knelt beside the girls. Not that he +<i>believed</i> in any of the religious part of it! But it was so European +to go down on your knees in public. If he did, he was +sure that people around them would think that he was a +member of one of those ultra-smart English Catholic families.</p> + +<p>Crittenden always was the great, hulking obstacle in the +way of any flexible and gracious Europeanizing of their lives. +Livingstone had seen the two girls recoil time and time again, +shocked by his bruskness. And it was not only to women +that he was brusk. He had occasionally an insufferable way +of treating any one who approached him with a civil question, +as when Livingstone on a sudden recollection had said to him, +"Oh, but by the way, Crittenden, how about your being only +five days in Rome?"</p> + +<p>"<i>How</i> about it?" Crittenden had repeated as though he'd +never heard of it before.</p> + +<p>"Why, you said you had to return at once—that inheritance, +you know—you said you had only five days."</p> + +<p>Crittenden had had the impertinence to stare at him hard +and say coolly, "Oh, you must be mistaken about that."</p> + +<p>Civilized people didn't have such manners!</p> + +<p>And that other time, the evening when he had stayed up +late on the terrazza to smoke with Crittenden, when he had +asked, "But all men of the world agree that nothing is so full +of flavor as an affair with a married woman. You, no doubt, +Crittenden, have also had your experiences, eh?"</p> + +<p>What sort of an answer did Crittenden consider it, to burst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">[Pg 437]</a></span> +out with that sudden great horse-laugh as though Livingstone +had been telling him a funny story? The man simply had no +experience or understanding—a raw, crude, bumptious provincial, +that's what <i>he</i> was! One who had not even sense +enough to know how pitifully narrow his life was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">[Pg 438]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLVII</h2> + + +<p>Coming to know a new acquaintance was, thought Marise, +as though you stood back of a painter, watching him stroke +by stroke paint the portrait of a sitter whom you could +not see.</p> + +<p>Of course Mr. Neale Crittenden, like every one else, was +physically quite visible, and, like every one else, entirely +hidden by this apparent visibility. What you saw of people's +surfaces and what was really there were two very different +matters—Marise had learned this axiom if no other. What +she saw of the newcomer was quite startlingly, disturbingly +attractive to her. All the more reason to draw back warily +and look carefully before she took a step forward. When +on seeing him for the first time in the morning, or coming +on him unexpectedly towering up above the crowd in some +narrow, dark Roman street, she felt the ridiculous impulse to +run to meet him like a child, she told herself impatiently that +it was due to mere physical elements—his health, the great +strength which made itself felt in his quietest movements, and +a certain expression of his deep-set eyes which might very +well not have the slightest connection with his personality, +which might be a mere trick of bone-structure, the way his +eyes were set in his head perhaps. They chose the show +priests for the great festivals at Lourdes for some such casual +gifts of physical magnetism.</p> + +<p>No, there was nothing whatever to be known from surfaces, +Marise told herself. The subject of the portrait was always +really quite invisible behind the thick, thick screen of his +physical presence. All that was safe to do was to watch the +strokes by which one by one he himself painted his own +portrait.</p> + +<p>Marise often told herself all this as she was hurrying down +the corridor to be the first person in the breakfast room—the +first, that is, after Mr. Crittenden, who was a very early +riser.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">[Pg 439]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p>To begin with there was the dashing outline sketch of the +first two or three days when, in a few bold lines, he had +seemed to set up the figure on the canvas; the rescue of +the swallow; justice for the cat; that first walk and homesick +talk about Ashley, and at the end those stammering words +of his which had seemed to show—Oh, that had now turned +unreal to Marise! He couldn't have said that—and meant it!</p> + +<p>Then the soirée, the impression of force and originality he +had made on the people he had met there, her natural certainty +that he must of course have calculated that impression +in order to profit by it—and then—at this recollection, Marise +always laughed silently at her own astonishment when +he had called Donna Antonia "a bad-tempered, stupid old +woman." Donna Antonia certainly was that, and every one +knew it. But nobody else would dream of saying it out +loud, any more than they would give their honest impression +of the ritual of a secret society.</p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p>And then, just when she had been so drawn towards him +by his strength and kindness—that brusk blow in the face. +Marise had felt many times before this a thin, keen blade +slipped into her back by a hand that took care to be invisible. +But never before had she encountered open roughness. It was +staggering! Breath-taking! Always, as she remembered it, +her first thought was, as it had been then, a horrified wonder +why any one should wish to hurt her. Always afterward +with the memory of his dreadful, stammering distress, his remorseful +kissing of her hands, his helpless inability to unsay +what he had said, she knew once more, as she had known +then, that she had encountered something new, something altogether +different from any human relationship she had ever +known, a relationship where you did not say things in order +to please or displease people, or to make this or that impression, +but because you thought they were true. That was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">[Pg 440]</a></span> +fine—oh, yes, that was fine. But it was like dashing yourself +against hard stones—it hurt! And it made her fear the +hand that had hurt her. She watched it, and sometimes all +but put out her fingers to touch it, to see if it were really +so strong and hard as it looked. She feared it. She envied +its strength.</p> + + +<p class="center">III</p> + +<p>That had been a stroke of the portrait-painting brush which +frightened her to remember. But there were others that made +her laugh, like the time, off in a hill-village in the Roman +country-side, when he stepped into a little shop to buy a +box of cigarettes, and came back with a great paper-bag of +the villainous, hay-like tobacco issued to the Italian army, +unsmokable by any but an Italian private soldier. To their +amazed laughter, he had replied sheepishly, with a boy's grin +of embarrassment that the little daughter of the shop-keeper, +ambitiously doing her best to wait on a customer, had misunderstood +his order and had weighed it out and tied it up +before he realized what she was doing. "I was afraid if I +let them know she'd made a mistake her father would jump +on her. Fathers do seem to do such a tall amount of scolding +anyhow. And she was so set up over having made a sale all +by herself."</p> + +<p>Marise had laughed with the others over that, and laughed +when she thought of it—but her laugh often ended abruptly +in bewilderment—how was it he could be so kind, so tenderly +kind to an Italian child he had never seen before, +and so sternly rough with her? That rankled; and then, when +she had had time to think, she recognized it, all over again, +with the same start of astonishment, for the truth-telling she +had never encountered.</p> + + +<p class="center">IV</p> + +<p>Mr. Livingstone had said something sentimental about man's +love being based on the instinct to cherish and protect, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">[Pg 441]</a></span> +woman's on the desire to be cherished and protected. Eugenia +had acquiesced; Marise, who hated talk, sentimental or otherwise, +about love, had said nothing. But Mr. Crittenden had +protested, "Oh, Livingstone, you've got that twisted. That's +the basis of love between group-ups and children. You don't +insult your equals trying to 'protect them'! Nothing would +get me more up in the air than to have somebody 'protect' me +from life. Why should I want to do it to anybody else? +Protect your grandmother! A woman wants to be let alone +to take her chances in life as much as a man!"</p> + + +<p class="center">V</p> + +<p>They were crossing the Forum, on their way to a stroll +in the shady walks of the Palatine. From the battered, shapeless +ruins of what had been the throbbing center of the world +rose suffocatingly to Marise's senses the effluvium of weariness +and decay. She always felt that Rome's antiquity breathed +out upon her a cold, dusty <i>tædium vitæ</i>.</p> + +<p>She thought of this, turning an attentive face and inattentive +ear to Mr. Livingstone, who was trying to make out +from his guide-book where the Temple of Mars had stood.</p> + +<p>"You're holding that map wrong end to," said Mr. Crittenden.</p> + +<p>"It's too hot to stand here in the sun," said Eugenia very +sensibly.</p> + +<p>They passed on, over heaps of ancient refuse, into the +ruins of the myriad-celled palace of the Cæsars, silent now, not +an echo left of all the humming, poisonous intrigues that had +filled it full.</p> + +<p>"Here," said Mr. Livingstone, stopping in a vaulted, half-wrecked +chamber, ostensibly to comment on things, really to +get his breath after the climb, "here in such a room, only lined +and paved with priceless marbles, and hung with Asiatic +silks, here you lay at ease in an embroidered toga on a gold-mounted +couch, and clapped your hands for a slave to bring +you your Falernian wine, cooled with snow from Monte Cavo,—that +was the life!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">[Pg 442]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I thought it was in the Arabian Nights you clapped +your hands for a slave," said Eugenia.</p> + +<p>"In Rome you probably cracked a whip," suggested Mr. +Crittenden. "But I bet you a nickel it didn't make any +difference <i>what</i> you did, your slave came when he got good +and ready and brought you another kind of wine from the +one you ordered—and lukewarm at that. They'd probably +used up all the Monte Cavo snow to cool the wine down in +the slaves' hall."</p> + +<p>"What possible basis have you for saying all <i>that</i>?" cried +Mr. Livingstone, exasperated.</p> + +<p>"That's the way things are! Folks that try to use slave +labor always get what's coming to them in the way of poor +service."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but in Rome you had the right to kill him!" cried +Mr. Livingstone, jealous of his rights.</p> + +<p>"Sure you could kill him—and in New York you can fire +your stenographer. What good would that do you? You +couldn't get intelligent service out of the next slave either, +unless you had him educated to be intelligent, and if you +did that he'd be such a rare bird that you'd save him for +something better than standing around waiting for you to +clap your hands at him. He'd be running your business for +you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, pshaw, Crittenden, why be so heavy-handed and literal! +Why wet-blanket <i>every</i> imaginative fancy?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I didn't realize you were imaginatively fancying," said +Mr. Crittenden, laughing. "I thought you were trying imaginatively +to reconstruct the life of ancient Rome. And I was +trying to do my share."</p> + +<p>They passed through dusky, ill-smelling passages, clambered +over a pile of rubble and stood in twilight at the foot of +a long, steep, vaulted stairway. Far up, like a bright roof +to its obscurity, were green leaves, blue sky, bright sunshine. +All that sparkling, clear radiance seemed to heighten the boyish +fit of high spirits that had entered into the usually rather +silent Mr. Crittenden. He pointed up to the stairway and +cried, "From antiquity to the present! I'll meet you at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">[Pg 443]</a></span> +top!" and off he went, bounding up the high, steep steps two +at a time, as if his vitality had suddenly swept him away +in the need for violent exertion.</p> + +<p>When the two girls emerged later, "Ladies, allow me to +introduce to you the present day," he said, calling to their +attention with a sweep of his hat the dark, sumptuous green +of the cypresses and pines, the splendor of the golden-blue sky, +the fresh sprinkled smell of the earth on the shady paths. +"Not so bad for poor little old actuality, is it?"</p> + +<p>The girls sank breathlessly on a bench. Livingstone appeared, +slowly hoisting himself up the steps, one at a time, +and puffing. Mr. Crittenden walked around and around restlessly, +as though that upward swoop had been but an appetizer +to his desire to let out the superabundance of his strength. +He looked, Marise thought, like a race-horse fretting and +pawing and stepping sideways. How could he have that eager +look in this dusty cemetery of human strength and eagerness?</p> + +<p>Glancing up at his face, she saw it lighted and shining +with amusement—what seemed like tender, touched amusement. +He was looking at something down the path. Marise +looked with him and saw a workingman, one of the gardeners, +digging in the earth of a rose-bed. Beside him capered and +staggered a little puppy, a nondescript little brown cur with +neither good looks nor distinction, but so enchanted with life, +with itself, with the soft, good earth over which it pranced +that to see it was, thought Marise, like playing Weber's "Perpetual +Motion." As she looked it tried to run in a wavering +circle around its master, tripped over its own feet, tumbled +head over heels in a soft ball, clumsily struggled up and sat +down to draw breath, a pink tongue hanging out of its wide, +laughing mouth, its soft young eyes beaming with mirth at +its own adventures. Its master glanced down and addressed +some clucking, friendly greeting to it, which threw it into an +agony of joy. Wagging its tail till its whole body wagged, +it flung itself adoringly at its master's trousers, pawing and +wriggling in ecstasy.</p> + +<p>Mr. Crittenden caught Marise's eye, and shared with her +in a silent smile his delighted sense of the little animal's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">[Pg 444]</a></span> +absurdity. "Perhaps if we looked down from this height and +got a bird's-eye view we could settle that point," said Eugenia +to Mr. Livingstone, who was still concerned about the location +of the Temple of Mars. "There's a fine view from the wall +at the end of this path."</p> + +<p>They strolled together to the wall, and Mr. Livingstone +spread out on it his plan of the Forum.</p> + +<p>Marise looked down dispiritedly at the mutilated pillars and +broken pieces of carved marble, and most of all at the bits +of old Roman flagged paving. Nothing gave her a more +acrid sense of futility than those old, old flag-stones over +which so many thousands of human feet had eagerly, blindly +sought their journey's end. Had any of them ever found what +they sought? She murmured under her breath, "Isn't it all +horribly, horribly depressing? Doesn't it make you feel all +those endless centuries bowing your shoulders down to the +earth—why not now as well as later?"</p> + +<p>She had stated it as she felt it, a truism, what every one +must feel. Eugenia and Livingstone accepted it as such. "Yes, +I often feel as ancient as the stones," said Eugenia pensively.</p> + +<p>Mr. Crittenden put in hastily, "Not on your life, it doesn't +depress me! Why should it? You don't seem to realize, Miss +Allen, what an immense difference there is between us! I +never really took it in before myself—not until this visit +to Rome. But it's immense! Enormous! Let me tell you +about it. They're dead and we are alive! Alive!"</p> + +<p>Marise looked up at him, thinking that in truth she had +never felt any one so alive. He bent his eyes to hers as +Livingstone, with a little gesture of giving him up, drew Eugenia +to the corner of the wall and traced lines on his map.</p> + +<p>Mr. Crittenden went on whimsically, "I don't believe you +ever fully considered the great importance of that point, Miss +Allen. It came home to me all over again as I was looking +at that puppy. Millions of dogs have lived and died before +him; but by some amazing miracle life is just as fresh a +wonder to him as if he were the first puppy ever born into +the world! It's incredible! I never realized it till I struck<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">[Pg 445]</a></span> +all these relics of dead-and-gone men—it's incredible how +none of them, not all the millions of them, can tarnish the +newness of my own life for me! I can go my own new path +over those old paving-stones—me and the puppy—and you—and +all of us!"</p> + +<p>Marise laughed a little, still looking at him, listening to +something he was not saying, which played about his bold, +clear face like sunlight and shone on her as warmly.</p> + +<p>Now a spark of wildness came into his eyes, half laughingly +reckless, half desperately in earnest. "You saw what happened +to the puppy when its master threw it a kind word? +Well, I haven't the gift of wriggling all over so wonderfully +as that, and I haven't any tail to wag, but when you look +at me like that, Miss Allen, I...."</p> + +<p>"We <i>think</i> the third line of pillar-stumps is the side wall +of the Basilica Julia," said Eugenia, stepping towards them, +the guide-book in her hand.