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diff --git a/old/68941-h/68941-h.htm b/old/68941-h/68941-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index f59ce68..0000000 --- a/old/68941-h/68941-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10902 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Book of Evelyn, by Geraldine Bonner—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <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;} - -p {margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; - text-indent: 1.5em} - -.no-indent {text-indent: 0;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: xx-large; - font-weight: bold; - text-indent: 0;} - -.ph2 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: x-large; - font-weight: bold; - text-indent: 0;} - -.ph3 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: large; - font-weight: bold; - text-indent: 0;} - -.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} -.p2b {margin-bottom: 2em;} -.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} -.p4b {margin-bottom: 4em;} -.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} - -hr {width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both;} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -table {margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; -} /* page numbers */ - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold; - text-align: center;} - -/* Images */ - -img { - max-width: 100%; - height: auto;} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%;} - -/* Poetry */ -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} -/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry in browsers */ -.poetry {display: inline-block;} -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} -/* large inline blocks don't split well on paged devices */ -@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } -.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; - margin-left: 20%; - margin-right: 20%;} - -.x-ebookmaker-drop .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.x-ebookmaker .figcenter {width:100%} - -.x-ebookmaker .transnote {margin-left: 2%; margin-right: 2%; - page-break-before: always;} - -/* Poetry indents */ -.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} - -.dropcap {float:left; - font-size: 40px; - line-height: 22.5px; - padding-top: 2px; - padding-bottom: .25px;} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The book of Evelyn, by Geraldine Bonner</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The book of Evelyn</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Geraldine Bonner</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrator: Arthur William Brown</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 8, 2022 [eBook #68941]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF EVELYN ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide" style="width: 30%"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" /> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="ph1">THE BOOK OF EVELYN</p></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<a id="i_frontispiece"><img src="images/i_frontispiece.jpg" width="350" alt="The star of the occasion was calm and confident" -title="" /></a></div></div> - -<p class="caption">The star of the occasion was calm and confident</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h1>THE<br /> -BOOK OF EVELYN</h1> - -<p class="center no-indent"><i><small>By</small></i></p> - -<p class="ph3">GERALDINE BONNER</p> - -<p class="center no-indent p4b"><small><i>Author of</i><br /> -TOMORROW’S TANGLE, THE PIONEER<br /> -RICH MEN’S CHILDREN, ETC.</small></p> - -<p class="center no-indent"><small>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY</small></p> - -<p class="ph3">ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN</p> - -<p class="center no-indent p4">INDIANAPOLIS<br /> -THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY<br /> -PUBLISHERS</p></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center no-indent"><span class="smcap">Copyright 1913<br /> -The Bobbs-Merrill Company</span></p> - -<p class="p6 center no-indent">PRESS OF<br /> -BRAUNWORTH & CO.<br /> -BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS<br /> -BROOKLYN, N. Y.</p></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> -<p class="ph1 nobreak">THE BOOK OF EVELYN</p></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I</h2> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> have</span> moved. I am in.</p> - -<p>The household gods that have lain four years -in storage are grouped round me, showing familiar -faces. It’s nice of them not to have changed more, -grown up as children do or got older like one’s -friends. They don’t harmonize with the furniture—this -is an <i>appartement meublé</i>—but I can melt them -in with cushions and hangings.</p> - -<p>It’s going to be very snug and cozy when I get settled. -This room—the parlor—is a good shape, an -oblong ending in a bulge of bay window. Plenty of -sun in the morning—I can have plants. Outside the -window is a small tin roof with a list to starboard -where rain-water lodges and sparrows come to take -fussy excited baths. Across the street stands a row -of brownstone fronts, blank-visaged houses with a -white curtain in every window. The faces of such -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>houses are like the faces of the people who live in -them. They tell you nothing about what’s going on -inside. It’s a peculiarity of New York—after living -in a house with an expressionless front wall you get -an expressionless front wall yourself.</p> - -<p>From the windows of the back room I look out -on the flank of the big apartment-house that stands -on the corner, and little slips of yard, side by side, -with fences between. Among them ours has a lost -or strayed appearance. Never did an unaspiring, -city-bred yard look more homesick and out of place. -It has a sun-dial in the middle, circled by a flagged -path, and in its corners, sheltered by a few discouraged -shrubs, several weather-worn stone ornaments. -It suggests a cemetery of small things that had to -have correspondingly small tombstones. I hear from -Mrs. Bushey, the landlady, that a sculptress once -lived on the lower floor and spent three hundred -dollars lifting it out of the sphere in which it was -born.</p> - -<p>I am going to like it here. I am going to make -myself like it, get out of the negative habit into the -positive. That’s why I came back from Europe, that -a sudden longing for home, for Broadway, and the -lights along the Battery, and dear little Diana poised -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>against the sky. Four years of pension tables and -third-class railway carriages do not develop the positive -habit. I was becoming negative to the point of -annihilation. I wanted to be braced by the savage -energies of my native city. And also I did want -some other society than that of American spinsters -and widows. The Europeans must wonder how the -land of the free and the home of the brave keeps up -its birth-rate— But I digress.</p> - -<p>When you have an income of one hundred and -sixty-five dollars a month and no way of adding to -it, are thirty-three and a widow of creditable antecedents, -the difficulties of living in New York are almost -insurmountable. If you were a pauper or a -millionaire it would be an easy matter. They represent -the upper and the nether millstones between -which people like me are crushed.</p> - -<p>And then your friends insist on being considered. -I had a dream of six rooms on the upper West Side. -“But the upper West Side, my dear! You might as -well be in Chicago.” Then I had revolutionary longings -for a tiny old house with no heat and a sloping -roof in Greenwich Village— “I could never go to -see you there. They would stone the motor,” ended -that. There is just one slice in the center of the city -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>in which a poor but honest widow can live to the satisfaction -of everybody but herself. So here I am in -the decorous Seventies, between Park Avenue and -Lexington, in an eighteen-foot dwelling with floors -for light housekeeping.</p> - -<p>To enter you go down three steps to a little front -door that tries to keep up to the neighborhood by -hiding its decrepitude behind an iron grill. That -lets you into the smallest vestibule in the world, -where four bells are ranged along the door-post and -four letter-boxes cling to the wall. Out of this open -two more doors, one that gives egress to a narrow -flight of stairs without a hand-rail, and the other to -the ground-floor apartment, inhabited, so Mrs. -Bushey tells me, by a trained nurse and her aunt. -There was a tailor there once, but Mrs. Bushey got -him out— “Cockroaches, water bugs, and then the -sign! It lowered the tone of the house. A person like -you,” Mrs. Bushey eyed me approvingly, “would -never have stood for a tradesman’s sign.”</p> - -<p>I murmured an assent. I always do when credited -with exclusive tastes I ought to have and -haven’t. It was the day I came to look the place -over, and I was nervously anxious to make a good -impression on Mrs. Bushey. Then we mounted a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>narrow stair that rose through a well to upper stories. -As it approached the landing it took a spirited -curve, as if in the hope of finding something better -above. The stairway was dark and a faint thin scent -of many things (I know it now to be a composite -of cooking, gas leakage and cigars) remained suspended -in the airless shaft.</p> - -<p>“On this floor,” said Mrs. Bushey, turning on the -curve, as if in the hope of finding something better -up behind her, “the gas is never put out.”</p> - -<p>I took that floor. I don’t know whether the gas -decided it, or Mrs. Bushey’s persuasive manners, or -an exhaustion that led me to look with favor upon -anything that had a chair to sit on and a bed to sleep -in. Anyway, I took it, and the next day burst in -upon Betty Ferguson, trying to carry it off with a -debonair nonchalance: “Well, I’ve got an apartment -at last.”</p> - -<p>Betty looked serious and asked questions: Was it -clean? Did the landlady seem a proper person? -Had I seen any of the other lodgers? Then dwelt on -the brighter side: It’s not quite a block from Park -Avenue. If you don’t like it you can find some excuse -to break your lease. There <i>is</i> a servant on the -premises who will come in, clean up and cook you -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>one good meal so you won’t starve. Well, it doesn’t -sound so bad.</p> - -<p>And now I’m in I think it’s even less bad than it -sounded. The front room is going to make the impression. -It is already getting an atmosphere, the -individuality of a lady of uncultivated literary tastes -is imposing itself upon the department-store background. -The center table—mission style—is beginning -to have an air, with Bergson in yellow paper -covers and two volumes of Strindberg. No more of -him for me after <i>Miss Juliet</i>, but he has his uses -thrown carelessly on a table with other gentlemen of -the moment. If I am ever written up in the papers I -feel sure the reporters will say, “Mrs. Drake’s parlor -gave every evidence of being the abode of a woman -of culture and refinement.”</p> - -<p>The back room (there are only two) is more intimate. -I am going to eat there and also sleep. Friends -may come in, however; for the bed, during the day, -masquerades as a divan. A little group of my ancestors—miniatures -and photographs of portraits—hangs -on the wall and chaperons me. Between the -two rooms stretches a narrow connecting neck of -bathroom and kitchenette.</p> - -<p>There is only one word that describes the kitchenette—it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> -is cute. When I look at it with a gas stove -on one side and tiers of shelves on the other, “cute” -instinctively rises to my lips, and I feel that my -country has enriched the language with that untranslatable -adjective. No one has ever been able to give -it a satisfactory definition, but if you got into my -kitchenette, which just holds one fair-sized person, -and found yourself able to cook with one hand and -reach the dishes off the shelves with the other, you -would get its full meaning.</p> - -<p>Before the house was cut into floors the kitchenette -must have been a cupboard. I wonder if a lady’s -clothes hung in it or the best china was stored there. -There is a delightful mystery about old houses and -their former occupants. Haven’t I read somewhere -that walls absorb impressions from the lives they -have looked on and exhale them to the pleasure or -detriment of later comers?</p> - -<p>Last night, as I was reading in bed—a habit acquired -at the age of twelve and adhered to ever since—I -remembered this and wondered what the walls -would exhale on me. The paper has a trailing design -of roses on it, very ugly and evidently old. I -wondered if the roses had bloomed round tragedy -or comedy, or just that fluctuation between the two -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>which makes up the lives of most of us—an alternate -rise and fall, soaring upward to a height, dropping -downward to a hollow.</p> - -<p>Five years ago mine dropped to its hollow, and -ever since has been struggling up to the dead level -where it is now—the place where things come without -joy or pain, the edge off everything. Thirty-three -and the high throb of expectancy over, the big -possibilities left behind. The hiring of two rooms, -the hanging of a curtain, the placing of a vase—these -are the things that for me must take the place -that love and home and children take in other women’s -lives.</p> - -<p>I got this far and stopped. No, I wouldn’t. I -came back from Europe to get away from that. I -put out the light and cuddled down in the new bed. -Quite a good bed if it is a divan, and the room is going -to be fairly quiet. Muffled by walls I could hear -the clanging passage of cars. And then far away it -seemed, though it couldn’t have been, a gramophone, -the Caruso record of <i>La Donna e Mobile</i>. What a -fine swaggering song and what an outrageous falsehood! -Woman is changeable—is she? That’s the -man’s privilege. We, poor fools, haven’t the sense -to do anything but cling, if not to actualities to memories.