</p> + + +<p class="center">VI</p> + +<p>They were standing under the great gray dome of the +Pantheon, innocent clear daylight flooding all the great gray +building.</p> + +<p>"Oh, isn't it beautiful, their idea of leaving the circle open +to the sky?" Marise burst out. "Doesn't it make our dark, +modern churches with their imitation Gothic stained-glass +seem cheap and affected? Every church all over the world +ought to be like this, and then we human beings might be +fit to live with."</p> + +<p>Livingstone put in a horrified protest, "What! Miss all +that exquisite twilight that makes a church a church? I was +just thinking how fiercely, literally bright this noonday sun is. +Daylight leaves no mystery, nothing to your imagination."</p> + +<p>Marise turned confidently to Mr. Crittenden as an ally. +She was sure, as sure of anything in the world, that he +must be on her side. But he hedged and said neutrally, +"Oh, great Scott! It would be a horrible act of tyranny to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">[Pg 446]</a></span> +have every church like this. There are lots of folks who'd +hate it. They have a right to have some things their way, +haven't they?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I <i>didn't</i> think <i>you'd</i> take that side," said Marise, +feeling betrayed and longing for a sweeping, exclusive affirmation +to match her own. He so often hedged, it seemed to +her, wanted to qualify statements. Oh—it came to her with +a start—that was another form of truth-telling! He was +trying to make his statements express the truth, rather than +his feelings!</p> + +<p>He now said, judicially, "As far as I personally go, it depends +what I'm looking at. If I'm looking at a very fine statue +or something that seems really beautiful to me, I want as +good a light as possible to see it in. If—if I should ever +have any personal happiness in my life, I'd want daylight +to see it by. But when it's a question of looking at the +interior decoration of the average modern church, why, the +more mystery and twilight the better."</p> + +<p>This made Marise laugh. He often made her laugh, more +than she had ever laughed before. And yet he never told +funny stories.</p> + +<p>He now went on, "I suppose it depends on your opinion +of what there is to see. If you think your imagination can +do better for you than reality, of course you want a lot left +to it, and plenty of dark corners for it to work in. Just now, +it seems to me that reality is so much beyond anything my +poor, starved imagination could have done...."</p> + +<p>He did not look at Marise as he spoke. His tone was +perfectly matter of fact. She wondered what the other two +made out of it. She knew very well what she made out of it.</p> + + +<p class="center">VII</p> + +<p>They were sitting on the terrazza in the evening, with several +other people from the <i>pension</i>, having their coffee sociably +around the big round table and looking out over the roofs +and domes and church-towers of Rome. The conversation +had been chit-chat, as was usual during meal-times, and Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">[Pg 447]</a></span> +Crittenden had contributed little to it. His massive capacity +for silence when he had nothing special to say was a constant +source of wonder to Marise. Not to "make talk," even very +commonplace talk, was a betrayal of a tacitly accepted code +as much as calling Donna Antonia a "bad-tempered, stupid +old woman." She had been taught that it was one of the +pretenses which must be kept up under penalty of the ruin +of all civilized intercourse. She envied and resented his freedom +from it.</p> + +<p>She addressed herself directly to him now to force him +out of his reflective taciturnity. "Do you agree to that, Mr. +Crittenden?"</p> + +<p>"To what?" he asked, making no decent pretense of being +abashed because he had not been following the conversation.</p> + +<p>"Why, Mr. Livingstone was saying that artists are the only +human beings to be envied, the only human beings who really +<i>live</i>, intensely."</p> + +<p>"They're the only ones who talk about it," he offered as +his variation on the dictum. "That's what an artist <i>is</i>, isn't +he? Somebody who happens to be put together so that it +kills him to keep anything to himself. He just goes up in +smoke, if he can't run and tell the world what he has seen, +or tasted, or handled, or got hit by, and the way it made +him feel. I admire and revere artists. They certainly do +a lot for the rest of us. But I don't see any reason to think +that they feel things any more intensely than anybody else, +and I don't see anything so terribly enviable in their lot. +There seems to be a lot of hard work about it, if you judge +by the way they carry on. I don't see why you can't enjoy +beauty and feel tragedy, even if you keep your mouth shut. +You can feel it just the same, can't you? I'm sure I've felt +things about a million times more intensely than anything +that ever got into a book. And I can't say I'm any less +satisfied with my fate because I'm not thriftily trying to use +those same feelings as raw material for an art."</p> + +<p>Marise was laughing outrageously by the time he had finished, +partly at what he said, partly at Mr. Livingstone's scandalized +expression. She was ashamed of the way she laughed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">[Pg 448]</a></span> +over Mr. Crittenden's teasing of poor unconscious Mr. Livingstone.</p> + +<p>"You don't understand, Crittenden, you don't get my point +at all. There's something—something—" Livingstone brought +it out with a remnant of the provincial self-consciousness +before fine phrases which he so deplored, "there's something +god-like, divine, in being an artist, <i>creating</i> something."</p> + +<p>Mr. Crittenden moved from his negligent pose, tightened up +a little. "Oh, if you mean by 'artist' a class broad enough to +take in everybody who creates something, yes, of course, they're +the only ones who really live. That's what most of us are +trying to get a chance to do, trying to create a little order +out of chaos. But that's pretty nearly the whole ant-heap +of the human race, isn't it? Except the leisure classes."</p> + +<p>Mr. Livingstone was in despair of making the Philistine understand. +"It's something we have so little of in America, +it's hard for an American to recognize its existence," he murmured +to the company in extenuation of his compatriot's denseness.</p> + +<p>Mr. Crittenden sat up straighter. "I used to make my living +buying and selling lumber in the New England states," he +said, addressing himself for once to the company, "and on +one of my trips I met a man in a narrow mountain valley +up there who was a creator if there ever was one. He had +started life as a mechanic, left school and went to work at +sixteen, in a shop filled with soulless cogs and bolts and screws +and springs. And his creative instinct rose up and seized on +those things as the appointed raw stuff for his creation. When +I saw him he was the head of one of the biggest metal-working +factories in the country, a good many hundred men working +for him, and devoted to him, turning out tools that have +simplified the tasks of mechanics the world around. I never +saw a happier man. I never saw a human life more completely +fulfilled. Yes, you're right, Livingstone. The creators are +the enviable ones."</p> + +<p>"That wasn't in the least what I said, or meant!" protested +Mr. Livingstone warmly.</p> + +<p>"It happens to be fresh in my mind," said Mr. Crittenden,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">[Pg 449]</a></span> +half apologizing for his unusual loquacity, "because to-day, +walking on the Due Macelli, I happened to see a case of his +tools, and outside, just glued to the window, a young Italian +mechanic, gazing in at them, his face on fire with his admiration +and appreciation. Quite a long way, isn't it, for a Yankee +creator to reach out a helpful and stimulating hand? But +he's a first-rater, of course, a genius. The rest of us can't +hope to do that."</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Later, as they all went down the stairs together, Marise +asked him, "But there isn't anything ... is there? ... that +the rest of us, not creative geniuses, can hope to do that's creative?"</p> + +<p>She had not the faintest idea what he could find to answer. +She herself could conceive of no answer possible. With all +the intelligent people she had ever known, it had been axiomatic +that there <i>was</i> no answer.</p> + +<p>He did not speak at once. She had noticed that he often +took time to reflect seriously on what you had said before +he replied. Marise had never seen any one before who seemed +to give so much more care to understanding what you said +than to concocting something that would sound well to say +in answer. There were times when, incredible as it seemed, +Mr. Crittenden seemed really to use language to express what +he meant rather than to attain his ends. She waited now, +and as she waited she was aware of the erectness and vigor +of the tall body stepping beside her. In the corridor he halted +for a moment, facing her, his head bent thoughtfully, his +eyes shadowed by his broad brow, his hand, that powerful +athlete's hand of his, meditatively over his mouth as he considered.</p> + +<p>He had given her question a good deal of thought, and yet +when he took his hand down to speak he said abruptly, impulsively, +as though the words had broken up through what +he had been meaning to say, "Couldn't we ... any of us +... couldn't we hope to create a beautiful human relationship? +Beautiful and enduring?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">[Pg 450]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLVIII</h2> + + +<p>Neale was in despair at his dumb helplessness before the +inert resistance of social relations. A man with any adroitness +would not submit passively to this sprung-up-from-nowhere +tradition that he and Livingstone and Marise Allen and Eugenia +Mills formed an indissoluble foursome, never to advance +or retreat save in a solid bloc, like a French family, with +all the uncles and cousins and aunts. How had it started? +<i>He</i> certainly had had nothing to do with it. That's what +you got for being stiff-jointed and literal as he was about personal +relations. The practised old hands ran circles around +you, and had things all their own way.</p> + +<p>Such at least was the color of Neale's meditations when +he was alone in his own room. When, as one of the quartet, +he set off on a new expedition, he could think of nothing but +his light-headed pleasure at being there at all, walking beside +her, catching sidelong glimpses of her when he was supposed +to be looking at a statue or a fresco, talking to her over the +others' heads, trying to say something to <i>her</i>, through the +infernally "general" conversation which Livingstone kept up +as though his tongue were hung in the middle.</p> + +<p>And there was a certain advantage too—he was not flexible-minded +enough to label it, but he recognized and was +quick to profit by it—this parading around in a group +gave the most intoxicating quality of intimacy to the brief, +snatched occasions when he did manage to see her alone; +even though a good many of these few precious moments were, +as a matter of actual fact, passed on a noisy street-corner, +waiting for a tram-car to come and carry her off, or on a +narrow Roman sidewalk, trying to keep abreast of her as she +stepped quickly through the dense, sauntering Italian crowd, +stopping five deep to stare at something in a window, or +holding noisy and affectionate family reunions on the side<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">[Pg 451]</a></span>walk. +None of that mattered. The noise, the clatter of +tongues, the pressing and shoving of the crowd, the ear-piercing +yells of the street-vendors—it was all essential silence +to Neale because none of it was directed at keeping him apart +from Marise, as was the low-toned urbane conversation of +the sight-seeing quartet.</p> + +<p>He let himself go like a boy—as indeed he never had +as a boy—on the few occasions when he waylaid her in the +street, without Eugenia Mills, who seemed to have as great +a passion for her society as he had. He was really a little +out of his head with suspense, after an hour of anxious +waiting about, smoking nervous cigarettes, his eyes on both +ends of the street at once, his heart leaping up when he +thought he saw her tall, nobly borne figure in the distance, +dying down sickly when it turned out to be some other dark-haired +girl. When finally she was really there he was too +elated for pretense, swooping down on her, his hat in his +hand, grinning—he knew it—like an idiot. He saw people +in the street turn and look after him meaningly and smile to +each other—and what did he care how big a fool he looked to +them!</p> + +<p>They fostered, for these queer, unprivate, intimate moments, +a little tradition of their own, a tacit understanding that they +would save up for them the things they specially wanted to +talk about, the questions they wanted to ask each other that +were no business of other people. They talked as fast as they +could, sometimes Marise, sometimes Neale, as though they +could never get caught up on what they had to tell each +other. Neale was astounded to hear himself chattering, fairly +chattering. They talked a good deal about Ashley, a great +deal about their personal likes and dislikes, a good deal about +what Neale was trying to get out of Europe. This seemed +to interest Marise, curiously to interest her. She was always +bringing him back to it. He was, she told him, new in her +experience of Americans-in-Europe. She had seen so many, +all her life, and thought she had them all sorted and labeled +"... the kind, like my father, who find themselves just in +their element at last in the religious seriousness of Europe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452">[Pg 452]</a></span> +about eating and drinking. Sometimes I think they're the +ones who get the most out of it. No, oh, no, there's another +sort, the ones I specially love. The middle-aged school-teacher +who saves up her money and comes just once comes at forty-five +with a ripe mind and fresh, fresh eyes, such as no European +can have. I'll never forget what I heard one of them +say in Paris. I was tearing along, trying to get to the market +and back before I had to go to a class, my mind full of nothing +but the price of new potatoes and a terribly hard set of +velocity exercises I'd just begun. I came up behind two +such dear, dear American tourists, and heard one of them +say, so happily, with a long breath of satisfaction, 'I've waited +all my life to see that.' I looked around wildly to see what +she was talking about. And there stood Notre Dame! Had +I seen it? No, too many picayune cares on my mind. But +I looked at it then, looked as though it were the first time <i>I'd</i> +ever seen it.</p> + +<p>"And then there are the rich Americans who want to buy +everything and do buy everything, and go away empty-handed. +And the kind who want to be what they think is sophisticated, +who feel it's really worth spending your life learning how to +order a meal with the right manner in the most expensive +restaurants in every city, and to know how to find the horridest +café-chantants that don't dare advertise in the papers, and +that the people of the country never go to see.</p> + +<p>"And then the other kind, who come over, the whole family +of them, and go to register at the New York Herald—you know +the sort, 'Mr. Jehoshaphat Jones, President of the J. Jones +Farm Implement Company of Broken Ridge, Indiana, together +with Mrs. Jones, Miss Elizabeth Jones, Miss Margaret Jones +and Master J. Jones Jr. are stopping at the Hotel Vouillemont. +They will shortly start on a tour of the château Country, and +after that expect to travel in Switzerland.' You can see Mrs. +Jones cutting that notice out and sending it home to Broken +Ridge. They're <i>nice</i>, I like that kind, when they don't get +too tired and begin to snap at each other. I always feel such +a deep sympathy for Jehoshaphat when I see him dragging his +sore feet around over a hard, hard museum floor; and such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">[Pg 453]</a></span> +sympathy for Mrs. Jones, when he makes them all stand around +at an Alpine railway station while he delightedly figures out +and explains how the funicular works."</p> + +<p>There were times when she ran on, mirthful, flashing, keen, +droll, amusing herself and making him laugh as nothing had +ever made him laugh before, out of sheer, light-hearted hilarity. +As he watched her, talking animatedly in her beautiful, clearly +articulated English, her plastic face a comic mask, fooling and +bantering till she had him shouting, and yet with that core of +shrewd observation and real intelligence underlying all she +said, sometimes he remembered with a start his first sight of +her up there on the roof—what was the meaning of that unearthly +sadness the moon had shown him?</p> + +<p>She was not, it is true, by any means always gay on these +stolen talks together. She could be stern and brief, as when +he asked her challengingly, one day, "Well, you've been in +Europe all your life, nearly. What have <i>you</i> got out of it?" +She answered, "To work hard and not to expect much from anything—except +from music."</p> + +<p>Her face that was sometimes as meltingly soft as a Correggio +girl-saint, looked dark and set. He had been so disconcerted +by her look and accent, that like the lump he was, +he had found nothing to say before she hailed her tram-car +and left him.</p> + +<p>Often she made him talk, talk as he had never dreamed of +talking to any one, leading him on to flight of wordy self-expression, +such as he blushed afterwards to remember, sure +that he must have bored and wearied her. And yet there +never was such a listener as she, attentive, silent, except for +just the occasional comment that launched him off on further +talk, when his self-consciousness coming warningly forward +bade him stop before he seemed a solemn ass. She made him +intensely desire to share with her everything that was in his +mind. Helpless before the compelling personal look with which +she listened to him, he poured it all out pell-mell, what he had +been struggling to lay hold of, ever since he had left Hoosick +Junction.</p> + +<p>"One of the things that keeps coming over me, is the various<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_454" id="Page_454">[Pg 454]</a></span>ness +of folks. We don't begin to take enough account of that. +Plants now, they're various too—sure they are. An Alpine +harebell is as different from an oleander as I am from a +natural-born artist. But everybody that has any sense knows +that an oleander would freeze and starve to death if you planted +it up near a glacier. You can tell that much, just by looking +at it. But you can't tell a thing, not a doggoned <i>thing</i> about +a human being just by looking at him, can you?"</p> + +<p>Marise agreed with intense conviction that you can tell less +than nothing by looking at a human being.</p> + +<p>"And then the human race has got itself so mixed up. There +isn't the slightest chance, not one in a million, that a harebell +will spring up in a Roman garden, and be burned to a +crisp by sunlight that just makes an oleander feel good and +comfortable. But that's what happens the whole enduring +time with folks."</p> + +<p>"Why, I wonder," cried Marise, with a startled look, "if +that is what happened to me."</p> + +<p>"I know it's what happened to me," said Neale. "I believe +it happens to lots more folks than have any idea of it. They +blame it on the climate, so to speak. But the climate's all right +for some one else. It's not <i>their</i> climate, that's all. Let's start +out on a hunt for our climate, will you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid it's very hard to make a guess at it," said +Marise soberly but making no comment on the "our."</p> + +<p>"It surely is. It's terribly hard. The point is that nobody +but the person himself can make any sort of a guess +at it. And it's awfully hard for <i>him</i>. Wouldn't you think, +when it is so hard under the best of circumstances, that folks +would try to teach every youngster to make the best sort of +guess possible as to where he really belongs? But they never +give you any hint of that, in any of the 'education' you get +in school or out of it. They seem to be in mortal terror for +fear you will find it out yourself. They jam your beak down +on the chalk-line and hope to goodness you'll never look up +long enough to see that only your own foolishness keeps you +there. Or they keep you there till you've tied yourself up +with responsibilities, so you <i>can't</i> get out. Whatever is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_455" id="Page_455">[Pg 455]</a></span> +fashion of your country and of your century, that's the thing +for you to do, whether or not.</p> + +<p>"I believe that's what Europe has done for me, made me +realize that our present fashion isn't foreordained, nor the only +one natural to men. Think of all the centuries after the +Roman bridges went down, when people got along without +bridges, because no provision was made to keep alive the minds +that happened to be born with latent constructive powers. +No, no, there must be no fooling around with godless abstract +mathematical ideas, nor fiddling with compasses. A crucifix +or a sword must be in every man's hand. Every man must be +a fighter or a saint, if he was to be allowed by public opinion +to have his necessary share of esteem and self-respect. And +there are so many kinds of folks besides fighters and saints! +Century after century they died without having lived, and we're +walking around over their dust this minute. And yet even +the fighters and the saints needed bridges! And here we are +in the twentieth century, jumping the life out of anybody who +isn't interested in building bridges, and hooting at him if he +feels the impulse to try to be a saint. It's enough to make +you tear your hair out by handfuls, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>Another day Marise launched him off on the same theme by +asking him skeptically, "Well, suppose you could have your +own way about things, what would you do to help people find +their own right group and work and climate and surroundings? +I don't see how there is the faintest possibility of helping +them."</p> + +<p>"I'd start in," said Neale, "by suggesting to them, all through +their youth, in every way possible, the idea that folks could +and should move freely from the life they're born to, to another +one that suits their natures. They have to do it while +they're young and foot-free, don't they? I wouldn't start in +by hammering them over the head with the idea that there +are only one or two classes that anybody wants to belong to. +I'd jump with all my weight on that idiotic notion that one +class is better than another, as if any class was any good at +all for you, if it's not the one you belong to naturally! I'd +grease the ways to get from one to another, instead of building<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_456" id="Page_456">[Pg 456]</a></span> +fences, especially if the change would mean making less money. +Just think of all the natural-born carpenters and mechanics +that fall by chance into professors' families, or millionaires' +homes. They never get any chance in life. Just look at the +hullaballo that was made about poor old Tolstoi's wanting the +simplicity of a working-man's life. Just look at the fiendishly +ingenious obstacles that are put in the way of any working-man's +son who wants the culture and fineness and harmonious +living that got so on Tolstoi's nerves. And look, even Tolstoi +was just as bad as the rest. Because <i>he</i> happened to want +simplicity and a hardy open life, didn't he start on the warpath +to drive everybody else to it. Good Lord, why try to hold up +one ideal as the only one for millions of men, who have a million +various capacities and ideals and tastes? They'd enrich +the world like a garden, with their lives, if public opinion only +allowed them to be lived."</p> + +<p>"Do you know Rabelais," asked Marise, "and his motto, +'<i>Fay ce que vouldras</i>?' Everybody in his day thought it fearfully +immoral."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I suppose that every wise man since the beginning of +the world has found it out in his way before now. But they're +not allowed to tell the rest of us plain folks so we understand. +Or maybe you don't understand anything till you find it out +for yourself. I don't believe I do. Do you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure," said Marise with a quiet bitterness in her tone +that burned like a drop of acid in Neale's mind, "I'm sure +that I personally haven't found out anything, nor do I understand +anything whatever. Nor, till this minute did anybody +ever suggest to me that there was really something worth while +to find out. Nobody—nobody but you—ever dreamed of +asking me to go on a quest to understand. That's why I—go +on, go on with it. Why do you stop?"</p> + +<p>But that day Neale had been too much startled by the +glimpse of a somber discontent under her keen bright intelligence, +and too much moved by her speaking of his bringing +something different into her life to "go on."</p> + +<p>He tried desperately to think of some way to ask her about +it, to offer to help her, to implore her to open her heart as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_457" id="Page_457">[Pg 457]</a></span> +was opening his. But he was stricken with shyness, with a +fear lest he had misunderstood, lest he say the wrong thing. +He could only look at her hopelessly. What a clumsy, heavy-handed +china-smasher he was, anyhow!</p> + +<p>But such glimpses of what lay beneath the surface did not +come often, though he thought about them a great deal. He +wondered if there was any connection between them and her +evident habit of not talking seriously, of bantering keenly +about superficial things, rather than giving any idea of what +she was really thinking. Perhaps she did not trust people +enough to give them any idea of what she was really thinking. +Perhaps she fell into that grim mood when she thought seriously. +Why should she? And yet she was always making him +talk seriously, about ideas he really cared about.</p> + +<p>Once he said to her clumsily, "I must bore you to death, +with all these half-baked ideas of mine, when you're used +to such brilliant talkers."</p> + +<p>She startled him with the energy and vivacity of her answer, +"Oh, I <i>hate</i> what you call brilliant talkers. I'm so sick of +them! You can't imagine what it is to me, like a long drink +of clear water, to hear somebody trying to say what he really +thinks."</p> + +<p>He asked, sincerely and naïvely at a loss, "Why, why does +anybody talk at all, if not to say what he thinks?"</p> + +<p>She answered, with a certain smile of hers which always made +him uneasy, a dry, ugly smile, "Don't you realize that the real +purpose of talk is to pull the wool over the eyes of the person +you are talking to, to make him think you are more clever than +you are, and to get something out of him for yourself that he +would not let you have if he knew you were taking it?"</p> + +<p>Then with one of her lightning changes to that melting look +and smile before which he always succumbed wholly, she went +on, "The truth is that I hope all the time that in your thinking +over and over there may be a hint for me, who was never taught +to do the least bit of thinking for myself. So go on, let me see +it all, just as it comes. Let me pick out for myself what will be +of use to me."</p> + +<p>Well, if she wanted that, she should have it—or anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_458" id="Page_458">[Pg 458]</a></span> +else he could give her. It was part of the reeling, glamorous +intoxication into which she cast him, to hear himself going on +like a stump-speaker. And she was adroit at hitting on subjects +that made him talk. One day as they were amusing each +other by describing their school-life, his as different from hers +as if they had been brought up on different planets, football +was mentioned. In no time she had him helplessly loquacious, +explaining football to her. Think of having to explain football +to anybody! He explained how you played it, and some +of the rules, and how terribly you cared about it. And suddenly +found that he had explained it to himself, that he really +understood it for the first time.</p> + +<p>"It's a kind of education that America has worked out for +herself unconsciously, I believe, the American college idea of +sports. No American undergraduate dreams of playing to +amuse himself. He'd scorn to. <i>He plays to win.</i> That's the +American idea. And it's a splendid one. To give every ounce +in you to do what you set out to do—no lackadaisical dilettantism—your +whole heart in it—and <i>go to it</i>! That's the +way for men to live."</p> + +<p>He was aware that Marise looked at him surprised by his +fire. He was surprised by it, himself. He guessed perhaps +he was ready to go back to work; perhaps he'd had enough of +sauntering around. "That's what you learn in college athletics—how +to give yourself to some aim and not to keep anything +back for yourself. That's great, you know," he told her imperatively. +"It is! It takes the personal littleness out of a boy +to give his all to reach a goal. It makes a man out of a boy. +But, oh, Lord!" he burst out with a great swing of his arm, +"When that <i>has</i> made you a man, why don't they let you know +that you have more goals to choose from than just different +ways of making your living, most of them just buying and selling +different sorts of things? You're trained in athletics to put +your very heart and all of it, into what you do. That's <i>fine</i>! +But why don't they train you just as hard to put your whole +intelligence into being sure that what you're putting your heart +into is worth doing, and is what you're meant to do? They +don't train you for that, they won't even let you have a quiet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_459" id="Page_459">[Pg 459]</a></span> +minute to think of it yourself. They keep you up in the air +all the time, whooping it up about your duty to 'win out!' +to win the game! Sure, any man that's got blood in his +veins wants to win the game. But <i>which</i> game? It's all +very well, turning a boy into a grown-up human being, but +you've got to...."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," broke in Marise thoughtfully, "I wonder what +might turn a girl into a grown-up human being?" And then +before Neale could open his lips she blushed, shook her head +as if at a slip on her part, and said quickly, "Oh, there's my +car, now."</p> + +<p>She ran out to take it. Neale stood on the corner, cursing +the whole race of tram-cars.</p> + +<p>When it passed him, close to him in the narrow street, he +caught sight of her face. It was bent downward as if to hide +it from the other people in the car. He saw that there was +a very faint smile on her lips as if she could not keep it back, +a little sweet, secret, happy smile. Her whole face was softly +shimmering with it.</p> + +<p>Good heavens! why hadn't he gone on with her! He leaped +forward and sprinted after the rapidly disappearing car.</p> + +<p>And stopped short in the midst of the traffic. You can't +make love in a <i>street-car</i>! What an imbecile he was!</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Often, after she had left him, he pelted off into the Campagna, +walking for miles "like a madman," said the leisurely +Italian countrymen, slowly stepping about their work. Neale +felt himself rather mad, as though the steady foundations of +his life had been rent and shattered, as by a blast of dynamite.</p> + +<p>Dynamite? What was it somebody had said to him once, +about dynamite? He tried to think, but could not remember. +Perhaps it was something he had read in a book.</p> + +<p>Once, after such a headlong tramp, he came in and wrote +a long letter to his mother, telling her all about Marise; a +strange thing for him to do, he thought, as he dropped the +letter in the box. But everything he did now seemed strange +to him. Strange and yet irresistibly natural.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_460" id="Page_460">[Pg 460]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XLIX</h2> + + +<p>If only Marise would go away, would go <i>away</i> and give her +a chance, thought Eugenia despairingly, coming slowly into her +sitting-room where Mlle. Vallet sat writing in her journal. +Joséphine heard the door close and hurried in with her quick +silent step to take off her mistress' wraps.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle looks so <i>tired</i> after these long walks!" she +said solicitously, scrutinizing with a professional expertness the +color of the young face. "I don't think they agree with Mademoiselle +at all. This climate is too soft to walk about so. Nobody +does. Mademoiselle might—without presuming to advise—Mademoiselle +might be wiser to go in cabs."</p> + +<p>Eugenia held out her arms as Joséphine slipped off her pretty, +fawn-colored silk coat and then let them fall at her sides. +She was thinking, "<i>Cabs!</i> What would he say to some one +who went everywhere in cabs!"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried Joséphine. "Those abominable ruins! Mademoiselle's +dear little bronze shoes! Cut to pieces! Oh, Mlle. +Vallet, just look at our poor Mademoiselle's shoes, the beautiful +bronze ones. And there's no replacing them in the shops +of <i>this</i> country!"</p> + +<p>Mlle. Vallet tipped her head forward to look seriously over +her steel-rimmed spectacles, agreed seriously that there was +certainly very little left of the pretty bronze shoes, and went +seriously back to writing with her sharp steel pen a detailed +description of her expedition to the Catacombs. Mlle. Vallet +was a very happy woman in those days. To be in Rome, +after years of grinding drudgery in the class-room, to be free to +look and wander and observe at her leisure for so much of the +day—she often told Eugenia that she had never in her +wildest dreams supposed she would have such an opportunity! +She studied and sight-saw with conscientious and absorbed +exactitude, and wrote down voluminous accounts of every day's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_461" id="Page_461">[Pg 461]</a></span> +sights and the thoughts they aroused in her. "It will be the +treasure-book of my old age!" she said. "I shall take it down +from the shelf when I am old, and live myself back into this +wonderful experience!"</p> + +<p>"Her old age!" Eugenia wondered when she thought old age +would begin. She looked a thousand years old already to +Eugenia. Heavens! Think of ever being old like that, yourself. +What use <i>could</i> there be in living if you were old and +reduced for your amusement to writing down dates and things +in a journal!