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> -I felt tears coming—<i>that</i> hasn’t happened for -years. My memories don’t bring them, they only -bring a sort of weary bitterness. It was the new surroundings, -the loneliness, that did it. I stopped them -and listened to the gramophone, and the wretched -thing had begun on a new record, <i>Una Lagrima -Furtiva</i>—a furtive tear!</p> - -<p>With my own furtive tears, wet on the pillow, I -couldn’t help laughing.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II</h2></div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>here</span> is one thing in the front room I must -get rid of—the rug. It is a nightmare with a -crimson ground on which are displayed broken white -particles that look like animalcula in a magnified -drop of water. I had just made up my mind that it -must be removed when Mrs. Bushey opportunely -came in.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey lives next door (she has two houses -under her wing) and when not landladying, teaches -physical culture. I believe there is no Mr. Bushey, -though whether death or divorce has snatched him -from her I haven’t heard. She is a stout dark person -somewhere from twenty-eight to forty-eight—I can’t -tell age. I am thirty-three and have wrinkles round -my eyes. She has none. It may be temperament, or -fat, or the bony structure of the skull, or an absence -of furtive tears.</p> - -<p>She talks much and rapidly which ought to tend -to a good combination between us, as listening is one -of the things I do best. From our conversation, or -perhaps I ought to say our monologue, I got an impressionistic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> -effect of my fellow lodgers past and -present. The lady who lived here before me was a -writer and very close about money. It was difficult -to collect her rent, also she showed symptoms of inebriety. -I gathered from Mrs. Bushey’s remarks and -expression that she expected me to be shocked, and -I tried not to disappoint her, but I couldn’t do much -with a monosyllable, which was all she allowed me.</p> - -<p>A series of rapid sketches of the present inmates -followed. Something like this:</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Phillips, the trained nurse, and her aunt, in -the basement are terrible cranks, always complaining -about the plumbing and the little boys who will stop -on their way home from school and write bad words -on the flags. They think they own the back garden, -but they don’t. We all do, but what’s the use of -fighting? I never do, I’ll stand anything rather than -have words with anybody.”</p> - -<p>I edged in an exclamation, a single formless -syllable.</p> - -<p>“Of course, I knew you would. Then on the floor -below you are two young Westerners in the back -room, Mr. Hazard, who’s an artist, and Mr. Weatherby, -who’s something on the press. The most delightful -fellows, never a day late with their rent. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>And in the front room is Miss Bliss, a model—artist -not cloak. She isn’t always on time with her money, -but I’m very lenient with her.”</p> - -<p>I tried to insert a sentence, but it was nipped at the -second word.</p> - -<p>“Yes, exactly. You see just how it is. On the -floor above you, in the back, is Mr. Hamilton, such a -nice man and so unfortunate. Lost every cent he had -in Wall Street and is beginning all over again. -Fine, isn’t it? Yes, I feel it and don’t say anything -when he’s behind with his rent. How could I?” -Though I hadn’t said a word she looked at me reprovingly -as if I had suggested sending the delinquent -Mr. Hamilton to jail. “That’s not my way. -I know it’s foolish of me. You needn’t tell me so, but -that’s how I’m made.”</p> - -<p>I began to feel that I ought to offer my next -month’s rent at once. I have a bad memory and -might be a day or two late.</p> - -<p>“The room in front, over your parlor, is vacant. -Terrible, isn’t it? I tried to make Mr. Hamilton take -the whole floor through. Even if he isn’t good -pay—”</p> - -<p>I broke in, determined to hear no more of Mr. -Hamilton’s financial deficiencies.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> -<p>“Who’s on the top floor?”</p> - -<p>There was a slight abatement of Mrs. Bushey’s -buoyancy. She looked at me with an eye that expressed -both curiosity and question.</p> - -<p>“Miss Harris lives there,” she answered. “Have -you seen her?”</p> - -<p>I hadn’t.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you’ve heard her?”</p> - -<p>I had heard a rustle on the stairs, was that Miss -Harris?</p> - -<p>“Yes. She’s the only woman above you.”</p> - -<p>“Does she leave a trail of perfume?”</p> - -<p>I was going to add that it didn’t mix well with -the gas leakage, the cigars and last year’s cooking -but refrained for fear of Mrs. Bushey’s feelings.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s Miss Harris. She’s a singer—professional. -But you won’t hear her much, there’s a -floor in between. That is, unless you leave the register -open.”</p> - -<p>I said I’d shut the register.</p> - -<p>“I don’t take singers as a rule,” Mrs. Bushey went -on, “but Mr. Hamilton being away all day and the -top floor being hard to rent, I made an exception. -One must live, mustn’t one?”</p> - -<p>I could agree to that.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> - -<p>“She’s a Californian and rather good-looking. -But I don’t think she’s had much success.”</p> - -<p>A deprecating look came into her face and she -tilted her head to one side. I felt coming revelations -about Miss Harris’ rent and said hastily:</p> - -<p>“What does she sing, concert, opera, musical -comedy?”</p> - -<p>“She’s hardly sung in public at all yet. She’s -studying, and I’m afraid that it’s very uncertain. -Last month—”</p> - -<p>I interrupted desperately.</p> - -<p>“Is she a contralto or soprano?”</p> - -<p>“Dramatic mezzo,” said Mrs. Bushey. “She’s -trying to get an opening, but,” she compressed her -lips and shook her head gloomily, “there are so -many of them and her voice is nothing wonderful. -But she evidently has some money, for she pays her -rent regularly.”</p> - -<p>I felt immensely relieved. As Mrs. Bushey rose to -her feet I too rose lightly, encouragingly smiling. -Mrs. Bushey did not exhibit the cheer fitting to the -possession of so satisfactory a lodger. She buttoned -her jacket, murmuring:</p> - -<p>“I don’t like taking singers, people complain so. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>But when one is working for one’s living—” Her -fingers struggled with a button.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” I filled in, “I understand. And I -for one won’t object to the music.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey seemed appeased. As she finished -the buttoning she looked about the room, her glance -roaming over my possessions. For some obscure reason -I flinched before that inspection. Some of them -are sacred, relics of my mother and of the years -when I was a wife—only a few of these. Mrs. -Bushey’s look was like an auctioneer’s hand fingering -them, appraising their value.</p> - -<p>Finally it fell to the rug. I had forgotten it; now -was my chance. Suddenly it seemed a painful subject -to broach and I sought for a tactful opening. -Mrs. Bushey pressed its crimson surface with her -foot.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t this a beautiful rug?” she said. “It’s a -real Samarcand.”</p> - -<p>I smothered a start. I had had a real Samarcand -once.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey, eying the magnified insects with -solicitude, continued:</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t like to tell you how much I paid for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>this. It was a ridiculous sum for me to give. But I -love pretty things, and when you took the apartment -I put it in here because I saw at once <i>you</i> were used -to only the best.”</p> - -<p>I murmured faintly.</p> - -<p>“So I was generous and gave you my treasure. -You will be careful of it, won’t you? Not drop anything -on it or let people come in with muddy boots.”</p> - -<p>I said I would. I found myself engaging with -ardor to love and cherish a thing I abhorred. It’s -happened before, it’s the kind of thing I’ve been -doing all my life.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey gave it a loving stroke with her foot.</p> - -<p>“I knew you’d appreciate it. You don’t often find -a real Samarcand in a furnished apartment.”</p> - -<p>After she had gone I sat looking dejectedly at it. -Of course I would have to keep it now. I might buy -some small rugs and partly cover it up, but I suppose, -when she saw them, she would be mortally -hurt. And I can’t do that. I’d rather have those -awful magnified insects staring up at me for the rest -of my life than wound her pride so.</p> - -<p>As to its being a Samarcand—I took up one corner -and lo! attached to it by a string was a price-tag -bearing the legend, Scotch wool rug, $12.75.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p> - -<p>It <i>was</i> somewhat of a shock. Suppose I had found -it while she was there! The thought of such a contretemps -made me cold. To avoid all possibilities of -it ever happening I stealthily detached the tag and -tore it into tiny pieces. As I dropped them in the -waste-basket I had a fancy that had I made the discovery -while she was present, I would have been -the more embarrassed of the two.</p> - -<p>All afternoon I have been putting things in order, -trying them and standing back to get the effect. It’s -a long time since I’ve had belongings of my own to -play with. I hung my mother’s two Kriegolf’s -(Kriegolf was a Canadian artist who painted pictures -of habitan life) in four different places. They -finally came to anchor on the parlor wall on either -side of a brass-framed mirror with candle branches -that belongs to Mrs. Bushey. Opposite, flanking the -fireplace, are <i>Kitty O’Brien</i> and <i>The Wax Head -of Lille</i>. I love her best of all, the dreaming -maiden. I like to try and guess what she’s thinking -of. Is it just the purposeless reverie of youth, or is -she musing on the coming lover? It can’t be that, -because, while he’s still a dream lover, a girl is -happy, and she looks so sad.</p> - -<p>I was trying to pierce the secret of that mysterious -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>face when the telephone rang. It was Roger Clements, -a kind voice humming along the line—“Well, -how’s everything?” Roger wanted to come up and -see me and the kitchenette, and I told him Madame -would receive to-morrow evening.</p> - -<p>He would be my first visitor and I was fluttered. -I spent at least an hour trying to decide whether I’d -better bring the Morris chair from the back room -for him. When the dread of starvation is lifted from -you by one hundred and sixty-five dollars a month -and life offers nothing, you find your mental forces -expending themselves on questions like that. I once -knew a man who told me he sat on the edge of his -bed every morning struggling to decide whether -he’d put on a turned-down or a stand-up collar. He -said it was nerves. In my case it’s just plain lack -of interests.</p> - -<p>It’s natural for me to try and make Roger comfortable. -He’s one of the best friends I have in the -world. I’m not using the word to cover sentiment, I -do really mean a friend. He knew me before I was -married, was one of the reliable older men in those -glowing days when I was Evelyn Carr, before I met -Harmon Drake. He has been kind to me in ways I -never can forget. In those dark last years of my -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>married life (there were only five of them altogether) -when my little world was urging divorce -and I stood distracted amid falling ruins, he never -said one word to me about my husband, never forced -on me consolation or advice. I don’t forget that, or -the letter he wrote me when Harmon died—the one -honest letter I got.</p> - -<p>Everybody exclaimed when I said I was going -alone to Europe. Roger was the only one who understood -and told me to go. I’ll carry to my grave -the memory of his face as he stood on the dock waving -me good-by. He was smiling, but under the -smile I could see the sympathy he wanted me to -know and didn’t dare to put in words. That’s one of -the ties between us—we’re the silent kind who keep -our feelings hidden away in a Bluebeard’s chamber -of which we keep the key.</p> - -<p>I used to hear from him off and on in Europe, and -I followed him in the American papers. I remember -one sun-soaked morning in Venice, when I picked -up an English review in the pension and read a -glowing criticism of his book of essays, <i>Readjustments</i>. -How proud I was of him! He’s become -quite famous in these last few years, not vulgarly -famous but known among scholars as a scholar and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>recognized as one of the few stylists we have over -here. I can’t imagine him on the news-stalls, or -bound in paper for the masses. I think he secretly -detests the masses though he won’t admit it. The -mob, with its easily swayed passions, is the sort of -thing that it’s in his blood to hate. If he had to -sue for its support like Coriolanus he would act -exactly as Coriolanus did. Fortunately he doesn’t -need it. The Clements have had money for generations, -not according to Pittsburgh standards, but the -way the Clements reckon money. He has an apartment -on Gramercy Park, lined with books to the -ceilings, with a pair of old servants to fuss over him -and keep the newspaper people away.