</p> + +<p>"If Mademoiselle will step into her own room," said Joséphine. +Eugenia came to herself with a start. She had been +standing in the middle of the room staring at Mlle. Vallet's +back. But she had been thinking about Neale Crittenden, +about those deep-set eyes of his, and how his face was lighted +up when he smiled. When he smiled at her, Eugenia felt like +moving from wherever she was and going to stand close beside +him. What made her feel so? It was like a black-art. There +was that girl at school who had been bewitched by the Breton +mission-priest,—bewitched so that she fell into a fever +if she could not see him every day.</p> + +<p>"There! Sit there!" said Joséphine, pressing her competently +into an easy chair, and beginning to undo her hooks +and eyes. "I haven't much time. Mademoiselle is so late +in coming in. Just a little cold-cream—this horrible southern +sun burns so! Oh, I can feel this awful Roman dust thick +on every hair! I do wish—without seeming to presume—I +do <i>wish</i> that Mademoiselle would consent to wear a veil—everybody +does."</p> + +<p>Eugenia moved her head from one side to the other wearily. +How Joséphine did chatter! She never had a quiet moment, +<i>never</i>, and she was so <i>tired</i>. Feeling the supple, smooth professional +fingers beginning to put on the cold cream, she held her +head still and thought.</p> + +<p>Very bitter thoughts and bewildered ... of a person betrayed. +She <i>was</i> betrayed! She had done everything ... +everything that she had known how to do. She had spared +neither time nor money nor effort. She had worked (and she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_462" id="Page_462">[Pg 462]</a></span> +hated to work) she had <i>worked</i> to learn all the things she +should know. She had beaten Marise at her own game. She +talked better French than she, so her diction teacher said; +and ever so much more distinguished English—she <i>never</i> +made those slips into Americanisms or Gallicisms that Marise +did. At least not in conversation, sometimes she still thought +in American. She knew ever so much more about dressing than +Marise, and about lace, and about manners. She had come to +the point at last of being sure of her manners, of being able +to sit down, instinctively composing herself so that she would +look well from all angles, of not having to think of how to shake +hands or leave a room, any more than she thought of the adjustment +of a gown that Joséphine had put on her. Whereas +Marise still fumbled at the back of her neck at times to make +sure of a hook, or had that common trick of feeling her hair +to see if it were in order. Marise had stood still in all that, +and she had gone forward to the goal. But as she reached +it...!</p> + +<p>How could she have thought for a moment that she cared a +thing about him—he was horrible and rough and as +American as—as—a typewriter! What <i>made</i> her care about such +a man? She wouldn't have, if it had not been for Marise. +It was Marise's fault. She never would have dreamed of +looking at him if she hadn't seen that first evening at Donna +Antonia Pierleoni's soirée that Marise had lost her head +over him. That made her curious about him of course, and +somehow before she knew it something about his eyes or smile—oh, +it <i>was</i> as if she were bewitched that he should make +her feel so, make her want and want and want till she ached, +to have him look at her—and all the time he never looked +away from Marise.</p> + +<p>"There," said Joséphine, slipping out the hairpins, and taking +up a handful of the bright hair to inspect it, "I believe—I +<i>believe</i>," she pondered the matter profoundly, her dark, +sharp intelligent face selflessly focussed on the problem, "I +<i>wonder</i> if we ought to wash it a little oftener here than in +Paris? There is more dust. But washing it takes the oil<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_463" id="Page_463">[Pg 463]</a></span> +out so. Perhaps a little more of the Meylan dressing. That +has a little fine oil in it. I know the recipe."</p> + +<p>Joséphine knew everything there was to know about toilet-preparations, +and about how to use them. She adored her +profession and adored Mlle. Mills for being such a beautiful +subject. There were times, when she had pinned the last shining +curl in place, put the last breath of invisible powder on the +rounded young white neck, fastened the last hook in the exquisitely +fitting gown, and got down on her knees to straighten +the gleaming silk of the fine silk stockings, when she wondered +what she had done to deserve such good fortune.</p> + +<p>She often watched Eugenia out of the door, as tenderly, impersonally +proud of her as a painter of his canvas, as a patissier +of his tart; and then feeling somewhat worn with activity +and emotion, stepped back, took off her corsets, got into the +rumpled untidy wrapper which was her personal favorite, put +carpet slippers on her tired feet, and sat down with a novel of +high-life to rest.</p> + +<p>Eugenia occasionally thought seeing her thus, that <i>she</i> never +was allowed to relax in unpicturesque ease. It seemed to her +that Mlle. Vallet and Joséphine were the ones who were <i>really</i> +enjoying Rome! She worked so hard, she had paid the full +price—and somehow the coin was of no value in this new +country to which she was now transported, where she had not +wanted to come, from which she would give anything to get +away. She did not <i>like</i> Mr. Crittenden—she never had liked +him—oh, why wouldn't he just once look at her and see what +was there, instead of talking over her head that queer talk +of his? She put on her loveliest toilettes, things that made +Joséphine almost weep for pleasure, while Marise wore +that same old gray dress day after day—she ruined her +bronze shoes for him, stumbling around on foot over those horrible +old ruins—how she loathed ruins! Why on earth did +any one want to <i>pretend</i> to like to look at them!</p> + +<p>History! That was what he was always talking about—history +that she had always hated. Here it was again to plague +her! How could she have guessed that he would care about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_464" id="Page_464">[Pg 464]</a></span> +history? She sat up now till all hours reading it, till Mlle. +Vallet was afraid for her eyes, and yet he didn't seem to notice +when she said something about it. He just took it for granted, +as if she were a man.</p> + +<p>What did Marise <i>want</i> of him anyhow? She couldn't possibly +expect to <i>marry</i> him ... neither of them had a cent of +money. She ought to think of that, to think what was best for +him. It was selfish, self-centered of Marise. A man like +Neale ought of course to marry money. When she thought +what <i>she</i> could do for him! Married to her he could have +exactly the life he was meant for—travel, leisure, ease—! What +was it about Marise that he liked? She could do everything +better than Marise now, except play the piano, and it evidently +wasn't <i>that</i> he cared for in her, because the afternoon +they had all gone to the Visconti recital, he had listened just +as intently to the men students and the other girls as to +Marise. And when Marise asked him afterwards what music +he liked best he told her bluntly the Bach that Professor +Visconti himself had played, and Marise had said she did +too. She hadn't seemed to realize what an affront to her +that was. <i>Why</i> did Marise care so much about him? Why +did anybody? Eugenia couldn't understand. She couldn't +understand. Her throat had a hard aching lump in it because +she couldn't understand.</p> + +<p>"A loose soft coiffure for to-night," murmured Joséphine +dreamily to herself, happily twisting together the beautiful +golden strands, "and the pale-blue mousseline de soie—not +the evening-dress!" she was shocked at the idea, though nobody +had suggested it, "the high-necked one with the little +myosotis embroidered on the ruffles." Joséphine worshipped +that dress.</p> + +<p>Her strong dark flexible fingers hovered around the golden +head as though she were calling down blessings on it. As a +matter of fact she was. She slipped off the silk peignoir, +washed with almond-scented water the white arms and neck, +and the white tired feet. She dried them with a fine linen +towel by gentle pattings, not to coarsen the skin. She put on +the white silk stockings and white high-heeled slippers, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_465" id="Page_465">[Pg 465]</a></span> +a white satin underslip. She stood a moment to be sure she +had thought of everything. Then carefully, carefully she slipped +on the pale blue mousseline-de-soie. "A-ah!" it <i>was</i> as +sweet as she remembered it!</p> + +<p>Eugenia had submitted to all this with a forlorn patience. +That was all the good it would do. He would look at her as if +she were dressed in a meal-sack, never even notice that she had +changed her dress. What <i>else</i> could she do, could any one +do? What more did he want? She was betrayed; somehow +life had played her false, a callous heartless dishonest trick! +Why <i>should</i> she care so much? She didn't want to care. +Why did she long to have him look kindly at her, till her +heart ached? Why every day, every day, should the disappointment +<i>hurt</i> her so? She hadn't done anything wrong to +deserve to be hurt so. If she could only stop caring. If only +Marise would go away.</p> + +<p>Eugenia sat very still, while Joséphine set a jeweled comb at +exactly the right angle in the golden hair. One lovely little +hand was at her heart as if by pressing hard on it she could +stop the ache, the other held the fresh, scented handkerchief +clutched tightly, in case this time she could not keep back the +tears. She mustn't cry. She mustn't cry, because Joséphine +would have to do her face all over.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_466" id="Page_466">[Pg 466]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER L</h2> + + +<p>One night Marise woke up with a start, staring into the +darkness, feeling very cold and sick. She knew what had happened. +She had come to her senses in time. She had almost +slipped into the trap, the trap set for her by life, which she had +so mortally feared. She had been playing a foolish, reckless +game of hide-and-seek with herself, pretending that she did not +know what was happening. She knew perfectly well what was +happening. Neale Crittenden was in love with her. And she +was falling in love with him. She wanted him.</p> + +<p>Oh, this was the way it must always happen. This was the +way all women were caught in the trap ... these dizzying +moments of joy, this causeless singing of your heart, this blind, +rapturous rushing forward with outstretched arms to clasp all +life to your heart ... treacherous deadly life that only sought +to debase you.</p> + +<p>She had always wondered how women could go on, go on +to the fatal moment from which there was no drawing back. +Now she knew. You were poisoned, you were made mad till +you longed for that moment with all your being.</p> + +<p>But she had come to her senses in time to draw back. She +would save herself, defend herself, since there was no one to +help her, now more than ever. First of all, she knew passionately, +she must not think of him for a moment or she would +not draw back. She must not remember how he looked or +spoke or moved, not even the sound of his voice. She must +concentrate her thoughts on the one fact that she had almost +been caught in that great dreadful trap, that she, Marise, who +knew so much better, had almost fallen in love ... love!</p> + +<p>She drew the covers about her, as she sat bolt-upright in the +dark, her teeth chattering. Love! She sickened at the sound. +The gray cat ... Jeanne ... Isabelle ... the pictures in +one of the hidden books at school ... the passages in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_467" id="Page_467">[Pg 467]</a></span> +mother's novels ... her mother ... Madame Vallery ... +Madame de la Cueva ... they were all of them looking at her +out of the dark, pointing at her, shaming her, exulting over her.... +"You too ... you have come to it."</p> + +<p>The gray cat! She was like the gray cat! She began to sob +hysterically and thrust the covers into her mouth to smother +the sound.</p> + +<p>What could she do? What could she do? She had no +strength left. She did not know how to defend herself! She +did not want to defend herself!</p> + +<p>She could run away. Even poor defenseless things could +run away. She stopped sobbing, and sprang out of bed, lighting +her candle with trembling fingers. Her watch showed three +in the morning. There was a railroad time-table down in the +dining room. She huddled on her wrapper, thrust her feet into +slippers and, shading her candle-flame, crept downstairs.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>At five, hatted and cloaked, she was gently shaking Eugenia +and saying, "I'm so sorry to bother you, but do you happen to +have some money on hand? I've been worrying about Father +for some time. It's so long since I've been back to straighten +out the household for him. I've just decided to get off on the +early morning train. I ought to go to see Jeanne too. It's +past my regular time for making her a visit. If you could just +loan me enough to buy the ticket to Paris? I've almost +enough as it is, but I must leave some for Miss Oldham and +my <i>pension</i>."</p> + +<p>How kind Eugenia had been! How discreet and uninquisitive! +She reached under her pillow, pulled out her gold-meshed +purse with the ridiculously large sum in cash she always +carried with her, and gave her a five-hundred-lira note together +with a kiss on each cheek. "When will you be back, Marise?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know. I don't know. Quite a long time. I +may—I shall probably not come back at all. It won't be +worth while. Mme. de la Cueva will soon be in Paris again. +Good-by, Eugenia dear. You'll be soon coming north, too, +won't you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I dare say," said Eugenia, "if it gets too hot here."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_468" id="Page_468">[Pg 468]</a></span></p> + +<p>Going down the hall, silent and empty in the dawn, Marise +stopped for an instant before his door. For an instant she was +forced to think of him, the thought like a weakening potion. +She stared hard at his door, her hands pressed tightly together, +trembling from head to foot. She was going away. She would +never see him again. She turned back towards her own room. +She could not go. She ran desperately down the stairs, sick +at the idea of what love is. She had almost been caught. +She heard the steel jaws snap shut as she fled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">[Pg 469]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER LI</h2> + + +<p>"Yes," said Eugenia at the breakfast table, "Marise was +suddenly called back to France by family matters. She is her +widowed father's housekeeper, you know; and then too, there +is an old servant somewhere who brought her up, whom she +feels it her duty to go to see every once in a while."</p> + +<p>"What's her address in Paris?" asked Mr. Crittenden +urgently.</p> + +<p>"I can give that to you, but if you're thinking of writing +her a card it wouldn't reach her, for she was to go directly on +to the south, and I haven't the least idea what <i>that</i> address +is. Some tiny village on the sea-coast, I believe. Or is it in +the Pyrenees? But she will be back very soon, almost any +day. It's hardly worth while trying to write her. She'll be +here before a card could follow her around."</p> + +<p>Mr. Crittenden got up, leaving his coffee untouched, and left +the breakfast-room in his unceremonious American way, without +a sign of decent civility.</p> + +<p>Mr. Livingstone looked at Miss Mills eloquently, with a +shrug which meant, "What can you expect?"</p> + +<p>Eugenia waited till every one, except herself and Mr. Livingstone +had left the room, and then said hesitatingly, "Mr. +Livingstone, I wonder...." He was on the alert in an +instant, surprised at her personal manner. "It's an outrageously +big favor to ask of you, but I don't know any one else +adroit enough to manage it." She paused, reflected and drew +back shaking her head, "Oh, no; no! What am I thinking of?"</p> + +<p>By this time Mr. Livingstone was in the chair beside her, +assuring her warmly that if there was anything, <i>any</i>thing he +could do to be of service—"I shall consider it an honor, +Miss Mills, I assure you, an <i>honor</i>!"</p> + +<p>Miss Mills let her blue eyes rest on his deeply, as if sounding +the depths of his sincerity, and then, with a yielding gesture of +abandon, decided to trust him, "I've been foolish, and I'm so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[Pg 470]</a></span> +afraid I shall have trouble unless you can help me. Promise +me you won't tell Mlle. Vallet. Or <i>any</i> one."</p> + +<p>Impassioned protestations from Mr. Livingstone.</p> + +<p>She looked over her shoulder to be sure they were alone, +"You know the rule of the Italian government about taking out +of Italy any valuable antiquities. They are so afraid that +tourists of means will carry off some of the fragments of Greek +and Roman sculpture. I <i>knew</i> about it of course, but I'd no +idea it was really enforced—those things so seldom are in +Europe. And I bought a lovely little antique bas-relief to go +over a mantel-piece in my Paris apartment. I had it sent yesterday, +up by the Simplon route; it's too late to get it back and +now I'm in mortal terror of what may happen at the Italian +frontier. I heard last night the most dreadful tales of what +they do to any one who tries to smuggle out such things—not +only fines, you know, but lawsuits, lawyers to frighten you—<i>publicity</i>!"</p> + +<p>She looked very pale and anxious as she explained all this +so that Livingstone was deeply touched. But he wondered +what she thought he could do about it.</p> + +<p>"I'm really ashamed, now I've come to the point, to ask +you what I thought. But I <i>will</i>—and if you think it too +preposterous—more than I have any right to—it's this. To +take a pocket full of money (I don't care <i>what</i> it costs) +and go up to the frontier station and when it comes along, +bribe it through the inspectors. You see, Mr. Livingstone, +it's something that not everybody could manage, even with +ever so much money. But you understand the European +mentality so perfectly. It would need to be done with just +the right manner.... Oh, no, <i>no</i>," she broke off abruptly, +getting up from her chair. "What a thing to dream of asking +any one to do! What claim have I on your...?"</p> + +<p>Livingstone, blinking joyfully, sprang up too, protesting that +nothing would amuse and interest him more than such a +mission. And for <i>her</i>, any mission would be his joy!</p> + +<p>"Well, think it over. Let me know to-night. I'm ashamed +to have mentioned it," she said in confusion. "I don't know +how I dared. But oh Mr. Livingstone, I am so troubled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[Pg 471]</a></span> +about it. And I am so alone! No one on whom to...." +She had gone, murmuring apologies, touched by his instant +response, leaving Livingstone as much moved and agitated +as she.</p> + +<p>She went through into her own rooms and told Joséphine, +"Put those manicure things away for the time being. I must +go out to do a bit of shopping. But you can have them ready +at ten. I'll be back by that time. It won't take me long."</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Neale stood, frowning and looking at his watch, waiting +for Eugenia to come down from the ladies' dressing-room and +have dinner. As he fidgeted about, looking glumly at the +brilliant scene about him, he was wondering with inward +oaths of exasperation what in hell could be the matter with +anybody's clothes and hair after the slight exertion of sitting +perfectly still in a cab from the door of the pension to the +door of the restaurant. It was not, God knew, that he was +impatient to have her join him. It was because he was in +a steady fever of impatience to have everything over, the +evening, the day, the night—to put back of him another of +those endless, endless days—to be one day nearer to the time +when Marise would return.</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>" he said irritably to the smooth-voiced waiter who +now approached him with an intimate manner. "Oh, <i>I</i> don't +care which table!"</p> + +<p>"Here, sir, is one right by the edge of the terrace, where +the view is finest," said the waiter in excellent English. +"Perhaps the lady would like a screen. There is occasionally +a draught from below."</p> + +<p>He hastened to set a small screen, to rearrange fussily the +handsome silver and linen on the daintily-set table, to slant +the single fine rose in the vase at another angle.</p> + +<p>Another waiter, also impeccably polyglot, with gleaming +hair, admirably cut clothes, and an insinuating manner, now +murmured in Neale's ear, "What wine, sir?"</p> + +<p>Neale answered on a mounting note of irritation, "Oh, I +don't <i>care</i> what wine!"</p> + +<p>"We have an excellent Frascati, sir, that is our specialty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[Pg 472]</a></span> +Not found everywhere, sir. The ladies usually like it. +Or...."</p> + +<p>"All right, serve that," said Neale, adding to himself unreasonably, +"If you knew so well, why bother me about it?"</p> + +<p>The real waiter in charge of his table now arrived in all his +majesty, the first one having been but an aide. Neale saw +by the earnest expression in his eyes that he intended to +make their conference a serious one, and cut him short as +he began to call over the possibilities of the menu by a repeated, +"All right, that'll do," before he had had time to do more +than mention one sort of fish or one entree, or one variety +of fowl.</p> + +<p>"There, <i>that's</i> over!" he said to himself with a long breath +of relief as the pained waiter turned away to carry into execution +that brutally impromptu order.</p> + +<p>Eugenia arrived now, followed by a little stir all over the +restaurant, as people turned to pay tribute to her beauty and +her toilette. "He can't help noticing <i>that</i>!" she thought +happily, her pride and satisfaction showing itself only in an +increase of the perfectly unconscious naturalness with which +she took her seat.</p> + +<p>"Oh, what a beautiful view!" she said in a low tone to +Neale, looking down over the cypresses of the Palatine to the +city, like a heap of uncut jewels, dully, deeply colored, under +the light of the setting sun. "You know how to choose a +table, I see!" she added admiringly, in an intimate tone. She +wondered if perhaps he had come out in the afternoon to +reserve it. She noticed the screen now, and looked at him +gratefully, really touched.</p> + +<p>The waiter arrived with the soup.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is a fine view," said Neale, rousing himself. "A +very fine view indeed. That's the Colosseum over there, isn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Eugenia, "and that's the Arch of Titus."</p> + +<p>"That's the one with the awfully bad bas-reliefs, isn't it?" +said Neale.</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>no</i>," corrected Eugenia, "the one with the poor sculptures +is the arch of Septimius Severus. The arch of Titus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[Pg 473]</a></span> +is the <i>good</i> one, you know, with the bas-reliefs of the Hebrews."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, of course. You're right," admitted Neale.</p> + +<p>Eugenia thought to herself triumphantly, "Ah, it's not only +Marise who can talk history with him!"</p> + +<p>She was very happy, happier than she ever remembered feeling. +Everything had played into her hands. Everything was +going perfectly. She had succeeded in getting him into just the +sort of restaurant where she could show to the best advantage.</p> + +<p>She was eating her soup with a lively appreciation of its +excellence and found herself perfectly able to keep up an +artistic and historic conversation with Neale; but she was +also acutely aware through the pores of her skin that every +woman around her was jealously scrutinizing her costume. +She expanded joyously, like a cut flower set in water. How +<i>well</i> everything was going! Certainly Neale must be aware +how he was being envied.</p> + +<p>She made a remark about the style of the gigantic statues +on St. John Lateran, visible in the distance, and turned her +arm slightly so that her sleeve would hang better.</p> + +<p>Neale answered the remark about the statues on St. John +Lateran and continued to look in that direction as though +he were thinking about them.</p> + +<p>He was saying to himself, "Five days since she left! Only +five days! God! How am I going to live through any more +of them. How many more sleepless nights! Will she ever get +back!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, isn't it warm to-night?" said Eugenia, seeing that +he was wiping his wet forehead with his handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"Unseasonable, very," agreed Neale. He had turned sick +with his recurrent panic lest she <i>never</i> come back. He ought +to have taken that next train and gone right after her, as he +wanted to.</p> + +<p>The waiter brought the fish. It was not what Neale had +ordered, but a more expensive variety. He looked somewhat +apprehensively at the gentleman as he offered it, but the +gentleman did not seem to notice. On this the waiter disappeared +and brought back a bottle of wine, not the variety +Neale had bargained for.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[Pg 474]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Have you any news from Miss Allen?" asked Neale.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Eugenia, slightly surprised. "When she's +coming back so soon, she probably doesn't see there's any need +to write."</p> + +<p>She began on the fish. After the first mouthful she said to +Neale with enthusiasm, "You know how to order a dinner +as well as to choose a table, that's evident."</p> + +<p>"It was the first fish he proposed," said Neale.</p> + +<p>Eugenia thought, "How much better breeding he has, after +all, than Mr. Livingstone, always boasting of his savoir-faire."</p> + +<p>Neale's thoughts were jumping incoherently from one thing +to another. "Funny place Rome is, to be planning how to +run a wood-working plant in Vermont. Funny change of direction, +from planning to go out to China and the East, about-face +to planning to settle down and take root. You wouldn't +think that would appeal to a man who had had the idea of +ranging the world a while longer, to tie himself...." This +attempt at reasonable consideration of things vanished in an +explosion of emotion, as if a spark had fallen into gunpowder. +"Oh, if she <i>will</i>! If she <i>will</i>! Why didn't I make a chance +to see her alone before she went away?"</p> + +<p>Eugenia was talking about traveling. She had noticed +Neale's interest in travels. "I'm thinking, Mr. Crittenden, +of making a leisurely trip around the world—not one of +those detestable, herded, conducted tours. And yet how else +can I go about it? What would <i>you</i> do? I'm so ignorant +of anything outside of Europe. I <i>wish</i> I had some one intelligent +and enlightened to go with me. It's so forlorn to +travel alone!"</p> + +<p>"Why, you'll <i>like</i> traveling alone!" said Neale reassuringly, +thinking of his own past year. "It's great not to have to +bother with some one's else tastes and notions and foolishness +and limitations."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but," said Eugenia, looking down at her wineglass +pensively, "of course it's better to be alone than with some +one whose tastes and interests are nothing to you. But to +have with you some one you really <i>care</i> for...."</p> + +<p>Neale thought suddenly what the past year would have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[Pg 475]</a></span> +if he had had Marise with him, and cried out fervently, "Oh, +of course, <i>that</i> would be the ideal!"</p> + +<p>The waiter brought the roast and the Frascati. And still +the gentleman made no objection. Well, he would bring a +cordial with the coffee, ordered or not. The gentleman didn't +seem to know what he had ordered or what he was eating. +And no wonder, with such a beautiful girl across the table. +The waiter shot an experienced, appraising eye at Eugenia's +clothes. "He ought to be good for a big tip," he reflected hopefully.</p> + +<p>Eugenia thought best to leave a thoughtful silence after the +remarks on companionship in travel, and sipped her wine with +downcast eyes.</p> + +<p>Neale was trying again to think things over reasonably, +trying to do as he had always done about everything, to get +things clear and straight and sure in his head. There must +be no possibility of a mistake where Marise was concerned. +"How <i>about</i> this now? I've gone stale on other things. How +do I know I won't have a slump some time later? A human +being is so full of such damn unexpected things—I must +be <i>sure</i> for Marise's sake. How can any man be...." At +this he was shaken by so terrible a throe of desire, of longing +for Marise that he was frightened. He sat pale, breathless, +helpless before it; suffering, tortured, exalted.</p> + +<p>When he could breathe he wiped his forehead again. His +fingers were shaking. He would go out of his mind if she +didn't come back soon. His need for her was like a man's +need for air and food and water and sleep. Think reasonably +about such essential needs as that! A man cannot live without +them. He could not live without Marise. He had not lived +before he knew her.</p> + +<p>"How moved he is," thought Eugenia, seeing his pale, shaken +look. "But he doesn't dare speak. He will to-morrow. Or +the day afterwards."</p> + +<p>The waiter brought the dessert. Also coffee with the unordered +cordial.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[Pg 476]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER LII</h2> + + +<p>Father had grown stouter. He always did. But he looked +very well. And his shirts and socks seemed to be all right. +Mélanie had seen to them, although the dust was thick all +over the furniture, and the windows were semi-opaque with +smoke. Father was glad to see her, said she was looking +very pretty and asked her kindly if she didn't need some more +money; but he was not in the least enthusiastic over her reforms +in the housekeeping. "Who cares about dust!" he told +her. "And as for smoke on the windows, I'm never here +in the daytime anyhow except for lunch—and I don't want +to look out of the windows then." And as for getting hold +of Biron to keep him up to the mark, Marise found that it +was trying to put your finger between the tree and the bark, +to get between Biron and her father. Every evening after +they had both earnestly finished the serious business of eating +dinner, Biron left Mélanie to the mere brute labor of cleaning +up and washing dishes while he put on a clean apron and +came into the salon to consult with his employer about the +two meals of the morrow. Marise was astonished at the +learning and acumen displayed by both of them in the matter. +However had her father learned so intimately all the resources +of Les Halles in all the seasons? He subscribed to a newspaper +which gave a complete report of the arrivals at the +market from both sea-shore and country-side, over which he +and Biron pored intently, putting on round spectacles and +bending their portly frames over the page. And there was a +wine-sellers' journal too, the news items of which were brought +up for consideration once a week.</p> + +<p>"<i>When it fails, I go out and run a mile, and then I can +eat anything.</i>"</p> + +<p>Mélanie was no longer allowed to serve the meals thus +prayerfully planned and created. It was Biron himself who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[Pg 477]</a></span> +brought in the <i>plat</i>, set it down and waited anxiously till it +had been tasted and the verdict pronounced. He did not sit +down opposite his master and share the meal ... not yet! +But Marise had an intuition that it would not be long before +he would. Why not? He was the only other person capable +of appreciating that meal. He and her father were bound +together by a common passion: they completed and rounded +out each other's lives. Where else could Mr. Allen find such +another cook? Where else could Biron find another such employer? +They were blood-brothers, fellow-priests of a common +cult. They might be thankful that somehow they had found +each other in the world.</p> + +<p>When, after a few days of sharing this ménage, she told +her father she thought she would go down to see Jeanne, he +said, sure, that was all right if she felt like it, and was she +sure she didn't need any more money?</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Under the thick green shade of pollarded sycamores sat old +Jeanne in the wheeled-chair Marise and her father had given +her. The young girl, whom Marise and her father paid to +take care of Jeanne, came running to unlock the gate and +let the visitor in.</p> + +<p>There was old Jeanne, her head tied up in the black coif, +just as Marise had seen her a thousand times, her face all +twisted to one side just as she had seen her that one time +she could not forget. And how glad she was to see Marise, +pulling her down to kiss her on both cheeks, crying a little +for joy and wiping away the tears with her one active hand; +for although she had recovered somewhat, so that she could +eat and talk a little if she formed the words very slowly and +was not excited, she had never been able to use her paralyzed +arm or leg again.</p> + +<p>Marise must sit beside her, and let old Jeanne look into +her face closely with her loving old eyes, and stroke her white +young hand with her gnarled fingers that had worked so hard +for the child Marise. And when her first agitation was over, +and she was calm enough to try to talk, the questions, the +loving, anxious questions: Was she well, the darling, darling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[Pg 478]</a></span> +girl? And was she happy? And did that Parisian slut of a +maid look out for her decently? And who did the marketing? +And who did her hair, her beautiful, beautiful hair? Jeanne's +brown hand rested lightly on the shining dark head. No one +had hair like her Marise. She must let it down so that Jeanne +could see it again as in the old days. And how about her +linen? Jeanne was troubled on this point. Linen was not +what it had been and the way it was washed in Paris was a +crime. A Parisian family were staying near by, and Jeanne's +daughter-in-law did their washing. Such grimy, gray linen—it +made Jeanne sick to think that perhaps her darling was +no better cared for. Marise must needs open her valise there +and then, and take out a chemise to show Jeanne, who handled +it, held it close to her one good eye, touched the tip of her +tongue to it, and gave it back, saying, with an attempt at tolerance, +"Oh, well, it's as good as a laundress can do nowadays, +I dare say," and possessed herself of Marise's hand again, +holding it to her heart fondly.