</p> - -<p>There he leads the intellectual life, the only one -that attracts him. He rarely goes into society. The recent -invasion of multi-millionaires have spoiled it, -his sister, Mrs. Ashworth, says, and on these points -he and she think alike. And he doesn’t care for -women, at least to fall in love with them. When he -was a young man, twenty-four to be accurate, he -was engaged to a girl who died. Since then his interest -in the other sex has taken the form of a detached -impersonal admiration. He thinks they furnish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> -the color and poetry of life and in that way have -an esthetic value in a too sober world.</p> - -<p>But what’s the sense of analyzing your friend? -He’s a dear kind anchorite of a man, just a bit set, -just a bit inclined to think that the Clements’ way -of doing things is the only way, just a bit too contemptuous -of cheapness and bad taste and bounce, -but with all his imperfections on his head, the finest -gentleman I know. I <i>will</i> move the Morris chair.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III</h2></div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">L</span>ove</span> of flowers is one of the gifts the fairies gave -me in my cradle. It’s a great possession, fills -so many blanks. You can forget you’ve got no baby -of your own when you watch the flowers’ babies -lifting their little faces to the sun.</p> - -<p>I bought four plants at Bloomingdales and put -them in the front window, a juniper bush, a Boston -fern, a carrot fern and a rubber plant. I like the -ferns best, the new shoots are so lovely, pushing up -little green curly tops in the shelter of the old strong -ones. I remind myself of Miss Lucretia Tox in -<i>Dombey and Son</i>, with a watering can and a pair of -scissors to snip off dead leaves. There’s one great -difference between us—Miss Tox had a Mr. Dombey -across the way. I’ve nothing across the way. -The only male being that that discreet and expressionless -row of houses has given up to my eyes is -the young doctor opposite. He does the same thing -every morning, runs down the steps with a bag and -a busy air, walks rapidly to Lexington Avenue, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>then, when he thinks he’s out of sight, stands on the -corner not knowing which way to go.</p> - -<p>I feel that, in a purely neighborly spirit, I ought -to have an illness. I would like to help all young -people starting in business, take all the hansoms -that go drearily trailing along Fifth Avenue, especially -if the driver looks drunken and despondent, -and give money to every beggar who accosts me. -They say it is a bad principle and one is always -swindled. Personally I don’t think that matters at -all. Your impulse is all right and that’s all that -counts. But I digress again—I must get over the -habit.</p> - -<p>This morning I was doing my Miss Lucretia Tox -act when Betty Ferguson came in. Betty is one of -my rich friends; we were at school together and -have kept close ever since. She married Harry -Ferguson the same year that I married Harmon -Drake. Now she has three children, and a house on -Fifth Avenue, not to mention Harry. Her crumpled -rose leaf is that she is getting fat. Every time I -see her she says resolutely, “I am going to walk -twice round the reservoir to-morrow morning,” and -never does it.</p> - -<p>She came in blooming, with a purple orchid -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>among her furs, and the rich rosy color in her face -deepened by the first nip of winter. She has a -sharp eye, and I expected she would immediately -see the rug and demand an explanation. I was -slightly flustered, for I have no excuse ready and I -never can confess my weaknesses to Betty. She is -one of the sensible people who don’t see why you -can’t be sensible, too.</p> - -<p>She did not, however, notice the rug, but clasping -my hand fixed me with a solemn glance that -made me uneasy. Betty oblivious to externals—what -had I done?</p> - -<p>“Who was the woman I met coming out of here -just now?” she said abruptly.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Bushey,” I hazarded, and then remembered -Mrs. Bushey was off somewhere imparting physical -culture.</p> - -<p>“Is Mrs. Bushey very tall and thin with black -hair and a velvet dress, and a hat as big as a tea -tray?”</p> - -<p>“No, she’s short and stout and—”</p> - -<p>“Evie,” interrupted Mrs. Ferguson, sounding a -deep note, “that woman wasn’t Mrs. Bushey. Nobody -who looked like that ever leased an eighteen-foot -house and rented out floors.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> - -<p>I had a sudden surge of memory—</p> - -<p>“It must have been Miss Harris.”</p> - -<p>Betty loosed my hand and sank upon the sofa, -that is, she subsided carefully upon the sofa, as erect -as a statue from the waist up. She threw back her -furs with a disregard for the orchid that made me -wince.</p> - -<p>“Who’s Miss Harris?” she said sternly.</p> - -<p>I told her all I knew.</p> - -<p>“That’s just what she looked like—the stage. Are -there any more of them here?”</p> - -<p>I assured her there were not. She gazed out of -the window with a pondering air.</p> - -<p>“After all, there <i>are</i> respectable people on the -stage,” she said, following some subterranean course -of thought.</p> - -<p>I knew my Betty and hastened to reassure her—</p> - -<p>“She’s on the top floor. Her contaminating influence, -if she has one, would have to percolate -through another apartment before it got to me.”</p> - -<p>She did not smile and I did not expect it. Mrs. -Ferguson has no sense of humor, and that’s one of -the reasons I love her. There is an obsession in the -public mind just now about the sense of humor. People -ask anxiously if other people have it as Napoleon -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>used to ask if attractive ladies he had wooed in vain -“were still virtuous.” It’s like being a bromide— Give -me a bromide, a humorless, soft, cushiony bromide, -rather than those exhausting people who have -established a reputation for wit and are living up to -it. Betty is not soft and cushiony, but she is always -herself.</p> - -<p>“I wish you could live in a house of your own like -a Christian,” she said.</p> - -<p>We have talked over this before. This subject -has an embarrassing side—I’ll explain it later—so I -hastened to divert her.</p> - -<p>“Why should you be wrought up over Miss Harris? -I’m sure from what Mrs. Bushey tells me she’s a -very nice person,” and then I remembered and -added brightly: “She always pays her rent.”</p> - -<p>Betty gave me a somber side glance.</p> - -<p>“She’s very handsome.”</p> - -<p>“There <i>are</i> handsome people who are perfectly -<i>convenable</i>. You’re handsome, Betty.”</p> - -<p>Betty was unmoved.</p> - -<p>“At any rate you needn’t know her,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think I ought to say ‘Howd’ye do’ if -I meet her on the stairs?”</p> - -<p>“No, why should you? The next thing would be -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>she’d be coming into your rooms and then, some -day, she’d come when somebody you liked was -there.”</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands in her lap and drew herself -up, her head so erect the double chin she fears -was visible. In this attitude she kept a cold eye on -me.</p> - -<p>“And all because she’s handsome and wears a hat -as big as a tea tray,” I said, trying to treat the subject -lightly, but inwardly conscious of a perverse desire -to champion Miss Harris.</p> - -<p>Betty, wreathing her neck about in the tight grip -of her collar, removed her glance to the window, -out of which she stared haughtily as though Miss -Harris was standing on the tin roof supplicating an -entrance.</p> - -<p>“We can’t be too careful in this town,” she murmured, -shaking her head as if refusing Miss Harris’ -hopes. Then she looked down at the floor. I saw -her expression changing as her eye ranged over the -rug.</p> - -<p>“Where did you get this rug, Evie?” she asked -in a quiet tone.</p> - -<p>I grew nervous.</p> - -<p>“It came with the apartment.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span></p> - -<p>“Get rid of it, dear, at once. I can send you up -one from the library. Harry’s going to give me a -new Aubusson.”</p> - -<p>I became more nervous and faltered:</p> - -<p>“But I ought to keep this.”</p> - -<p>“Why? Is there a clause in your lease that you’ve -got to use it?”</p> - -<p>When Betty gets me against the wall this way I -become frightened. Timid animals, thus cornered, -are seized with the courage of despair and fly at -their assailant. Timid human beings show much less -spirit—I always think animals behave with more -dignity than people—they tell lies.</p> - -<p>“But—but—I like it,” I stammered.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Betty with a falling note, “if that’s -the case—” She stopped and rose to her feet, too -polite to say what she thought. “Put on your things -and come out with me. I’m shopping, and afterward -we’ll lunch somewhere.”</p> - -<p>I went out with Betty in the car, a limousine with -two men and a chow dog. We went to shops where -obsequious salesladies listened to Mrs. Ferguson’s -needs and sought to satisfy them. They had a conciliating -way of turning to me and asking my opinion -which, such is the poverty of my spirit, pleased me -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>greatly. I get a faint reflex feeling of what it is to be -the wife of one of New York’s rising men. Then we -lunched richly and clambered back into the limousine, -each dropping languidly into her corner while -the footman tucked us in.</p> - -<p>We were rolling luxuriously down Fifth Avenue -when Betty rallied sufficiently from the torpor of -digestion to murmur.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow morning, after breakfast, I’ll walk -three times round the reservoir.”</p> - -<p>Roger came at eight. It was the first cold night -of the season and the furnace was not broken in. In -spite of lamps the room was chilly. It was good to -see him again—in my parlor, in my Morris chair. -He isn’t handsome, a long thin man, with a long -thin face, smooth shaven and lined, and thick, sleek, -iron-gray hair. Some one has said all that a man -should have in the way of beauty is good teeth. -Roger has that necessary asset and another one, -well-shaped, gentlemanly hands, very supple and a -trifle dry to the touch. And, yes, he has a charming -smile.</p> - -<p>He is forty-two and hasn’t changed a particle in -the last fifteen years. Why can’t a woman manage -that? When I was dressing to-night I looked in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>glass and tried to reconstruct my face as it was -fifteen years ago. I promised to be a pretty girl then, -but it was just the fleeting beauty that nature gives -us in our mating time, lends us for her own purposes. -Now I see a pale mild person with flat-lying brown -hair and that beaten expression peculiar to females -whom life conquers. I don’t know whether it’s the -mouth or the eyes, but I see it often in faces I pass -on the street.</p> - -<p>It was a funny evening—conversation varied by -chamber music. We began it sitting in the middle of -the room on either side of the table like the family -lawyer and the heroine in the opening scene of a -play. Then, as the temperature dropped, we slowly -gravitated toward the register, till we finally brought -up against it. A faint warm breath came through -the iron grill and we leaned forward and basked in -it. We were talking about women. We often do, it’s -one of our subjects. Of course Roger is of the old -school. He’s got an early Victorian point of view; -I know he would value me more highly if I swooned -now and then. He doesn’t call women “the weaker -vessel,” but he thinks of them that way.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why you can’t be content with things -as they are,” he said, spreading his hands to the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>register’s meager warmth. “Why should you want -to go into politics and have professions? Why aren’t -you willing to leave all that to us and stay where you -belong?”</p> - -<p>“But we may not have anything to do where we -belong. Roger, if you move nearer the corner you’ll -get a little more heat.”</p> - -<p>Roger moved.</p> - -<p>“Every woman has work in her own sphere,” he -said, while moving.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t.”</p> - -<p>“You, dear Evie,” he looked at me with a fond -indulgent smile. “You have plenty of work and it’s -always well done—to bring romance and sweetness -into life.”</p> - -<p>There is something quite maddening about Roger -when he talks this way. I could find it in me to call -him an ass. All the superiority of countless generations -of men who have ordered women’s lives lies -behind it. And he is impregnable, shut up with his -idea. It is built round him and cemented with a -thousand years of prejudice and tradition.</p> - -<p>“I don’t <i>want</i> to bring romance and sweetness into -life,” I said crossly, “I want to get something out -of it.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p> - -<p>“You can’t help it. It’s what you were put in the -world for. We men don’t want you in the struggle. -That’s for us. It’s our business to go down into the -arena and fight for you, make a place for you, keep -you out of it all.”— He moved his foot across the -register and turned it off.</p> - -<p>“You’ve turned off the heat,” I cried.</p> - -<p>He turned it on.</p> - -<p>—“Keep you out of it all. Sheltered from the -noise and glare of the world by our own firesides.”</p> - -<p>“Some of us would rather have a little more noise -and glare by our own register.”</p> - -<p>“All wrong, Evie, all wrong. You’re in a niche -up there with a lamp burning before it. If you come -down from your niche you’re going to lose the thing -that’s made you worshipful—your femininity, your -charm.”</p> - -<p>“What does our charm matter to us? What good -is our femininity to us?”</p> - -<p>He looked surprised.</p> - -<p>“What good?”</p> - -<p>“Look here, Roger, I feel certain that Shem, Ham -and Japheth talked this way to their wives on those -rainy days in the Ark. It’s not only a pre-glacial -point of view, but it’s the most colossally selfish one. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>All you men are worried about is that we’re not going -to be so attractive to make love to. The chase -is going to lose its zest—”</p> - -<p>I stopped short, cut off by a flood of sound that -suddenly burst upon us from the register.</p> - -<p>It was a woman’s voice singing Musetta’s song, -and by its clearness and volume seemed to be the -breath of the register become vocal. We started back -simultaneously and looked about the room, while -Musetta’s song poured over us, a rich jubilant torrent -of melody.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said Roger, rising as if to defend -me.</p> - -<p>“Miss Harris,” I answered, jumping up.</p> - -<p>“Who’s Miss Harris?”</p> - -<p>“A singer. She lives here.”</p> - -<p>“Does she live in there?” He pointed to the register.</p> - -<p>“No, on the top floor, but it connects with her -room.”</p> - -<p>We stood still and listened, and as the song rose -to its brilliant climax, Roger looked at me smiling, -and nodded approvingly. In his heart he thinks he -is something of a musician, has season seats at the -opera and goes dutifully to the Symphony. I don’t -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>think he is any more musical than I am. I don’t -think literary people ever are. They like it with -their imaginations, feel its sensuous appeal, but as -to experiencing those esoteric raptures that the initiated -know—it’s a joy denied.</p> - -<p>The song came to an end.</p> - -<p>“Not a bad voice,” said Roger. “Who is she?”</p> - -<p>“A lady who is studying to be a professional.” -And then I added spitefully: “Do you think she -ought to give up her singing to be sheltered by -somebody’s fireside?”</p> - -<p>Roger had turned to get his coat. He stopped and -looked at me over his shoulder, smiling—he really -has a delightful smile.</p> - -<p>“I except ladies with voices.”</p> - -<p>“Because they add to the pleasure of gentlemen -with musical tastes?”</p> - -<p>He picked up his coat.</p> - -<p>“Evie, one of the things that strengthens me in -my belief is that when you get on that subject you -become absolutely acid.”</p> - -<p>I helped him on with his coat.</p> - -<p>My sitting-room door opens close to the head of -the stairs. If my visitors back out politely they run -a risk of stepping over the edge and falling down-stairs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> -on their backs. The one gas-jet that burns all -the time is a safeguard against this catastrophe, but, -as it is an uncertain and timid flicker, I speed the -parting guest with caution.</p> - -<p>Roger was backing out with his hat held to his -breast when I gave a warning cry. It went echoing -up the stairway and mingled with the sound of heavy -descending feet. A head looked over the upper banister, -a dark masculine head, and seeing nothing -more alarming than a lady and gentleman in an open -doorway, withdrew itself. The steps descended, a -hand glided down the rail, and a large overcoated -shape came into view. The frightened gas-jet shot -up as if caught in a dereliction of duty, and the man, -advancing toward us, was clearly revealed.</p> - -<p>I am a person of sudden attractions and antipathies -and I had one, sharp and poignant, as I -looked at him. It was an antipathy, the “I-do-not-like-you-Doctor-Fell” -feeling in its most acute form. -It was evidently not reciprocal, for, as he drew near, -he smiled, an easy natural smile that disclosed singularly -large white teeth. He gave me an impression -of size and breadth, his shoulders seemed to fill the -narrow passage and he carried them with an arrogant -swagger. That and the stare he fixed on us -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>probably caused the “Doctor Fell” feeling. The -stare was bold and hard, a combination of inspection -and curiosity.</p> - -<p>He added a nod to his smile, passed us and went -down the stairs. We looked down on his wide descending -shoulders and the top of his head, with the -hair thin in the middle.</p> - -<p>“Who’s that bounder?” said Roger.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t the least idea.”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t he bow to you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but that doesn’t make me know him. He -must be some one living in the house.”</p> - -<p>Roger looked after him.</p> - -<p>“I’m coming up here to see you often,” he said -after a moment’s pause.</p> - -<p>After he had gone I went into the back room and -lit lights and peeled off the outer skins of my divan -bed. I felt quite gay and light-hearted. I <i>am</i> going -to like it here. With the student lamp lighted the -back room is very cozy. I lay in bed and surveyed it -admiringly while my ancestors looked soberly down -on me. They are a very solemn lot, all but the -French Huguenot lady with her frivolous curls and -the black velvet round her neck. She has a human -look. I’m sure her blood is strong in me. None of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>the others would ever have lived in an eighteen-foot -house with a prima donna singing through the register, -and a queer-looking man, with large white -teeth, smiling at one in the passage.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> have</span> seen her—and I don’t wonder!</p> - -<p>It was on Tuesday evening just as the dusk was -falling. I had come home from a walk, and as I -climbed the first narrow stair I saw in the hall above -me, a woman standing under the gas, reading a letter. -I caught her in silhouette, a black form, very -tall and broadening out into a wide hat, but even -that way, without feature or detail, arresting. Then, -as she heard me, she stepped back so that the light -fell on her. I knew at once it was Miss Harris, tried -not to stare, and couldn’t help it.</p> - -<p>She is really remarkably good-looking—an oval-faced, -dark-eyed woman, with black hair growing -low on her forehead and waving backward over her -ears. Either the size of the hat, or her earrings -(they were long and green), or a collarless effect -about the neck, gave her a picturesque, unconventional -air. The stage was written large all over her. -When I got close I saw details, that she had beautifully -curly lips—most people’s come together in a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>straight line like a box and its lid—and a fine nose, -just in the right proportion to the rest of her face. -Also she wore a gray fur coat, unfastened, and something -in her appearance suggested a hurried dressing, -things flung on.</p> - -<p>She looked up from the letter and eyed me with -frank interest. I approached embarrassed. A secret -desire to have all people like me is one of my besetting -weaknesses. I am slavish to servants and feel -grateful when salesladies condescend to address me -while waiting for change. The fear that Betty would -find it out could not make me pass Miss Harris without -a word. So I timidly smiled—a deprecating, -apologetic smile, a smile held in bondage by the -memory of Mrs. Ferguson.</p> - -<p>Miss Harris returned it brilliantly. Her face suddenly -bore the expression of one who greets a -cherished friend. She moved toward me radiating -welcome.</p> - -<p>“You’re on the third floor,” she said in a rich -voice, “Mrs. Harmon Drake.”</p> - -<p>I saw a hand extended and felt mine enclosed in -a grasp that matched the smile and manner. Miss -Harris towered over me—she must be nearly six -feet high—and I felt myself growing smaller and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>paler than the Lord intended me to be before that -exuberantly beaming presence. My hand was like a -little bundle of cold sticks in her enfolding grip. I -backed against the banisters and tried to pull it -away, but Miss Harris held it and beamed.</p> - -<p>“I’ve read your name on your door every time -I’ve passed,” she said, “and I’ve hoped you’d some -day open the door and find me standing there and -ask me to come in.”</p> - -<p>I could see Betty’s head nodding at me, I could -hear her grim “I told you so.”</p> - -<p>I made polite murmurs and pressed closer to the -banister.</p> - -<p>“But the door was never opened,” said Miss Harris, -bending to look into my face with an almost -tender reproach. I felt I was visibly shrinking, and -that the upward gaze I fastened on her was one of -pleading. Unless she let go my hand and ceased -to be so oppressively gracious I would diminish to a -heap upon the floor.</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” she went on, “now I know you -I’ll not stand outside any more.”</p> - -<p>I jerked my hand away and made a flank movement -for the stairs. Five minutes more and she -would be coming up and taking supper with me. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>She did not appear to notice my desire for flight, -but continued talking to me as I ascended.</p> - -<p>“We’re the only two women in the upper part of -this house. Do I chaperon you, or do you chaperon -me?”</p> - -<p>I spoke over the banisters and my tone was cold.</p> - -<p>“Being a married woman, I suppose I’m the -natural chaperon.”</p> - -<p>The coldness glanced off her imperturbable good -humor:</p> - -<p>“You never can tell. These little quiet married -women—”</p> - -<p>I frowned. The changed expression stopped her -and then she laughed.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be offended. You must never mind what I -say. I’m not half so interesting if I stop and think.”</p> - -<p>I looked down at her and was weak enough to -smile. Her face was so unlike her words, so serenely -fine, almost noble.</p> - -<p>“That’s right, smile,” she cried gaily. “You’ll -get used to me when you know me better. And -you’re going to do that, Mrs. Drake, for I warn you -now, we’ll soon be friends.”</p> - -<p>Before I could answer she had turned and run -down the stairs to the street.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span></p> - -<p>I let myself into the sitting-room and took off my -things. I have neat old-maidish ways, cultivated by -years of small quarters. Before I can sit with an -easy conscience I have to put away wraps, take off -shoes, pull down blinds and light lamps. When I -had done this I sat before the register and thought -of Miss Harris.</p> - -<p>There was something very unusual about her—something -more than her looks. She has a challenging -quality; maybe it’s magnetism, but whatever it -is that’s what makes people notice her and speak of -her. Nevertheless, she was not <i>de notre monde</i>—I -apologize for the phrase which has always seemed to -me the summit of snobbery, but I can’t think of a -better one. It was not that she was common—that -didn’t fit her at all—unsensitive would be a fairer -word. I felt that very strongly, and I felt that it -might be a concomitant of a sort of crude power. -She didn’t notice my reluctance at all, or I had a -fancy that she might have noticed it and didn’t care.</p> - -<p>I was sitting thus when Mrs. Bushey came bounding -ebulliently in. Mrs. Bushey bounds in quite -often, after physical culture, or when the evenings -in the other house pall. She wore a red dress under -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>a long fur-lined coat and stopped in pained amaze -when she saw me crouched over the register.</p> - -<p>“Cold!” she cried aghast, “don’t tell me you -haven’t enough heat?”</p> - -<p>It was just what I intended telling her, but when -I saw her consternation I weakened.</p> - -<p>“It <i>is</i> a little chilly this evening,” I faltered, -“but perhaps—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey cut me short by falling into the -Morris chair as one become limp from an unexpected -blow.</p> - -<p>“What am I to do?” she wailed, looking up at the -chandelier as though she expected an answer to drop -on her from the globes. “I’ve just got four tons of -the best coal and a new furnace man. I pay him -double what any one else on the block pays—<i>double</i>—and -here you are <i>cold</i>.”</p> - -<p>I felt as if I was doing Mrs. Bushey a personal -wrong—insulting her as a landlady and a woman—and -exclaimed earnestly, quite forgetting the night -Roger and I had frozen in concert.</p> - -<p>“Only this evening, Mrs. Bushey, I assure you.”</p> - -<p>But she was too perturbed to listen:</p> - -<p>“And I try so hard—I don’t make a cent and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>don’t expect to. I want you all to be comfortable, no -matter how far behind I get. That’s my way—but -I’ve always been a fool. Oh, dear!” She let her -troubled gaze wander over the room— “Isn’t that a -beautiful mirror? It came from the Trianon, belonged -to Marie Antoinette. I took it out of my room -and put it in here for you. What <i>shall</i> I do with that -furnace man?”</p> - -<p>I found myself telling her that an arctic temperature -was exactly to my taste, and making a mental -resolution that next time Roger came he could keep -on his overcoat, and after all, spring was only six -months off.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Mrs. Bushey firmly, “I’ll have it right -if I go to the poorhouse, and that’s where I’m -headed. I had a carpenter’s bill to-day—twenty-six -dollars and fourteen cents—and I’ve only eleven in -the bank. It was for your floor”—she looked over -it—“I really didn’t need to have it fixed, it’s not -customary, but I was determined I’d give you a -good floor no matter what it cost.”</p> - -<p>I was just about suggesting that the carpenter’s -bill be added to my next month’s rent when -she brightened up and said an Italian count had -taken the front room on the floor above.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p> - -<p>“Count Mario Delcati, one of the very finest -families of Milan. A charming young fellow, -charming, with those gallant foreign manners. He’s -coming here to learn business, American methods. -I’m asking him nothing—a young man in a strange -country. How could I? And though his family’s -wealthy they’re giving him a mere pittance to live -on. Of course I won’t make anything by it, I don’t -expect to. His room’s got hardly any chairs in it, -and I can’t buy any new ones with that carpenter’s -bill hanging over me.” She smoothed the arm of the -Morris chair and then looked at the floor. “It’s -really made your floor look like parquet.”