</p> + +<p>Marise found the tears were in her eyes. How sweet it +was to be loved! She clung to the old hand as she had when +she was a child and Jeanne's had been the only hand held +out to her.</p> + +<p>The old, crafty wrinkles came around Jeanne's eyes. She +pulled Marise's head close to her and whispered, "You've +never told? Nobody at all?"</p> + +<p>"No, no," said Marise hastily. "No one." She felt the +old sickness rise to her throat as she said it.</p> + +<p>"And you're not ... no man ... you're not engaged +or...."</p> + +<p>"No, oh, no!" said Marise, still more hastily.</p> + +<p>Jeanne's face quieted. She drew a long breath and stroked +Marise's hand. "That's right! That's right! They're all +alike, my darling. Don't forget that. They're all alike when +it comes to women."</p> + +<p>Next morning Marise was amazed to have Jeanne greet her +all over again, as though she had not seen her, with fresh +surprise and joy, the same questions, the same trembling stroking +of her hair. Only why was her hair up on her head?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[Pg 479]</a></span> +That must be just a joke. She must be playing being a lady. +And was she sure she knew her catechism? Her white veil was +ready, finer than any other little girl's veil. How lovely she +would look in it!</p> + +<p>"Yes," whispered the young caretaker, in answer to Marise's +look of bewilderment, "she doesn't remember you were here +yesterday. She often imagines you are with her when she is +quite alone. We hear her talking happily to you. And now +she does not know the difference between you and her own +daughter who died. No, she will never know if you just slip +away now. She will never know that you came or that you +are not still here."</p> + +<p>When Marise went quietly out at the gate she left Jeanne +dozing in her chair under the plane-trees, dozing, and waking +to talk lovingly to the two little girls who had both died so +long ago.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>She had learned in the village that Mlle. Hasparren was +no longer teaching in Bayonne, had gone back to her own +little hill-town in the Pyrenees. Marise knew the way there +very well, having spent many a week-end and vacation with +Mlle. Hasparren in the old days. The boy from the farm +where Jeanne was living chanced to have an errand that took +him over the pass and down into that valley. On an impulse +Marise asked to go with him. She stowed her valise away +under the plank seat and scrambled up beside the bullet-headed +boy in the blue béret. How it all took her back to her +childhood! The little two-wheeled cart flew off behind the +swift small horse, rattling and jolting up hill and down, just +as when she and Mlle. Hasparren had gone off together.</p> + +<p>At the beginning of the long steep road up to the divide, +she and the boy got out and walked, her shoes soon powdered +white with dust. How dusty Mlle. Hasparren's shoes had been +the day they stood waiting in the station...!</p> + +<p>They plunged down the other side into the green, poplar-planted +valley with every home, every turn of the road as +it had been. They stopped at the tiny, white-washed cabin, +with its leafy atrium of sycamores. As the boy drove away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[Pg 480]</a></span> +and the sound of his rattling wheels died to silence, Marise +heard from within the first notes of the Sonata in G, the one +she had first studied with Mlle. Hasparren.</p> + +<p>She went in without knocking, sure that the little home +contained no servant, and there sat Mlle. Hasparren, her hair +several shades whiter, her black dress several degrees shabbier, +her quiet worn face and steady eyes bent lovingly over the +keys. The music was like the very sound of her voice.</p> + +<p>They sat up late that night talking—Marise must tell +all about Rome and the old Visconti, as legendary a figure +to Mlle. Hasparren as Paganini; and Mlle. Hasparren must +tell how she came to leave her city-school and go back to the +little mountaineers in the rough, plain village class-room. "I +seemed to feel nearer to them," she said, not knowing very +well how to tell why she had, "and I felt a great longing for +my mountains and my own old home. And they need music +here. Do you remember Father Armandariz?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," Marise nodded. She had never forgotten the +lean young priest who led the open-air singing of his improvised +chorus in front of his fortress-like old church. "Oh, yes, +don't you remember we used to drive over just to hear his +choir sing here and in another parish too?"</p> + +<p>"He is doing wonderful work. We work together a great +deal."</p> + +<p>"You! With a curé!" Marise was astounded.</p> + +<p>Mlle. Hasparren laughed. "Oh, yes, yes, those radical ideas +of mine. Of course I still have them. But they don't seem +so important as they did. Father Armandariz and I are good +friends. We both love music. That's enough. He puts cotton +in his ears when I let fall a heresy, and I dip my fingers +in the holy-water font and cross myself when I go to play +the organ in church. Those are little things, and little things +mustn't be allowed to interfere with great ones."</p> + +<p>That evening Marise watched a choir rehearsal, Mlle. Hasparren +at her piano, Father Armandariz, bony, threadbare, +hollow-cheeked, his eyes gleaming with ardor, leading now +the group of serious-faced Basque girls in black mantillas, +now the great-chested, burly Basque men whose resonant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[Pg 481]</a></span> +basses shook the little house. One of them (Mlle. Hasparren +had said he was the village shoemaker) was given a bass solo +and practised it over several times, while the others listened. +He held his head high, drew in a great breath and sang as +though it were the meaning of his life he were singing out, +"Magnificat anima mea Dominum!" And then all the others +with him, "My soul magnifies God!" Father Armandariz +stopped them. "No, the altos were too slow on coming in. +Once more." And then again, "Once more."</p> + +<p>They all kept their eyes on him earnestly; they began +again unfalteringly as many times as was necessary; before +the evening was over they looked tired; but it was a good +fatigue, and when they finally finished and turned to smile +at each other and fold their music sheets together, their faces +wore a quiet, purified serenity which Marise envied them. +This was music. Not one of them was thinking of himself nor +how the music had made him appear to advantage nor how +he could use music as a tool to get ahead of other people, or +get himself talked about.</p> + +<p>The memory of Donna Antonia's soirées, of Mme. de la +Cueva's good advice came into her mind. People called that +sort of thing "art-atmosphere," didn't they? It was the cemetery +of art, that's what it was, with the egotism of the +performer dancing on the grave. One evening here, such an +evening as this—there was more music in it than in months +of chatter about the clothes and hair and morals and incomes +of the people who make it on the platform.</p> + +<p>At the piano Mlle. Hasparren and Father Armandariz were +talking together of the next evening's rehearsal, Mlle. Hasparren +occasionally illustrating with one hand what she was +saying. How deeply human was the look of intimate confidence +they bent on each other, the ugly young priest and +the ugly old school-teacher. They might well be thankful +that they had found each other in the world.</p> + +<p>Mlle. Hasparren turned around now and asked Marise if +she would not play for them. "I would be so proud to show +my friends what an old pupil of mine has come to be," she +said fondly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[Pg 482]</a></span></p> + +<p>It seemed to Marise that she had never in her life felt so +like playing. What should it be? She swerved on her way +to the piano to stoop to kiss Mlle. Hasparren's swarthy cheek, +and, sitting down, with an affectionate smile at her, began +the Toccata in D minor, just as Mlle. Hasparren had taught +it to her, with all she had learned since then. She had never +played to such an audience; when she turned around Father +Armandariz was looking beatific and Mlle. Hasparren exalted +with pride. She had never played so well. She had, she felt, +just begun to know what music was.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Mlle. Hasparren had set up for her a folding cot in her +own room, since there was no other bedroom in the tiny house. +They slept side by side, near enough so that they could have +reached out and clasped each other's hands as on that night +so long ago when Mlle. Hasparren had pulled Marise out of +the black pit. Marise could not go to sleep. Long after Mlle. +Hasparren lay breathing deep, her dark face relaxed in a +selfless quiet that was not more selfless than her waking look, +Marise lay looking out at the stars and the mountains, thinking, +trembling, sometimes feeling hot bitter tears in her eyes, +sometimes feeling her heart swell high with strange, unearthly +aspiration.</p> + +<p>Mlle. Hasparren was right. She had always been right. +To keep clear of all troubling, maddening, personal relations +that were sure to end by poisoning you, not to want anything +for yourself, to give all for music—how <i>safe</i> you would be, +to live like that. And how sweet it would be to feel safe! +She never had. She was so <i>tired</i> of feeling afraid. Why <i>not</i> +live like that? When you knew it was the only safe way! +When you knew that if you did not, you would fall headlong +into that dreadful mire that splashed up such indelible stains +upon your mind at even the few chance contacts with it which +life brought to a girl. Yes, that was the only safe way. +Never to go back to Rome at all. Somehow to devise a life +all devotion to music, with the miserable personal affections +burned up in that greater ardor. Yes, that, Marise decided,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[Pg 483]</a></span> +that was the only tolerable, the only endurable future she could +see.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>People began to stand up, to put on their wraps and collect +their valises. The train was passing the outskirts of Rome. +It would be in the station in a few minutes.</p> + +<p>Marise tied on her veil over a piteous white face. She had +said she would not go back to Rome at all. She had scarcely +been ten days away. She had come back. Like any other +woman she had come back to the trap.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[Pg 484]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER LIII</h2> + + +<p>She had not seen him yet. She had had her breakfast +sent to her room when she heard he was still at the pension. +She had thought certainly he would be gone away by this +time.</p> + +<p>She knew he would not have gone away!</p> + +<p>She stood now with Eugenia at the entrance to the Pincian, +up on the hill, by the fountain, under the ilex trees looking +down over the city.</p> + +<p>This was where their first walk together had ended.</p> + +<p>"I think I see Mr. Crittenden just come up the Trinità steps +and turning this way," remarked Eugenia, looking in that direction.</p> + +<p>If Marise could have stirred, she would have run away. +She turned her head and saw him coming. Although he was +still so far away that she could not make out his face, she +knew by the sudden tautness of his figure, by the spring forward +of his step that he had seen her.</p> + +<p>There he came, striding strongly towards her, as he had +come to seek her out, across the world, across all time. He +looked infinitely familiar to her, and yet infinitely different +from all she had been thinking of him. She had forgotten! +What had she been imagining him?</p> + +<p>When he drew near enough to be sure it was she, he +snatched off his hat and swung it around his head with a +bright, boyish gesture of joy. The wind ruffled his hair, the +sun shone full on his bold, clear face, on his deep eyes, on +his tender, full-lipped mouth.</p> + +<p>He was smiling at her, all his heart in his smile. He was +welcoming her back.</p> + +<p>Marise felt a warm gush all over her body, as though her +heart had suddenly begun to beat again, as though he had welcomed +her back into life. Why, this was Neale! This was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[Pg 485]</a></span> +monster to dread. If she had seen him, only seen his face that +morning, only had one look from his eyes that both smiled +and were steady ... she would never have run away.</p> + +<p>She was not hurt at all, only frightened half to death! She +was not just a woman in love, ready to give herself up to a +man. She was Marise in love with Neale.</p> + +<p>He had come up to them now, his breath coming fast as +though he had been running. For an instant he did not speak, +taking her hand silently in his. All that life had made of him +looked out on her from his clear eyes.</p> + +<p>With a beating flutter, her heart sprang up from its numb +torpor of fright and spread its wings.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"Well, we certainly have missed you!" was what he finally +said.</p> + +<p>"I'm very glad to be back in Rome," she answered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">[Pg 486]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER LIV</h2> + + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p>He had stood this gregarious flocking around just all he +was going to, Neale decided that morning, up under the ilex +trees, exchanging commonplaces with the two girls, unable +to say or even to look what he felt, because Eugenia was there. +And he'd had plenty of Eugenia during the last ten days.</p> + +<p>What a nightmare those ten days had been to him! What +a hideous block-head he had been to let Marise slip away +from him, even for a time, before he had made a chance to +see her, <i>really</i> to see her, in a quiet place where they could +hear themselves think—with none of those third and fourth +persons hanging around. What had he been thinking of, drifting +along like a man in a dream, with no sense of time?</p> + +<p>But that absence of hers had waked him up. Yes, it had +waked him up! He had not had one consecutive night's sleep +since she had been gone, starting up continually from a doze +with his arms empty when he had dreamed she was lying +in them. How had he ever lived through that suspense and +uncertainty without losing his mind? He was very grateful +to Eugenia for having kept him from making an awful fool +of himself and getting into a blind mess of confusion. She +had kept him in Rome by telling him that Marise would be +back any day. If it hadn't been for that—where would <i>he</i> +have been? Looking for a needle in a haystack all over +Southern France, and Marise back in Rome.</p> + +<p>Well, she was back and he had been too frightened not +to have learned a little sense. He'd manage a walk with her +alone, just the two of them before the day was out or—How +could he?</p> + +<p>How did you do anything? You just went and did it.</p> + +<p>He went boldly to her room and knocked on the door. +When Marise came to open it, he said, "To celebrate your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">[Pg 487]</a></span> +return, won't you let me show you a specially lovely spot on +the Campagna I've found? I've been taking some long, solitary +walks while you were away." He added firmly, "No, not +Miss Mills and Mr. Livingstone because they don't like to +tramp, and this is 'cross country."</p> + +<p>There! It had been no harder than that. Why in the name +of heaven hadn't he thought of the simple, obvious way to get +the thing done? He went back to his room and sat down, +staring at the wall, to wait till afternoon came and to try to +plan what he would say when it came. He hoped a great deal +that she had read Browning.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>But she hadn't. As they passed through the city walls and +came out, just the two of them, under the wide sky he asked +her about it, timidly; for he was horribly frightened and +moved, now that he had her to himself. And she said that +she was sorry, she was very ignorant of English and American +poetry, having been so little in an English-speaking country. +Neale sighed. No luck! She went on to suggest apologetically +that she ought some time to go back to America and take a +course in English Literature, or at least gather the books about +her and read. "My old Cousin Hetty's front porch wouldn't +be a bad place," she said thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to see that front porch before so very long, you +know," said Neale, springing one of his surprises, with a rapidly +beating heart and an impassive face.</p> + +<p>She darted one of her swallow-swift glances at him.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you've persuaded me. I've persuaded myself. I'm +not going to sell the Ashley property right away, not without +going up to look at it at least. I've been thinking a great +deal about what you said that first day. I've been thinking +a great deal anyway—can't—can't we sit down somewhere?" +He flung away any pretense of having a special +place to show her. She too had apparently forgotten it. They +sat down on the short grass, their backs against a low heap +of stones, part of the ruins of a very ancient aqueduct. Far +in the distance a flock of sheep roamed with a solitary +shepherd leaning on his staff.