</p> - -<p>I agreed, though I hadn’t thought of it before.</p> - -<p>“You have a good many chairs in this room,” she -went on, “more than usually go in a furnished apartment, -even in the most expensive hotels.”</p> - -<p>I had two chairs and a sofa. Mrs. Bushey rose -and drew together her fur-lined coat.</p> - -<p>“It’s horrible to think of that boy with only one -chair,” she murmured, “far from his home, too. Of -course I’d give him any I had, but mine are all gone. -I’d give the teeth out of my head if anybody wanted -them. It’s not in my nature to keep things for myself -when other people ought to have them.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> - -<p>I gave up the Morris chair. Mrs. Bushey was -gushingly grateful.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell him it was yours and how willingly you -gave it up,” she said, moving toward the door. Then -she stopped suddenly and looked at the center-table -lamp. “He’s a great reader, he tells me—French -fiction. He ought to have a lamp and there’s not one -to spare in either house.”</p> - -<p>She looked encouragingly at me. I wanted the -lamp.</p> - -<p>“Can’t he read by the gas?” I pleaded.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs. Bushey, with a reproving -look, “can <i>you</i> read by the gas?”</p> - -<p>Conquered by her irrefutable argument, I surrendered -the lamp. She was again grateful.</p> - -<p>“It’s so agreeable, dealing with the right sort of -people,” she said, fastening the last button of her -coat. “All the others in the house are so selfish—wouldn’t -give up anything. But one doesn’t have to -ask you. You offer it at once.”</p> - -<p>The count arrived yesterday afternoon, and we -are now fast friends. Our meeting fell out thus:— I -was reading and heard a sound of footsteps on the -stairs, footsteps going up and down, prowling restless -footsteps to which I paid no attention, as they -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>go on most of the time. Presently there was a knock -at my door and that, too, was a common happening, -as most things and people destined for our house find -refuge at my portal—intending lodgers for Mrs. -Bushey, the seedy man who has a bill for Mr. Hamilton, -the laundress with Mr. Hazard’s wash, the artist -who is searching for Miss Bliss and has forgotten -the address, the telegraph boy with everybody’s telegrams, -the postman with the special deliveries, and -Miss Harris’ purchases at the department stores.</p> - -<p>I called, “Come in,” and the door opened, displaying -a thin, brown, dapper young man in a fur-lined -overcoat and a silk hat worn back from his forehead. -He had a smooth dark skin, a dash of hair on his -upper lip, and eyes so black in the pupil and white in -the eyeball that they looked as if made of enamel.</p> - -<p>At the sight of a lady the young man took off his -hat and made a deep bow. When he rose from this -obeisance he was smiling pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“I am Count Delcati,” he said.</p> - -<p>“How do you do?” I responded, rising.</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said the count in careful English -with an accent. “I come to live here.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a very nice place,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“That is why I took the room,” said the count. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>“But now I am here I can’t get into it or find any -one who will open the door.”</p> - -<p>He was locked out. Mrs. Bushey was absent imparting -the mysteries of physical culture and Emma, -the maid, was not to be found. In the lower hall was -a pile of luggage that might have belonged to an -actress touring in repertoire, and the count could -think of nothing better to do than sit on it till some -one came by and rescued him. Not at all sure that -he might not be a novel form of burglar, I invited -him into my parlor and set him by the register to -thaw out. He accepted my hospitality serenely, -pushing an armchair to the heat, and asking me if I -objected to his wrapping himself in my Navajo -blanket.</p> - -<p>“How fortunate that I knocked at your door,” he -said, arranging the blanket. “Otherwise I should -surely be froze.”</p> - -<p>I had an engagement at the dentist’s and disappeared -to put on my things. When I came back he -rose quickly to his feet, the blanket draped around -his shoulders.</p> - -<p>“I am going out,” I said. “I have to—it’s the -dentist’s.”</p> - -<p>“Poor lady,” he murmured politely.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span></p> - -<p>“But—but you,” I stammered; “what will you -do while I’m gone?”</p> - -<p>Holding the blanket together with one hand he -made a sweeping gesture round the room with the -other.</p> - -<p>“Stay here till you come back.”</p> - -<p>I thought of Roger or Betty chancing to drop in -and looked on the ground hesitant. There was a -slight pause; I raised my eyes. The count, clasping -the two ends of the blanket together over his breast, -was regarding me with mild attention.</p> - -<p>“But if any of my friends come in to see me?”</p> - -<p>“I will receive them—<i>varri</i> nicely,” said the -count.</p> - -<p>We looked at each other for a solemn second and -then burst out laughing.</p> - -<p>“All right,” I said. “There are the books and -magazines, there are the cigarettes, the matches are -in that Japanese box and that cut glass bowl is full -of chocolates.”</p> - -<p>I left him and was gone till dark. At six I came -back to find the room illuminated by every gas-jet -and lamp and the count still there. He had quite a -glad welcoming air, as if I might have been his -mother or his maiden aunt.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p> -<p>“You here still,” I cried in the open doorway.</p> - -<p>He gave one of his deep deliberate bows.</p> - -<p>“I have been varri comfortable and warm,” he -designated the center table with an expressive gesture, -“I read magazines, I eat candy and I smoke—yes”—he -looked with a proud air into the empty -box—“yes, I smoke <i>all</i> the cigarettes.”</p> - -<p>Then we went into the next house to find Mrs. -Bushey.</p> - -<p>My supper—eggs and cocoa—is cooked by me in -the kitchenette. It is eaten in the dining-room or -bedroom (the name of the apartment varies with the -hour of the day) on one end of the table. The effect -is prim and spinsterly—a tray cloth set with china -and silver, a student lamp, and in the middle of the -table, a small bunch of flowers. People send them -sometimes and in the gaps when no one “bunches” -me I buy them. To keep human every woman should -have one extravagance.</p> - -<p>I was breaking the first egg when a knock came -on the door, and Miss Harris entered. She came in -quickly, the gray fur coat over her arm, a bare hand -clasping gloves, purse and a theater bag, all of which -she cast on the divan-bed, revealing herself gowned -in black velvet.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> - -<p>“Good evening, dearie,” she said, patting at her -skirt with a preoccupied air, “would you mind doing -me a service?”</p> - -<p>I rose uneasily expectant. I should not have been -surprised if she had asked for anything from one of -my eggs to all my savings.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look so frightened,” she said, and wheeled -round disclosing the back of her dress gaping over -lingerie effects: “Hook me up, that’s all.”</p> - -<p>As I began the service Miss Harris stood gracefully -at ease, throwing remarks over her shoulder:</p> - -<p>“It’s a great blessing having you here, not alone -for your sweet little self,” she turned her head and -tried to look at me, pulling the dress out of my hands, -“but because before you came I had such a tragic -time with the three middle hooks.”</p> - -<p>“What did you do?”</p> - -<p>“Went unhooked sometimes and at others walked -up and down the stairs hoping I’d find one of the -inhabitants here, or a tramp, or the postman. He’s -done it twice for me—a very obliging man.”</p> - -<p>I did not approve, but did not like to say so.</p> - -<p>“There’s an eye gone here.”</p> - -<p>“Only one,” said Miss Harris in a tone of surprise, -“I thought there were two.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> - -<p>“Shall I pin it?”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t. How could I get out a pin by myself, -and I won’t wake you up at midnight.”</p> - -<p>“But it gaps and shows your neck.”</p> - -<p>“Then if the play’s dull, the person behind me will -have something interesting to look at.”</p> - -<p>“But really, Miss Harris—”</p> - -<p>“My dear, good, kind friend, don’t be so proper, -or do be proper about yourself if it’s your nature and -you can’t help it, but don’t be about me. When I’m -on the stage I’ll have to show much more than my -neck, so I may as well get used to it.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Harris!” I said in a firm cold tone, and -stopped the hooking.</p> - -<p>I caught the gleam of a humorous gray eye.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Drake!” She whirled round and put her -hands on my shoulders and looked into my face with -a sweetness that was quite bewitching. “You dear -little mouse, don’t you know you’re one kind and -I’m another. Both are nice kinds in their way, so -don’t let’s try to mix them up.”</p> - -<p>There is something disarmingly winning about -this woman. I think for the first time in my life I -have met a siren. I pulled my shoulders from the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>grasp of her hands, as I felt myself pulling my spirit -from the grasp of her attraction.</p> - -<p>“I’ve not finished your dress,” I said.</p> - -<p>She turned her back to me and gave a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Go on, Cornelia, Mother of the Gracchi,” she -said, and then added: “Are you the mother of anything?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Too bad,” she murmured, “you ought to be.”</p> - -<p>I didn’t reply to that. In the moment of silence -the sound of feet on the stairs was audible. They -came up the passage and began the ascent of the -next flight. Miss Harris started.</p> - -<p>“That’s my man, I guess,” she said quickly and -tore herself from my hands.</p> - -<p>She ran to the door and flung it open. I could -see the man’s feet and legs half-way up the stairs.</p> - -<p>“Jack,” she cried in a joyous voice, “I’m here, in -Mrs. Drake’s room. Come down;” then to me: “It’s -Mr. Masters. I’m going to the theater with him.”</p> - -<p>The feet descended and Mr. Masters came into -view. He was the man Roger and I had seen in the -passage.</p> - -<p>He took Miss Harris’ proffered hand, then sent a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>look at me and my room that contained a subtle suggestion -of rudeness, of bold and insolent intrusion. -Before she could introduce us he bowed and said -easily:</p> - -<p>“Good evening, Mrs. Drake. Saw you the other -night in the hall.”</p> - -<p>I inclined my head very slightly. His manner and -voice increased my original dislike. I felt that I -could not talk to him and turned to Miss Harris. -Something in her face struck me unpleasantly. Her -look was bent upon him and her air of beaming upon -the world in general was intensified by a sort of special -beam—an enveloping, deeply glowing beam, -such as mothers direct upon beloved children and -women upon their lovers.</p> - -<p>The door was open and Mr. Masters leaned upon -the door-post.</p> - -<p>“Nice little place you’ve got here,” he said. “Better -than yours, Lizzie.”</p> - -<p>Miss Harris withdrew her glance from him, it -seemed to me with an effort, as if it clung upon him -and she had to pluck it away.</p> - -<p>“Finish me,” she said, turning abruptly to me, “I -must go.”</p> - -<p>All the especial glow for me was gone. Her eyes -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>lit on mine vacant and unseeing. I suddenly seemed -to have receded to a point on her horizon where I -had no more personality than a dot on a map. I -was not even a servant, simply a pair of hands that -prepared her for her flight into the night with the -vulgar and repulsive man. This made me hesitate, -also I didn’t want to go on with the hooking while -Mr. Masters leaned against the door-post with that -impudently familiar air.</p> - -<p>“If Mr. Masters will go into the passage,” I said.</p> - -<p>He laughed good-humoredly, but did not budge. -Miss Harris made a movement that might easily -have degenerated into an angry stamp.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be such an old maid,” she said petulantly. -“Do the collar and let me go.”</p> - -<p>I couldn’t refuse, but I went on with the hooking -with a flushed face. What a fool I had been not to -take Betty’s advice. Charming as she could be when -she wanted, Miss Harris was evidently not a person -whose manners remained at an even level.</p> - -<p>“Have you heard Miss Harris sing?” asked Mr. -Masters.</p> - -<p>“Yes, through the register.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a bad conductor. You must come up and -hear her in her own rooms some evening.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> - -<p>“If Miss Harris wants me to.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Drake will some day hear me sing in the -Metropolitan,” said the lady.</p> - -<p>“Some day,” responded Mr. Masters.</p> - -<p>There was something in his enunciation of this -single word, so acid, so impregnated with a sneering -quality that I stopped my work and cast a surprised -glance at him.</p> - -<p>He met it with a slight smile.</p> - -<p>“Our friend Lizzie here,” he said, “has dreams—what -I’m beginning to think are pipe dreams.”</p> - -<p>“Jack,” she cried with a sudden note of pleading, -“you know that’s not true. You <i>know</i> I’ll some day -sing there.”