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">[Pg 488]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You know—you know what we've been talking about, +trying to find one's way, know what you were meant to do. +Well, my guess about myself is that I'm a maker by birth, +not a buyer or seller. The more I think of it the better +it looks to me, like something I'd like to put my heart into +doing as well as I could—taking raw material, you know, +that's of no special value in itself and helping other men to +make it worth more by adding work and intelligence to it. +You know what somebody said about the ounce of iron that's +of no use, and the hundred hair-springs the watchmaker makes +out of it. I don't see why I didn't think of it at once when +I knew Uncle Burton had left me the mill. But I'd never +have thought of it if you hadn't helped me. It takes me so +<i>long</i> to get around to anything anyhow. And you are so quick! +You see, I know a lot about the lumber-business, and quite +a bit about saw mills, and I can get on fine with workmen. +I <i>like</i> them, and I <i>love</i> working in the woods. And—and—" +he brought out the second of his carefully planned points, +"it would be a home too. You said it was a home. Everybody +wants a home, Marise."</p> + +<p>He sat silent, listening to the word as it echoed over their +two homeless heads. And then he took his courage in his +two hands and turned towards Marise. What he saw in her +face so shocked and startled him that every carefully planned +word dropped from his mind. He forgot everything except +that the dark, set look was on her face and all that tragic +sadness he could not forget.</p> + +<p>"Marise, Marise—what is it?" he cried, frightened. What +could he have said?</p> + +<p>With her shoulders and eyebrows she made an ugly, dry +little gesture of dismissing the subject, and said ironically, +"What makes you so sure everybody wants a home?"</p> + +<p>He stared at her stupidly, not able to think of anything +to say, till she went on impatiently, irritably, "It's just sentimental +to talk like that. I never heard you say a sentimental +word before. You know what homes are like,—places where +people either lie to each other or quarrel."</p> + +<p>Neale was startled by the quivering, low-toned violence of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_489" id="Page_489">[Pg 489]</a></span> +her accent. Why should she wince and shrink back as if he +had struck on an intolerably sensitive bruise—at the word, +<i>home</i>?</p> + +<p>"Why, let me tell you about my home," he said eagerly +to her, in answer to the tragic challenge he felt in her look, +her tone. "I don't believe I ever told you about what my +home was like; just the usual kind, of course, what any child +has, I suppose, but—let me <i>tell</i> you about it."</p> + +<p>He began anywhere, the first thing that came into his mind, +what the house was like, and where the library was, and how +he liked his own room, and the security of it; his free play +with little boys on the street that was his great world, and how +he felt back of him, as a sure refuge from the uncertainties +of that or any other great world, the certainties of what +he found when he ran up the steps every afternoon, opened +the door, his door, and stepped into his home, where he was +sure of being loved and cared for, and yet not fettered or +shut in. "Father and Mother always let me alone, let me +grow."</p> + +<p>He told of the meal-times and his boy's raging appetite, and +his mother's delight in it. He told of the evenings when +Father and Mother sat reading together; of the free-flowing +tide of trust and affection between his parents, changing with +their changes, never the same, never different; trust and +affection of which he had never been really conscious but +which had always been the background of his life. He remembered +even to his father's tone as he said, "Oh, Mary," +and her instant, "Yes, dear, what is it?"</p> + +<p>He had not thought of it for years, he had never before +thought consciously of it, had always taken it for granted +as he took daylight, or his own good health. But there in +that foreign land it all stood up before him, clear in its own +quiet colors, visible to him for the first time against the other +worlds he had been seeing and divining. He thought of +foolish little gay things to tell her—he could not have guessed +why they came into his mind—about the house smelling +"trunky" when it was time to go to West Adams, and Mother, +who could never get the trunk packed, and Father's joking her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_490" id="Page_490">[Pg 490]</a></span> +about it. And the long trip over to the city; Father always +waiting to let him see how the ferry-boat was tied up. And +in the train how Father kissed Mother good-by and then +Neale, and then Mother again, and put his cheek for an instant +against hers. This time Neale looked back through the years +straight into his father's face, proudly, and held his head high.</p> + +<p>He found himself telling things that he himself had never +thought of till then—his parents' tolerant patience with his +boy's fits and starts, with his egotism and absurdities, with +his periods of causeless and violent energy, his other periods +of causeless, violent indolence.</p> + +<p>And West Adams, he had always till this moment taken +for granted the stability of that second home of his, that had +been his father's before him, like a rock to which his tossing +little boat was moored whenever he wished. Grandfather and +Grandmother, plain old people—like Marise's old Cousin +Hetty perhaps—grown as much alike as an old brother and +sister, who still went off blue-berrying on the mountain together +every summer.</p> + +<p>And then, when he had needed his home no longer, the +adventuring-forth of his father and mother, and his guessing +for the first time how they had tamed their self-centered +youth to be parents; the moment when he and Father stood +together under the old maple-tree and understood each other +so deeply, with no words, all the years of affection and trust +rising up and standing there with them; and how Father and +Mother had driven away as if for an Indian Summer honeymoon, +Mother's face smiling through her tears. He told—yes, +even that—how for an instant he had felt hurt and left +out, and Mother had known it and come running back to say +a last loving good-by to the little boy he had been.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>Marise had not said a word as he brought this all up for +her to see, nor did she when he had finished and was silent. +But he could see that her hands, folded together in her lap, +were shaking. He waited for her to speak. He knew there +was something ominous in her silence, like gathering thunder. +His heart was heavy with it. He was afraid of what might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_491" id="Page_491">[Pg 491]</a></span> +be coming. But he longed to have it come, to have it tear +down the barrier between them.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>"So that's what you have known—what every child has, +you suppose!" she said passionately, her voice quivering and +breaking. She stopped herself abruptly. She could scarcely +breathe, her agitation was so great. She knew what she would +do if she opened her lips again. But she would die of suffocation +if she did not speak. It rose within her like a devouring +flood, all that old, ever-new bitterness; and beat her down.</p> + +<p>She heard herself, in a desperate, stammering voice, telling +him ... <i>telling</i> him!</p> + +<p>The words that passed her lips did not seem words but +bleeding, living, tortured things. She was mortally sick and +faint, but she could not stop. Once as in a flicker of lightning +she knew what she was doing, and tried to stop—but she +had torn it loose from those fibers that had grown so close +and hard around it, she had wrenched it away—bloody and +raw—it was too late to stop.</p> + +<p>When she finished she leaned her face on her hands and +was silent, feeling as though she had died. When she finally +looked up at him she saw that the tears stood thick in his +eyes. She had never dreamed that for good or ill one human +being could feel so close to another. It was as though she +could not tell whether those tears were his, or had come healingly +into her own dry eyes.</p> + +<p>She saw the anguish of his yearning sympathy—and yet +what was it he said? Something she had not dreamed any +one could say, "Oh, the poor little girl you were! Wasn't +there <i>any one</i> to help you to get it straight, to understand it?"</p> + +<p>"Understand it!" she said harshly. "I understood it only +too well."</p> + +<p>He looked away from her, across the plain, and kept a +thoughtful silence. Then he said, "I don't believe you understood +it in the least. Is it likely that any fourteen-year-old +little girl could understand anything like that, anything that +must have begun, had its real causes back before you were +born—and why should you take the point of view of an ig<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_492" id="Page_492">[Pg 492]</a></span>norant +old woman who certainly had the ignorant old woman's +appetite for scandal? You probably didn't even get straight +what really happened then—it sounds fearfully mixed up, you +know, as though there must be more than that to it. Let +alone its <i>real</i> meaning, its human meaning, that you couldn't +possibly have understood at fourteen, if you had known all +the facts—and there certainly were lots more facts than what +you saw and what that old woman put into your head.</p> + +<p>"And, anyhow—oh, Marise, no matter <i>what</i> it was, it +has nothing to do with your life <i>now</i>! Why do you let it +mean so much to you? Just think how long ago it happened! +It hasn't a thing to do with <i>you</i>. How can it?"</p> + +<p>She flushed a deep, shamed red, and asked in a whisper, +"You don't think that I ... that I would be like that?"</p> + +<p>He cried out furiously, "No, no, <i>no</i>! What an idea! It's +nothing to you—nothing, I tell you. It's been nothing +to you for years. You ought to have stopped thinking of +it ever so long ago. Everybody starts all over again. You're +yourself. You don't have to keep carrying that around with +you. It doesn't belong to you. Let it fall. Leave it here!" +he commanded abruptly, springing to his feet and holding out +his hand to help her rise. "Leave it here! And walk off +into your own life."</p> + +<p>She stood up beside him now, so giddy with a strange new +lightness that she laid her hand on his arm to steady herself.</p> + +<p>At her touch he flushed hot with the desire to put his +arms about her and hold her passionately close. The desire +was so intense that he had for an instant the hallucination +that he had done it, that she leaned her head against his +breast. But he had been so harrowed by sympathy for her +poor bruised heart, had been so touched by the revelation +of the delicacy and fineness of fiber which had but served +to deepen the dreadful, unhealed hurt with which she had +lived helplessly, he was so moved by her white, drawn face, +lifted to his own with a childlike faith in what he said, he was +so wrung with his thankfulness to see on that pale face a +sensitive reflection of his own certainty ... oh, now was no +time to burst out on her with the flame of his passion, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_493" id="Page_493">[Pg 493]</a></span> +when she was so weak, so defenseless. He put aside his passion +with a strong hand, resolutely.</p> + +<p>Looking at him, she saw his face flush darkly with his desire, +and felt herself as safe from a touch as though she looked +down on him from a high tower. Had she ever felt safe +before?</p> + +<p>She leaned on his arm like a convalescent. She walked +off beside him quietly, into her own life.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>The walk back to the city walls was as full of a comforting, +silent sense of each other's presence as though they had +lived their lives together.</p> + +<p>Once in a while they spoke together as simply and naturally +as children, of small, everyday things, of little changes he +would need to make in his house, an old cistern to be drained +and filled in, the half-rotten maple which darkened the living-room +cut down to let the sunlight in.</p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p>In one of the quiet silences, full to the brim with their +nearness to each other, Neale remembered what he had +meant to do with this afternoon, what he had so self-consciously +planned to say. The thought made him abashed and +humble. How infinitely deeper life was than you could ever +know till you began to live. He had thought he loved Marise +as much as a man could love a woman. He saw that he had +only begun to guess what love could be, that it is a tie between +two struggling human beings, as well as between a man and +a woman, and that it is not to be had without effort and +growth. It was something that would take all there was in +him to live up to.</p> + +<p>As he walked beside her, he was dedicating all there was +in him to loving her.</p> + + +<p class="center">II</p> + +<p>She was tired, heavenly tired, when she reached her room +that late afternoon. She had not been tired like that since +she was a little girl; relaxed, abandoned before the soft-footed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_494" id="Page_494">[Pg 494]</a></span> +advance of sleep. She could scarcely think coherently enough +to remember to send word that she would not appear at +dinner, before she was undressed and in her bed. There +was nothing in her mind but this exquisite fatigue, from +which presently, even now, as she thought of it, sleep would +drift her away. She laid her tired head on the pillow with +a long breath. Some weak tears gathered in her eyes and +ran slowly down, but they were sweet tears, not bitter. And +so she fell asleep.</p> + +<p>It was late, when she woke, well on into the next day, +and the room was filled with the crystal clarity of daylight. +As she opened her eyes, she was thinking as though it were +the continuation of a dream, that if she ever had children +she would ... she would take <i>care</i> of them! She would +learn how always to be close to them, so that she would be +there, ready to help them when.... She wouldn't leave them +helplessly to think that the evil was in life itself and not in +coarse and evil minds. She wouldn't leave them for years +to think that the poor, mean joking of sniggering servants is +all there is to life and love. She would stand up for them, +look out for them! Marise stood fiercely on her guard for +them now, up in arms against what threatened them.</p> + +<p>It had never before in her life, not even fleetingly, not once, +occurred to her that she might ever have children. She knew +now that she wanted them. That was the second step into +her own life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_495" id="Page_495">[Pg 495]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER LV</h2> + + +<p>Neale could not sleep. Of course he could not sleep. Sleep +was for fools with nothing to think about. But Neale had +... such things to think about!</p> + +<p>She had let him in. She had let him in. He stood in +the holy of holies and knew that he was welcome.</p> + +<p>Now he knew the meaning of her look that first evening +on the roof. Now he knew why, up there under the ilex +trees that morning, her dear eyes had been for an instant +wild as if with fright when he drew near. And yet, even +before she had let him in, her eyes had softened from fright +to quiet trust as he looked down at her, had softened to +that look, <i>her</i> look, which thrust him through and through +with love for her.</p> + +<p>He turned impatiently back and forth on his bed, seeing, +everywhere he looked, those liquid dark eyes, that sweet, sweet +mouth, till he held his empty arms out longingly in the dark. +His desire was like a fire. He knew such pain as he had +not dreamed of, and he would not for any price have lost an +instant of that pain. Had he ever said he was an unlighted +torch? He was flaming now, to his last fiber.</p> + +<p>Presently he got up, lighted his candle and dressed. It +was impossible to lie still with this fire of life blazing in him. +He would be beside himself by dawn, if he had not worked +some of it off. He let himself out carefully into the corridor, +and walked down to her door. There, before it were her +shoes, her little, dusty shoes which had brought her back +to him. He picked one up and held it in his hand. He +stroked it like something alive. The dust on it was dear +to him.</p> + +<p>When he stepped out into the silent, deserted piazza a +church clock struck two, boomingly. The night air was cool +on his cheek. The great, starlit dusky sky, spacious over +his head, was none too large to hold the greatness in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_496" id="Page_496">[Pg 496]</a></span> +heart that night. It filled all space to the last dim, shining +star. He set off at random, anywhere, not noticing where +his feet took him, up one street and down another—blindly, +as he had lived. And yet somehow he had found his goal.</p> + +<p>The splash of water struck on his ear. He saw in the +starlight the dim sheen and sparkle of a fountain—Trevi. He +stood still to think of what it reminded him—Madison Square +and Martha.</p> + +<p>His heart went out to Martha as he stood there. He +thought of her not with embarrassment, as the woman he had +loved before he met Marise. He had not loved her. He +thought of Martha tenderly, calmly, with deep gratitude. He +owed all this to her. She had saved him from the second-rate, +dingy life he had been so dingily ready to accept. She +had somehow divined that there must be something else. +Something else! Neale was shaken at the thought! Why, +now, this instant, if some one struck him down dead as he +stood there, he would have lived more, known more of the +joy and sacredness of love than after forty years with Martha. +He wished he knew how to pray, so that he could pray that +Martha too might know it.