</p> - -<p>“I know you want to,” he replied, then with the -air of ignoring her and addressing himself exclusively -to me: “Miss Harris has a good voice, I -might say a fine voice. But—all here,” he spread his -fingers fan-wise across his forehead and tapped on -that broad expanse, “the soul, the thing that sees -and feels—absent, nil,” he fluttered the spread fingers -in the air.</p> - -<p>I was astounded at his cruel frankness—all the -more so as I saw it had completely dashed her spirits.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> - -<p>“Rubbish, I don’t believe a word of it,” I answered -hotly, entirely forgetting that I was angry with her.</p> - -<p>“Not a bit,” he returned coolly, “I’ve told her so -often. A great presence, a fine mechanism,” he swept -her with a gesture as if she had been a statue, “but -the big thing, the heart of it all—not there. No -imagination, no temperament, just a well regulated, -handsomely decorated musical box. Isn’t that so, -Lizzie?”</p> - -<p>He turned from me and directly addressed her, -his eyes narrowed, his face showing a faint sardonic -amusement. I wondered what she was going -to say—whether she would fly at him, or whether, -like the woman I knew, she would hide her mortification -and refuse him the satisfaction of seeing how -he hurt her.</p> - -<p>She did neither. Moving to the divan, she picked -up her coat, showing me a face as dejected as that -of a disappointed child. His words seemed to have -stricken all the buoyancy out of her and she -shrugged herself into the coat with slow fatigued -movements. Bending to pick up her gloves and -glasses she said somberly:</p> - -<p>“I’ll get a soul some day.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span></p> - -<p>“We hope so,” he returned.</p> - -<p>“He doesn’t know anything about it,” I said in -an effort to console.</p> - -<p>“Oh, doesn’t he!” she answered bitterly. “It’s his -business.”</p> - -<p>“I’m a speculator in voices,” he said, “and our -handsome friend Lizzie here has been an investment -that, I’m beginning to fear, won’t pay any dividends.”</p> - -<p>He laughed and looked at her with what seemed -to me a quite satanic pleasure in his tormenting.</p> - -<p>I could think of nothing to say, bewildered by the -strange pair. Miss Harris had gathered up her belongings -and moved to the door with a spiritless -step.</p> - -<p>“Good night,” she said, glancing at me as if I was -a chair that had temporarily supported her weight in -a trying moment.</p> - -<p>“Good night,” said Mr. Masters cheerfully. -“Some day go up and hear Lizzie sing and see if -you can find the soul in the sound.”</p> - -<p>He gave a wave with his hat and followed her -down the hall.</p> - -<p>I shut the door, and am not ashamed to confess, -leaned upon it listening. I wanted to hear her attack<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> -him on the lower flight. But their footsteps -died away in silence.</p> - -<p>I cleared away my supper, sunk in deep reflections. -What an extraordinary woman! One moment treating -you like her bosom friend, the next oblivious of -your existence, and most extraordinary of all, meekly -enduring the taunts of that unspeakable man. I -couldn’t account for it in any way except that she -must be going to marry him—and that was a hateful -thought. For if she <i>was</i> rude, and had the manners -of a spoiled child, there was something about her -that drew you close, as if her hands had hold of -yours and were pulling you softly and surely into -her embrace.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">R</span>oger</span> and I went out to dinner last night, -down-town to our favorite haunt in University -Place.</p> - -<p>I put on my best, a brown velveteen princesse -gown (one of Betty’s made over), my brown hat -with the gold rose and my amber beads. I even -powdered my nose, which I was brought up to think -an act of depravity only perpetrated by the lost and -fallen. When I am dressed up I really do not look -thirty-three. But I’ll have to buy two little rats to -puff out my hair at the sides. It’s too flat under that -hat. Roger was pleased when he saw me—that’s -why I did it. What’s the fun of dressing for yourself? -Some one must look at you admiringly and say, -well, whatever it’s his nature to say. I suppose Mr. -Masters would exclaim, “Gee, you’re a peach!” -Roger said, “I like you in brown.”</p> - -<p>I love going down Fifth Avenue in the dark of a -winter evening. The traffic of business is over. -Motors and carriages go spinning by, carrying people<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> -to dinners. The big glistening street is like an -artery with the joyous blood of the city racing -through it, coursing along with the throb, throb, -throb of a deathless vitality. And the lights—the -wonderful, glowing, golden lights! Two long lines -of them on either side that go undulating away into -the distance, and broken ones that flash by in a yellow -streak, and round glaring ones like the alarmed -eyes of animals rushing toward you in terror.</p> - -<p>And I love the noise, the near-by rumble and clatter, -and outside it the low continuous roar, the voice -of the city booming out into the quiet of the fields -and up into the silence of the skies. One great, unbroken -sound made up of millions of little separate -sounds, one great consolidated life made up of millions -of little separate life, each of such vital importance -to the one who’s living it.</p> - -<p>We had lots to talk about, Roger and I. We -always do. We might be wrecked on a desert island -and go on talking for ten years without coming to -the end. There are endless subjects—the books we -read, the plays we see, pictures over which we argue, -music of which I know nothing, and people, the -most absorbing of all, probably because gossiping is -a reprehensible practise. There is nothing I enjoy -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>more. If I hadn’t been so well brought up I would -be like the women in the first act of <i>The School -for Scandal</i>. Sometimes we make little retrospective -journeys into the past. But we do this -cautiously. There are five years we neither of us -care to touch on, so we talk forward by preference.</p> - -<p>Of course I had to tell Roger of Miss Harris and -Mr. Masters. It lasted through two courses.</p> - -<p>“What a dog!” was Roger’s comment.</p> - -<p>“Roger,” I said earnestly, “do you think she could -be in love with such a man?”</p> - -<p>Roger shrugged.</p> - -<p>“How can <i>I</i> tell?”</p> - -<p>“But could any woman—any possible kind of a -woman? And she’s a very possible kind. Something -comes from her and finds your heart and draws it -right out toward her. She couldn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you don’t understand this enigmatical -lady.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe I don’t understand everything about -her, I’ve only known her a few days. But I can -feel—it’s an instinct—that underneath where the -real things are she’s true and sound.”</p> - -<p>I can see into Roger more clearly than he knows, -and I saw that he wasn’t at all interested in Miss -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>Harris. He looked round the room and said indifferently:</p> - -<p>“Why does she have a cad like that hanging -about?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps underneath there’s something fine in -him.”</p> - -<p>“Very far underneath, buried so deep nobody but -Miss Harris can find it.”</p> - -<p>“Roger, don’t be disagreeable. You’ve never seen -either of them.”</p> - -<p>“Evie, dear, your descriptions are very graphic. -Do you know what I think?” He looked at me, -smiling a little, but with grave eyes. “I think that -you’re seeing Miss Harris through yourself. You’re -putting your brain into her head and your heart -into her body and then trying to explain her. That’s -what’s making her such a puzzle.”</p> - -<p>The waiter here produced a casserole with two -squabs in it and presented it to Roger’s gaze as if -it were a gift he was humbly offering. Roger looked -at it and waved him away as if the gift was not -satisfactory.</p> - -<p>“They look lovely,” I called, and Roger smiled.</p> - -<p>The squabs occupied him and my thoughts occupied -me finally to find expression in a question:</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> -<p>“Roger, what is a gentleman?”</p> - -<p>He looked surprised.</p> - -<p>“A gentleman? What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Just what I say—what is it?”</p> - -<p>“You know.”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t. That’s just the point. There are lots -of things that everybody—young people and fools—seem -to understand and I don’t. One is the theory -of vicarious atonement, one is why girls are educated -to know nothing about marriage and children, -which are the things that most concern them, and -one is what makes a man a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>Roger considered:</p> - -<p>“Let’s see—at a blow. A gentleman is a man who -observes certain rules of behavior founded on consideration -for the welfare and comfort of others.”</p> - -<p>“It sounds like the polite letter writer. Can a -gentleman tell lies?”</p> - -<p>“To benefit himself, no. To shield others, yes.”</p> - -<p>“If he was noble inside—in his character—and -uncouth outside, would he be a gentleman?”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by uncouth?”</p> - -<p>“Well—wore a watch chain made of nuggets like -a man I met in Dresden, and ate peas with his -knife?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span></p> -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Then, if he had beautiful manners and a bad -heart, would he be one?”</p> - -<p>“If his bad heart didn’t obtrude too much on his -dealings with society, he might.”</p> - -<p>“Is it all a question of clothes and manners?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“You’ve got to have besides the clothes and manners -an inner instinct?”</p> - -<p>“That’s it.”</p> - -<p>I mused for a moment, then, looking up, caught -Roger’s eye fixed on me with a quizzical gleam.</p> - -<p>“Why this catechism?”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of Mr. Masters.”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens!” said Roger crossly, his gleam -suddenly extinguished. “Can’t you get away from -the riff-raff in that house? I wish you’d never gone -there.”</p> - -<p>“No, I can’t. I was wondering if Mr. Masters, -under that awful exterior had a fine nature, could -he possibly be a gentleman?”</p> - -<p>“Evie,” said Roger, putting down his knife and -fork and looking serious, “if under that awful exterior -Mr. Masters had the noble qualities of George -Washington, Sir Philip Sidney and the Chevalier -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>Bayard he could no more be a gentleman than I -could be king of Spain.”</p> - -<p>“I was afraid that’s what you’d say.” I sighed -and returned to my squab.</p> - -<p>I said no more about it, but when I got home my -thoughts went back to it. I hated to think of Lizzie -Harris in the company of such a man. If she was -lacking in judgment and worldly knowledge some -one ought to supply them for her. She was alone -and a stranger. Mrs. Bushey had told me she came -from California, and from what I’d heard, California’s -golden lads and lassies scorned the craven -deference to public opinion that obtains in the effete -East. But she was in the effete East, and she must -conform to its standards. She probably had never -given them a thought and had no initiated guide to -draw them to her attention. Whatever Betty might -say, I was free to be friendly with whomever I -pleased. That was one of the few advantages of -being a widow, <i>déracinée</i> by four years in Europe. -By the morning I had decided to put my age and -experience at her service and this afternoon went -up-stairs to begin doing it.</p> - -<p>She was in her front room, sitting at a desk writing. -A kimono of a bright blue crêpe enwrapped -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>her, her dark hair, cloudy about the brows, was -knotted loosely on the nape of her neck. She rose -impulsively when she saw me, kissed me as if I was -her dearest friend, then motioned me to the sofa, -and went back to her place at the desk.</p> - -<p>The room is like mine, only being in the mansard, -the windows are smaller and have shelf-like sills. -It was an odd place, handsome things and tawdry -things side by side. In one corner stood a really -beautiful cabinet of red Japanese lacquer, and beside -it a three-legged wooden stool, painted white -with bows of ribbon tied round each leg as if it was -some kind of deformed household pet. Portions of -Miss Harris’ wardrobe lay over the chairs, and the -big black hat crowned the piano tool. On the window-sill, -drooping and withered, stood a clump of -cyclamen in a pot, wrapped in crimped green paper. -Beside it was a plate of crackers and a paper bag, -from whose yawning mouth a stream of oranges had -run out, lodging in corners. The upright piano, its -top covered with stacked music, the wintry light -gleaming on its keys, stood across a rear angle of -the room and gave the unkempt place an air of purpose, -lent it a meaning.</p> - -<p>It must be confessed Miss Harris did not look as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>if she needed assistance or advice. She was serene -and debonair and the blue kimono was extravagantly -becoming. I sat down upon the sofa against a pile -of cushions. The bottom ones were of an astonishing -hardness which obtruded through the softness of -the top ones as if an eider-down quilt had been -spread over a pile of bricks. I tried to look as if I -hadn’t felt the bricks and smiled at Miss Harris.</p> - -<p>“See what I’ve been doing,” she said, and handed -me a sheet of note paper upon which were inscribed -a list of names.</p> - -<p>I looked over them and they recalled to my mind -the heroines of G. P. R. James’ novels of which, in -my teens, I had been fond.</p> - -<p>“Suggestions for my stage name,” she explained. -“How does number three strike you?”</p> - -<p>Number three was Leonora Bronzino.</p> - -<p>“That’s an Italian painter,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Is it? What a bother. Would he make a fuss?”</p> - -<p>“He’s been dead for several hundred years.”</p> - -<p>“Then he doesn’t matter. What do you think of -number five?”</p> - -<p>I looked up number five—Liza Bonaventura.</p> - -<p>I murmured it, testing the sound. Miss Harris -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>eyed me with attention, rapping gently on her teeth -with the pen handle.</p> - -<p>“Is it too long?”</p> - -<p>I wasn’t sure.</p> - -<p>“Of course when I got to be famous it would be -just Bonaventura. And that’s a good word—might -bring me luck.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you use your own name?”</p> - -<p>She laughed, throwing back her head so that I -could see the inside of her mouth, pink and fresh like -a healthy kitten’s.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie Harris on a program—never!” Then -suddenly serious, “I like Bonaventura—‘Did you -<i>hear</i> Bonaventura last night in <i>Tannhäuser</i>’—strong -accent on the hear. ‘How superb Bonaventura was -in <i>Carmen</i>.’ It has a good ring. And then I’ve got -a little dribble of Spanish blood in me.”</p> - -<p>“You look Spanish.”</p> - -<p>She nodded:</p> - -<p>“My grandmother. She was a Spanish Californian—Estradilla. -They owned the Santa Caterina -Rancho near San Luis Obispo. My grandfather was -a sailor on a Yankee ship that used to touch there -and get hides and tallow. He deserted and married -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>her and got with her a strip of the rancho as big as -Long Island. And their illustrious descendant lives -in two rooms and a kitchenette.”</p> - -<p>She laughed and jumped up.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to sing for you and you’ll see if Bonaventura -doesn’t go well with my style.”</p> - -<p>She swept the hat off the piano stool and seated -herself. The walls of the room are covered with an -umber brown burlap which made an admirable background -for her long body clothed in the rich sinuous -crêpe and her pale profile uplifted on an outstretched -white neck.</p> - -<p>“I’ll sing you something that I do rather well—Elizabeth’s -going to be one of my great rôles,” she -said, and struck a chord.</p> - -<p>It was <i>Dich Theure Halle</i> and she sang it badly. -I don’t mean that she flatted or breathed in the -wrong place, but she sang without feeling, or even -intelligence. Also her voice was not especially remarkable. -It was full, but coarse and hard, and -rolled round in the small room with the effect of -some large unwieldly thing, trying to find its way -out. What struck me as most curious was that the -rich and noble quality one felt in her was completely -lacking in her performance. It was commonplace, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>undistinguished. No matter how objectionable Mr. -Masters might be I could not but feel he was right.</p> - -<p>When she had finished she wheeled suddenly -round on the stool and said quickly:</p> - -<p>“Let me see your face.”</p> - -<p>“It’s—it’s a fine voice,” I faltered, “so full and—er—rich.”</p> - -<p>She paid no attention to my words, but sent a -piercing look over my embarrassed countenance. -Her own clouded and she drew back as if I had -hurt her.</p> - -<p>“You don’t like it,” she said in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“Why do you say that—what nonsense. Haven’t -I just said—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, keep quiet,” she interrupted roughly, and -giving the piano stool a jerk was twirled away from -me into a profile position. She looked so gloomy -that I was afraid to speak.</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s pause, during which I felt -exceedingly uncomfortable and she sat with her head -bowed, staring at the floor. Then she gave a deep -sigh and murmured.</p> - -<p>“It’s so crushing—you all look the same.”</p> - -<p>“Who?”</p> - -<p>“Everybody who knows. And I’ve worked so -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>hard and I’m eaten up,” she struck her breast with -her clenched fist, “eaten up in here with the longing -to succeed.”</p> - -<p>The gesture was magnificent, and with the frowning -brows and somber expression she was the Tragic -Muse. If she could only get <i>that</i> into her voice!</p> - -<p>“I’ve been at it two years, with Vignorol—you -know him? I’ve learnt Italian and German, and -nearly all the great mezzo rôles. And the polite ones -say what you say, and the ones who don’t care about -your feelings say ‘A good enough voice, but no -temperament.’” She gave her body a vicious jerk -and the stool twirled her round to me. “How in -heaven’s name can I get temperament?”</p> - -<p>“Well—er—time—and—er—experience and sorrow—” -I had come up-stairs to give advice, but not -on the best manner of acquiring temperament.</p> - -<p>She cut me short.</p> - -<p class="p2b">“I’ve had experience, barrels of it. And time? -I’m twenty-six now—am I to wait till I’m seventy? -And sorrow? All my relations are dead—not that -I care much, most of them I didn’t know and those -I did I didn’t like. Shall I go and stand on the corner -of Forty-second Street and Broadway and -clamor for sorrow?”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<a id="i_072"><img src="images/i_072.jpg" width="350" alt="“How in heaven’s name can I get temperament?”" -title="" /></a></div></div> - -<p class="caption">“How in heaven’s name can I get temperament?”</p> - -<p class="p2"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> - -<p>“It’ll come without clamoring,” I said. Upon that -subject I can speak with some authority.</p> - -<p>“I wish it would hurry up. I want to arrive, I -want to be a great prima donna. I <i>will</i> be a great -prima donna. I <i>will</i> sing into that big dark auditorium -and see those thousands of faces staring up at -me and make those thousands of dull fat pigs of -people sit up and come to life.”</p> - -<p>She rose and walked to the window, pushed it up -and picking up one of the oranges, threw it out.</p> - -<p>“I hope that’ll hit some one on the head,” she -said, banging the window down.</p> - -<p>“Have you had the public’s opinion on your singing?” -I asked, feeling it best to ignore her eccentricities -of temper.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I was in a concert in Philadelphia a year -ago, with some others.”</p> - -<p>“And what was the verdict?”</p> - -<p>She gave a bitter smile.</p> - -<p>“The critics who knew something and took themselves -seriously, said ‘A large coarse voice and no -temperament.’ The critics who were just men said -nothing about the singing and a good deal about the -singer’s looks—” She paused, then added with sulky -passion, “Damn my looks.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> - -<p>She was going to the window again and I hastily -interposed.</p> - -<p>“Don’t throw out any more oranges. You might -hit a baby lying in its carriage and break its nose.”</p> - -<p>Though she did not give any evidence of having -heard, she wheeled from the window and turned -back to me.</p> - -<p>“It’s been nothing but disappointments—sickening -disappointments. I wish I’d been left where I -was. Three years ago in California I was living in -a little town on the line between Los Angeles and -San Francisco. I sang in the church and got ambitious -and went up to San Francisco. They made a -good deal of fuss over me—said another big singer -was going to come out of California. I was just beginning -to wonder if I really <i>was</i> some one, when -one of those scratch little opera companies that tour -South America and Mexico came up. Masters, Jack—the -man you met here the other night—was managing -it. I got an introduction and sang for him, -and you ought to have heard him go up in the air. -Bang—pouf!—like dynamite! Not the way he is -now—oh, no—”</p> - -<p>She stopped. The memory of those days of encouragement<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> -and promise seemed to shut off her -voice. She stared out of the window as if she were -looking back at them, her face set in an expression -of brooding pain. I thought she was going to cry, -but when she spoke her voice showed an angry petulance -far from the mood of tears.</p> - -<p>“I’d never have got such big ideas if he hadn’t -given them to me. I must come on here and study, -not waste myself on little towns and little people. -Go for the big prize—that was what <i>I</i> was made for.” -She suddenly turned on me and flung out what -seemed the bitterest of her grievance, “He made me -do it. <i>He</i> insisted on my coming—got Vignorol to -take me, paid for my lessons. It’s his doing, all this.”</p> - -<p>So <i>that</i> was the situation. That explained it all. -I was immensely relieved. She might be in love with -him, but if he was not in love with her (and he certainly -gave no evidences of it), it would be easy to -get rid of him. He was frankly discouraged about -her, would probably hail with relief any means of -escaping the continued expense of her lessons. The -instinct that had brought me up-stairs <i>was</i> a good -one after all.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t you”—I felt my way carefully for the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>ground was delicate—“couldn’t you put yourself in -some one else’s hands. Get some one else to—I don’t -know what the word is—”</p> - -<p>She eyed me with an intent watching look that -was disconcerting.</p> - -<p>“Be my backer?” she suggested.</p> - -<p>I nodded.</p> - -<p>“No, I could not,” she said, in a loud violent -tone. “Go back on the man who tried to make me, -dragged me out of obscurity and gave me my -chance? Umph!” She turned away with a scornful -movement: “That would be a great thing to do.”</p> - -<p>The change was so quick that it bewildered me. -The cudgel with which she had been beating Masters -was now wielded in his defense. The ground was -even more delicate than I had thought, and silence -was wisdom till I saw what was coming next. I rose -from the rocky cushions and moved to the window.</p> - -<p>The light in the little room had grown dim, the -keys of the piano gleaming whitely from their dusky -corner. With a deep sigh Miss Harris walked to the -sofa, threw herself full length on it and lay still, a -tall dark shape looking up at the ceiling.</p> - -<p>I did not know what to say and yet I did not like -to leave her so obviously wretched.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span></p> - -<p>“Shall I light the gas?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“No,” came the answer, “I like the dark.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mind if I water the cyclamen? They’re -dying.”</p> - -<p>“I do. I want them to die.”</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands under her head and continued -to gaze at the ceiling. I moved to the door -and then paused.</p> - -<p>“Can I do anything for you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—” she shifted her glance and looked at me -from beneath lowered lids. I again received the impression -I had had the evening when I hooked her -dress—that I was suddenly removed to an illimitable -distance from her, had diminished to an undecipherable -speck on her horizon. Never before had I met -anybody who could so suddenly and so effectively -strike from me my sense of value and importance.</p> - -<p>“You can do something I’d like very much—go,” -the voice was like a breath from the arctic.</p> - -<p>I went, more amazed than angry. On the landing -I stood wondering. What had I done to her? If I -hadn’t been so filled up with astonishment I might -have laughed at the contrast between my recent satisfaction -in my mission and my inglorious dismissal.</p> - -<p>My thoughts were dispersed by voices from below, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>resounding up through the cleft of the stairs. From -a background of concerted sound, a series of short -staccato phrases detached themselves:—</p> - -<p>“My ’at! Look at it! Ruined! Smashed!”</p> - -<p>I looked over the banister. On the floor below -stood the count addressing Miss Bliss, Mr. Hamilton, -Mr. Hazard and Mr. Weatherby, who stood -ranged in their hallway in a single line, staring up -at him. In one extended arm he held out a silk hat -in a condition of collapse. Their four upturned faces -were solemn and intent. Miss Bliss’ mouth was -slightly open, Mr. Hamilton’s glasses glittered.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter?” I called, beginning to descend.</p> - -<p>The count lifted a wrathful visage and shook the -hat at me.</p> - -<p>“Look at my ’at.”</p> - -<p>A chorus rose from the floor below:</p> - -<p>“Some one smashed his hat.”</p> - -<p>“Threw an orange on it.”</p> - -<p>“He says it came from here.”</p> - -<p>“I think he’s wrong. It must have been the next -house.”</p> - -<p>“It was not,” cried the count, furious. “It was -’ere—<i>this</i> ’ouse. I am about to enter and crash—it -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>falls on me! From there—above,” he waved the -hat menacingly at the top floor.</p> - -<p>The quartet below chorused with rising hope.</p> - -<p>“Who’s up there, Mrs. Drake?”</p> - -<p>“Did any one throw an orange?”</p> - -<p>“Is Miss Harris at home?”</p> - -<p>I approached the count, alarmed at his hysterical -Latin rage.</p> - -<p>“Who has throw the orange?” he demanded, forgetting -his English in his excitement.</p> - -<p>“You can have it reblocked,” I said comfortingly.</p> - -<p>The count looked as if I had insulted him.</p> - -<p>“’Ere?” he cried, pointing to the ground at his -feet as if a hatter and his block were sitting there. -“Never. I brought it from Italy.”</p> - -<p>From below the voices persisted:</p> - -<p>“Were you with Miss Harris?” This from Mr. -Hamilton.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I was.”</p> - -<p>“Did she throw an orange?” This from Mr. -Hazard.</p> - -<p>“Why should any one throw an orange out of a -front window?”</p> - -<p>Miss Bliss answered that.</p> - -<p>“She might. She’s a singer and they do queer -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>things. I knew a singer once and she threw a clock -that wouldn’t go into a bathtub full of water.”