</p> + +<p>And then, with a rush, Martha was gone from his mind, +and Marise stood there, Marise, looking up at him with piteous, +frightened eyes that softened to trust, to quiet trust.</p> + +<p>He set off swiftly, swinging his arms and talking to himself. +How could he be worthy of such a trust! He <i>would</i> +be worthy of it. By God, he would give her a square deal. +A square deal such as no other woman ever had! The whole +of his heart, his respect, his honor. He would share his life +with her loyally, as with an equal ... no hidden thoughts, +no half-way openness, no dark corners of compromise, no +secret chambers kept for himself. All the great gates flung +open to welcome her into her own home.</p> + +<p>He flung his arms wide, and looked up at the stars, which +were beginning faintly to grow dim against the whitening sky.</p> + +<p>His passion seized on him now and shook him till he was +faint with it.</p> + +<p>When it passed for a little, he turned back towards the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_497" id="Page_497">[Pg 497]</a></span> +east, towards the Pincian hill where he had so often walked +with her, where he had seen her that morning. The shade +of the ilex trees was full of her presence to him. He was +far from there, half across the city. As if it were a goal +he had set himself, he began to hasten, to lengthen his stride, +to let out some of the strength that boiled up in him like +a geyser.</p> + +<p>It did him good to walk furiously fast, to tire himself a +little. His thoughts grew less wild, his heart stopped leaping +and pounding. She had looked frightened because she was +afraid of love, poor darling, as she was of life. He would +show her what love could be. He would wash all that old +poison of doubt and distrust and fear out of her life with +the ocean of his love. They would live together so openly, +so honestly, so naturally, that she could forget wholly all the +sick, morbid impressions that her life had left on her, that +she would come to trust and love life and love and nature, +with its serene progression of birth, growth, death, even the +decay which is only preparation for another birth.</p> + +<p>Why, that was something he could <i>do</i> for her! He had +something to give her, something she needed, something to +match a little the golden treasure she poured out on him with +her every glance. It was incredible good fortune! How +under the sun could a man, a poor, plain, ordinary human +being, live so that he might be worthy of such transcendent +good fortune?</p> + +<p>He was swinging up the long steps now, the dawn white +and clear about him. Here was where he had turned that +morning and saw her standing afar off, bright under the black +shade, come back to him! Here was where he had been +near enough to see her face, her brows drawn together, the +seeking look in her eyes. He had always thought Marise's +eyes seemed to be looking for something. Here was where +he had seen that they looked frightened. And now he stood +on the very spot where she had stood, and he saw again her +eyes soften into quiet trust.</p> + +<p>If somehow she might find in him what she was looking +for! His heart stood still in awe.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_498" id="Page_498">[Pg 498]</a></span></p> + +<p>He looked out over the sleeping city, its roofs and domes +and towers coming palely into the new day; and he saw +her dark eyes soften from fright to quiet trust.</p> + +<p>God! Suppose he had never lived, never known Marise! +The sweat stood out on him at the thought.</p> + +<p>If she could ... if she could look into his face and find +that life had put there what she sought.</p> + +<p>The sun rose magnificently and cast over all the world a +flood of golden light.</p> + +<p>Neale stood in it, praising and magnifying God, who had +sent him into life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_499" id="Page_499">[Pg 499]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER LVI</h2> + + +<p>They were on their way to hear a Palestrina mass in a +chapel at St. Peter's, and stopped beside one of the great +fountains rushing with a leap into the brilliant air and falling +in white clouds of spray.</p> + +<p>"I've heard," said Livingstone, "that if you get at the +right angle to the sun, you can see a million little rainbows."</p> + +<p>They began to walk here and there over the wet, moss-grown +paving-stones around the base of the fountain, looking +up at the glittering splendor of the upward plunging water, +their ears filled with the liquid silver plashing and dripping +of its fall. "Perhaps this isn't the right fountain, with the +sun where it is," suggested Livingstone. He and Eugenia +walked off across the wide piazza towards the other fountain. +Neale turned towards Marise. She was standing on the +other side of the basin, and as he looked at her the wind +flung the huge white veil of spray over her. She stood in +its midst like a novice in her white robes ... or like a bride. +Her eyes were lifted to the great plume of the leaping water.</p> + +<p>He sprang toward her, crying jealously, "What do you +think of when you look like that?" He raised his voice +to drown out the shouting uproar of the water.</p> + +<p>The wind caught the spray and cast it away to the other +side.</p> + +<p>She answered him, dreamily, "I was wondering how we +could ever know what we are made for?"</p> + +<p>The wind shifted and for an instant cast the white veil +over them both. Through it he called to her, "<i>I</i> know! I +know what I was made for! To love you all the days of +my life."</p> + +<p>The wind whirled away the sparkling curtain of water. +They stood in the quiet golden sunshine. His ears rang in +the silence. Had he really at last cried it out to her? Or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_500" id="Page_500">[Pg 500]</a></span> +was it only one more of the thousand times when he had +cried it soundlessly to his own heart? Eugenia and Livingstone +had come back, were beside them now, between them; +carrying them along up the endless steps to the church door. +It was like walking in a dream. Neale tried to see Marise's +face, but it was hidden by the broad-brimmed droop of her +hat. Only the sweet, sweet lines of her lips....</p> + +<p>No, it could not be that he had spoken. It had been +only another of those blinding moments when his heart flung +itself up, shouting, into the sunshine of her look.</p> + +<p>They stepped silently into the dusky, incense-perfumed +chapel. Mass had begun. Eugenia and Marise sank to their +knees, Livingstone standing on one side, Neale on the other, +the crowd pressing thick and close about them.</p> + +<p>From the choir came a long, sonorous chant, and then +a silence, in which Neale's thoughts, pounding and hammering +in his head, were stilled to one great, solemn petition.</p> + +<p>The priest turned and passed from one side of the altar +to the other. He raised his hands over the heads of the kneeling +people and chanted the "Pax vobiscum."</p> + +<p>"Et cum spiritu tuo," responded the choir, on three long, +sighing notes that brought peace with them.</p> + +<p>Standing there, upright, looking over the heads of the +densely packed crowd, his eyes fixed on the steady yellow +flame of the altar-candles, Neale felt a touch on his hand. +His heart stopped beating. He knew the lightest touch of +that hand, as he knew the lightest sound of that voice.</p> + +<p>He stood motionless, not breathing ... waiting.</p> + +<p>He felt Marise slip her hand into his, and hold it fast in +a close, close clasp. But not so firm as his own on hers. +Through the dear flesh of that dear hand he felt her pulse +beating against his own, as if he held her in his arms.</p> + +<p>The yellow flames of the altar-candles flickered and blurred +before his eyes.</p> + +<p>A great "Hosanna!" burst from the choir. Or was it in his +heart?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_501" id="Page_501">[Pg 501]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER LVII</h2> + + +<p>How suddenly it had all broken up, Livingstone thought +forlornly, their pleasant little quartet of walks and talks. +He had the sensation of being left stranded by the ebbing +of a tide which had seemed to buoy him up on great depths. +With the disappearance of Miss Mills back to her Paris +apartment, the very light had gone out of everything. Miss +Allen never had had the social grace and ease of Miss Mills, +and now she ate her meals silently and vanished immediately, +and Crittenden, not being a social light on any occasion, was +of less than no use in saving the situation.</p> + +<p>Livingstone was reduced to solitary mornings spent in +museums, with a book of art criticism in his hand; or on +Sunday mornings, when admission was free, on a bench in +the park on the Palatine. The benches were very comfortable +there, not mere backless slabs of stone, and when you felt +like sight-seeing you could get up and lean over the wall and +look down into the Forum and pick out where the different +buildings had stood.</p> + +<p>He stood thus, his back to the long, cypress-shaded path, +trying to be archeological, his guide-book open on the wall. +Which of the battered rows of stumps of pillars had been the +Temple of Vesta and which the Fornix Fabianus?</p> + +<p>He heard voices back of him. To be exact he heard Miss +Allen's voice back of him. Livingstone was so paralyzed +by the quality of it that, gentleman though he tried to be +to the marrow of his bones, he was for an instant incapable +of stirring and announcing his presence. <i>That</i>, Miss Allen's +voice! She sounded as though she had come into a fortune. +But what under the sun was she saying?</p> + +<p>"Here, exactly here, is where we stood when you said +you were like the puppy, and when you rolled the dusty +weight of all those centuries off my shoulders. And now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_502" id="Page_502">[Pg 502]</a></span> +come along. The next place in the pilgrimage is St. John +Lateran, where you said, you brutal Prussian, that nothing +would induce you to protect a woman!"</p> + +<p>"Come, come, this is eavesdropping. Something must be +done!" said Livingstone to himself. He shut his guide-book +with a slam to give them warning, and faced about resolutely. +But they had paid no attention to his warning. They stood +with their backs to him, and, oh! hand in hand like rustics +at a country fair. But she had called him a brutal Prussian! +And a puppy!</p> + +<p>"Ahem!" said Mr. Livingstone, loudly, not knowing what +else to say.</p> + +<p>They turned about, and saw him, and seemed neither surprised +nor ashamed. Miss Allen stepped quickly towards him, +smiling and saying, "Oh, Mr. Livingstone, we were meaning +to tell you anyhow.... Mr. Crittenden and I are going +to be married."</p> + +<p>She smiled at him dazzlingly as she spoke, but Livingstone +was not at all sure from the expression of her eyes that she +saw him. It crossed his mind that she would have smiled as +dazzlingly as that if a lamp-post had stood in his place.</p> + +<p>"Married!" he cried, really aghast for both of them. That +sensitive, imaginative girl tied for life to that unfeeling, rough, +hard fellow. What on earth did she, even for a moment, +see in him? And as for Crittenden ... any man with a +little money of his own, personable enough to marry advantageously, +throwing himself away on a girl without a penny +either now or in prospect! To what a wretched, cramped +life he was dooming himself and her ... back rooms in +greasy, third-rate pensions, never any margin for decent +clothes....</p> + +<p>"Yes, and we're going to live in Ashley, Vermont."</p> + +<p>Livingstone sank down on his bench, appalled. Worse than +third-rate pensions! Worse than the human mind could conceive!</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! No! No!" he cried to her as though he were +clutching at her as she sank to ruin. "No! Don't say that! +You've no idea ... my dear young lady, you haven't the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_503" id="Page_503">[Pg 503]</a></span> +faintest idea what an impossible life that would be. You +mustn't consider it for a moment. Crittenden, you mustn't +let her consider it. An American country village. Good God! +You don't know what it is, what the people are!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do, too," she told him gaily, giving the effect, +though she stood quite still, of executing a twirling pirouette +of high spirits. "I've lived there. It's really going back +home for both of us."</p> + +<p>"Home! Why, Crittenden certainly told me he'd never +been there in his life!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, pshaw, Livingstone, don't be so heavy-handed and +literal. Why wet-blanket <i>every</i> imaginative fancy?" said +Crittenden, laughing loudly as though some one had made a +joke. He might, for the impression he made on Livingstone, +have joined hands with the girl to dance madly around him +in a circle. But this was no laughing matter. This was terrible! +Tragic! They had simply lost their heads, both of +them, lost their heads and had no idea what they were doing. +You could tell that by the wild glitter in their eyes. They +were infatuated, that was it, infatuated. He must try to recall +them to their senses. He turned imploringly to the girl. "But +... but ... but...." He was so agitated that he could +not bring out his words. He stopped, drew a long breath, and +passed his hand over his forehead. Then, very solemnly, +"Do you know," he said to her, warningly, "do you know +that you will probably have to <i>do your own work</i>?"</p> + +<p>At this, she burst into an inexplicable, foolish shout of +laughter, opening her eyes very wide at him and saying, +"Appalling!"</p> + +<p>She looked up at Crittenden, who for his part never took +his eyes an instant from her.</p> + +<p>How foolishly she talked! How foolishly she laughed! +Why, they were acting as sentimentally as ... Mr. Livingstone +could not think of any comparison adequate to their +foolishness.</p> + +<p>They were moving away now, nodding good-by to him and +smiling at each other. At the top of the dark steps leading +down through the Palace of the Cæsars to the Forum they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_504" id="Page_504">[Pg 504]</a></span> +turned and cast a backward glance at him, who stood stock-still +where they had left him, staring after them, dumfounded. +Miss Allen looked at him and then came flying +back, running, her light dress fluttering. What did she want? +What was she going to do, with that shining, tremulous, mirthful +face? Livingstone felt afraid of her, as if, like a swift +bolt of summer lightning, she might strike him through and +through.</p> + +<p>What she did was to take his face in her two hands and +give him a hearty kiss on each cheek. "<i>Dear</i> Mr. Livingstone!" +she said (or was it "<i>poor</i>"?)</p> + +<p>Livingstone had the impression, from the expression of her +face, that she would have kissed a cabman with equal +fervor, and that Crittenden would have watched her do it +with the same fatuous look he had now.</p> + +<p>They went down together into the vaulted darkness and +desolation of the ruined palace. Livingstone, leaning on the +wall high above, saw them emerge together into the Forum +and step off over the ancient flagged paving. And still hand +in hand! Mr. Livingstone had by this time thought of an +adequate comparison. They were as sentimental as a couple +of Rogers statuettes!</p> + +<p>Looking up, they saw him leaning there. They waved their +hands and called up some laughing greeting to him. But +he could not understand what they said, because they were +too far away from him.</p> + +<p>Hand in hand in the fierce, literal brightness of the noonday +sun, they trod their new path over the ancient stones.</p> + + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +<div class="notes"> +<p class="center"><b>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:</b></p> + +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without comment.</p> + +<p>Minor inconsistencies in hyphenated words have been adjusted to conform +with the author's most frequent usage, except for bed-room/bedroom which +are left as in the original.</p> + +<p>On page 68, "Meisonnier" was changed to "Meissonier" to +correspond with the correct spelling of the 19th century painter, as +found later on the same page.</p> + +<p>Accent marks have been added to the following words, based on context, +and author's most frequent usage:</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> + aperitif: page 152 (in the phrase, "... apéritif at the cafe....")<br /> + menage: page 156 (in the phrase, "... a young ménage;...")<br /> + chateau: page 452 (in the phrase, "... of the château Country....")</p> + +<p>In the html version of the book, the music illustration on page 78 +has been supplemented with a "midi" file, so that the reader can +listen to the musical phrase shown in the image.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rough-Hewn, by Dorothy Canfield + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUGH-HEWN *** + +***** This file should be named 37451-h.htm or 37451-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/4/5/37451/ + +Produced by Cathy Maxam, Suzanne Shell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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