</p> - -<p>This seemed to convince the count of Miss Harris’ -guilt.</p> - -<p>“She did it. I must see ’er,” he cried, and tried to -get past me. I spread my arms across the passage. -If he and Miss Harris met in their several fiery -states of mind, there would be a riot on the top floor.</p> - -<p>I don’t like to tell lies, but I remembered Roger -had said that a gentleman could lie to shield another. -Why not a lady? Besides, in this case, I would -shield two others, for I had no doubt if Count Delcati -intruded on Miss Harris he would be worsted. She -was quite capable of throwing the other oranges at -him and the three-legged stool.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be silly,” I said. “She didn’t throw it.”</p> - -<p>The male portion of the lower floor chorused:</p> - -<p>“I knew she didn’t.”</p> - -<p>“She couldn’t have.”</p> - -<p>“Why should she?”</p> - -<p>The count, with maledictions on the country, the -city, the street and the house, entered his room, the -Westerners entered theirs and Mr. Hamilton ascended -to his. He puffed by me on the stairs:—</p> - -<p>“Ridiculous to accuse a lovely woman like Miss -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>Harris of such a thing. We ought to deport these -Italians. They’re a menace to the country.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bliss alone lingered. She is a pretty, frowsy -little thing who looks cold and half fed, and always -wears a kimono jacket fastened at the neck with a -safety pin. She waited till all the doors had banged, -then looking up, hissed softly:</p> - -<p>“She did it. I was looking out of my window and -saw it coming down and it couldn’t have come from -anywhere but her room.”</p> - -<p>“Hush,” I said, leaning over the banister. “She -did. It’s the artistic temperament.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bliss, as a model—artist not cloak—needed -no further explanation. With a low comprehending -murmur she stole into her room.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he</span> count and Miss Harris have met and all -fear of battle is over. At the first encounter, -which took place in my sitting-room, it was obvious -that the young man was stricken. Since then he has -seen her twice and has fallen in love—at least he -says he has.</p> - -<p>As soon as he felt sure of it he came in to tell me. -So he said the other evening, sitting in the steamer -chair Betty gave me to replace the one Mrs. Bushey -took.</p> - -<p>“You are a woman of sympathy,” he said, lighting -his third cigarette, “and I knew you would understand.”</p> - -<p>Numberless young men have told me of their love-affairs -and always were sure I would understand. I -think it’s because I listen so well.</p> - -<p>I have a fire now. It was easier to buy coal than -argue with Mrs. Bushey. The count stretched his -legs toward it and smoked dreamily and I counted -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>the cigarettes in the box. He smokes ten in an evening.</p> - -<p>“She is most beautiful. I can find only one defect,” -he murmured, “she is not thin enough.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t she?” I said, in my character of sympathetic -woman, “I thought she was rather too thin.”</p> - -<p>“Not for me,” answered the lover pensively; “no -one could be too thin for me.”</p> - -<p>He resumed his cigarette. It was nine and there -were seven left. I calculated that they would last -him till eleven.</p> - -<p>“There was a lady in Rome I once knew,” he began -in a tone of reminiscence, “thin like a match and -so beautiful,” he extended his hand in the air, the -first finger and thumb pressed together as if he -might have been holding the match-like lady between -them, “a blonde with brown eyes, immense -eyes. Oh, <i>Dio mio!</i>” His voice trailed away into -silence, swamped by a flood of memory.</p> - -<p>“Were you in love with her, too?” I have noticed -that the confiding young men expect the sympathetic -woman to ask leading questions.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the count gravely, “four years ago.”</p> - -<p>“You must have been very young.”</p> - -<p>Such remarks as this are out of character. They -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>take me unawares and come from the American part -of me—not the human universal part, but that which -is individual and local.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I was nineteen.” He went back to his -memories. “She was all bones, but such beautiful -bones. One winter she had a dress made of fur and -she looked like an umbrella in it. This way,” he -extended his hands and described two straight perpendicular -lines in the air, “the same size all the way -up. Wonderful!”</p> - -<p>“Our young men don’t fall in love so early,” I -said.</p> - -<p>“They don’t fall in love at all,” replied the count, -“neither do the women. They only flirt, all of them, -except Miss Harris.”</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t she flirt?”</p> - -<p>I was stretching my sympathetic privileges a little -too far. My excuse is curiosity, vulgar but natural. -I had never before seen any one like Miss Harris -and I wanted to get at the heart of her mystery.</p> - -<p>“Flirt!” exclaimed the count. “Does a goddess -flirt? That’s what she is. Think of it—in this new -shiny country, in this city with telephones and policemen, -in this sad street with the houses all built -the same.” He sat upright and shook his cigarette at -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>me. “She belongs where it is all sunshine and joy, -and they dance and laugh and there is no business -and nobody has a conscience.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean Ancient Greece or Modern -Naples?”</p> - -<p>The count made a vague sweeping gesture that -left a little trail of smoke in the air.</p> - -<p>“<i>N’importe!</i> But not here. She is a pagan, a -natural being, a nymph, a dryad. I don’t know what -in your language—but oh, something beautiful that -isn’t bothered with a soul.”</p> - -<p>I started, Masters and the count, raw America -and sophisticated Italy, converging toward the same -point.</p> - -<p>Before I could answer her voice sounded startlingly -loud through the register. For the first moment I -didn’t recognize the strain, then I knew it—“<i>Vissi -d’arte, vissi d’amore</i>”—I have lived for art, I have -lived for love. We looked at each other in surprised -question as the impassioned song poured from the -grating. It was as if she had heard us and this was -her answer.</p> - -<p>My knowledge of nymphs and dryads is small, -but I feel confident if one of them had ever sung a -modern Italian aria through a modern American -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>register she could not have rendered it with less -heart and soul than Miss Harris did.</p> - -<p>Yesterday morning Betty telephoned me to come -and lunch with her. Betty’s summons are not casual -outbreaks of hospitality. There is always an underlying -purpose in them, what a man I know who -writes plays would call “a basic idea”. She is one -of the few people who never troubles about meaningless -formalities or superfluous small talk. It’s her -way, and then she hasn’t time. That’s not just a -phrase but a fact. Every hour of her day has its -work, good work, well done. Only the poor know -Betty’s private charities, only her friends the number -of her businesslike benefactions.</p> - -<p>Walking briskly down the avenue I wondered -what was her basic idea this time. Sometimes it’s -clothes: “There are some dresses on the bed. Look -them over and take what you like. The gray’s rather -good, but I think the pink would be more becoming. -I can have it done over for you by my woman.” -Sometimes it’s a reinvestment of part of my little -capital suggested by Harry, a high interest and -very safe. Once it was an attempt to marry me off. -That was last autumn when I had just got back from -Europe, to a man with mines from Idaho. When I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>grew tearful and reluctant she gave it up and shifted -him—for he was too valuable to lose—to a poor relation -of Harry’s.</p> - -<p>We were at lunch when the basic idea began to -rise to the surface, Betty at the head of the table, -very tight and upright in purple cloth and chiffon, -and little Constance, her eldest born, opposite me. -Little Constance is an adorable child with a face like -a flower and the manner of a timid mouse. She loves -clothes and when I come leans against me looking -me over and gently fingering my jewelry. She -won’t speak until she has examined it to her satisfaction. -At the table her steadfast gaze was diverted -from me to a dish of glazed cherries just in front -of her.</p> - -<p>The entrée was being passed when Betty, helping -herself, said:</p> - -<p>“Harry’s just met a man from Georgia who is -in cotton—not done up in it, his business.” She -looked into the dish then accusingly up at the butler: -“I said fried, not boiled, and I didn’t want cream -sauce.”</p> - -<p>The butler muttered explanations.</p> - -<p>“Tell her it mustn’t happen again, no more cream -sauce for lunch.” She helped herself, murmuring, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>“Really the most fattening thing one can eat.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you eat it?” said little Constance, withdrawing -her eyes from the cherries.</p> - -<p>“Because I like to. Keep quiet, Constance. Mr. -Albertson, that’s his name, is well-off, perfectly presentable -and a widower.”</p> - -<p>So it was matrimonial again.</p> - -<p>“That’s very nice,” I replied meekly.</p> - -<p>“We’ll have him to dinner some night next week -and you to meet him.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you ask me? He’d surely rather have -some one younger and prettier.”</p> - -<p>“It doesn’t matter what he’d rather have. I’ll -telephone you when the day’s fixed.”</p> - -<p>“Betty,” I murmured, looking at her pleadingly.</p> - -<p>“Evie,” she returned firmly, “don’t be silly. The -present situation’s got to come to an end some time.”</p> - -<p>“It’ll never end.”</p> - -<p>“Rubbish. There’s no sense in you scraping along -this way in two rooms—”</p> - -<p>“Remember the kitchenette.”</p> - -<p>“In two rooms,” she went on, ignoring the -kitchenette. “Of course I don’t want you to live in -Georgia, but—”</p> - -<p>Little Constance showed a dismayed face.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span></p> -<p>“Is Evie going to live in Georgia?”</p> - -<p>Betty turned a stern glance on her.</p> - -<p>“Constance, you’ll lunch up-stairs if you keep on -interrupting.”</p> - -<p>Constance was unaffected by the threat.</p> - -<p>“When is she going?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Never,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad,” said little Constance, and seeing her -mother’s glance averted, stole a cherry from the dish -and hid it in her lap.</p> - -<p>“From what Harry says, and he’s heard all about -Mr. Albertson, he seems a perfectly fitting person, -forty-five, of very good family and connections, and -with an income of thirty thousand a year.”</p> - -<p>“He’ll probably not like me,” I said hopefully.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he will,” answered Betty with grim meaning, -“I’ll see to that.”</p> - -<p>I could hear her retailing my perfections to Mr. -Albertson and my heart sank. Masterful, managing -people crush me. If the man from Georgia liked -me, as the man from Idaho did, I foresaw a struggle -and I seem to have exhausted all my combative force -in the year before my husband died. I looked at -little Constance and caught her in the act of popping -the cherry into her mouth. It was large and she had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>to force it into her cheek and keep it there like a -squirrel with a nut. An expression of alarm was in -her face, there was evidently less room for it than -she had expected.</p> - -<p>Betty went ruthlessly on.</p> - -<p>“Your present way of living is absurd—you, made -for marriage.”</p> - -<p>I saw little Constance’s eyes grow round with -curiosity, but she did not dare to speak.</p> - -<p>“Made for companionship. If you were a suffragette -or a writer, or trimmed hats or ran a tea-room, -it would be different, but you’re a thoroughly -domestic woman and ought to have a home.”</p> - -<p>Little Constance bit the cherry with a sharp -crunching sound. Betty looked at her.</p> - -<p>“Constance, are you eating your lunch?”</p> - -<p>Little Constance lifted her bib, held it to her -mouth, and nodded over it.</p> - -<p>The danger was averted. Betty turned to me.</p> - -<p>“Marriage is the only life for a normal woman. -Judkins, I’ll have some more of those sweetbreads.”</p> - -<p>She helped herself, and under the rattle of the -spoon and fork, little Constance crunched again, -very carefully.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span></p> - -<p>“And what is the good of living in the past. -That’s over, thank heaven.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not living in the past any more. Betty, I’m—I’m—raising -my head.”</p> - -<p>Betty looked sharply up from the sweetbreads, -and I flinched under her glance. She cast an eye on -Judkins, who was receding into the pantry, waited -till he was gone, then said, in an eager hushed voice:</p> - -<p>“Evie, don’t tell me there’s some one?”</p> - -<p>Never have I been more discomfited by the directness -of my Betty. I felt myself growing red to -my new rat and was painfully aware that little Constance, -now crunching rapidly, had fixed upon me -the deadly stare of an interested child.</p> - -<p>“Of course there isn’t. What nonsense. But time -has passed and one doesn’t stay broken-hearted forever. -I’m not <i>old</i> exactly, and I’m—that is—it’s -just as I said, I’m beginning to come alive again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Betty breathed out and leaned against her -chair-back, with a slight creaking of tight drawn -fabrics. But she kept her eye on me, in a sidelong -glance, that contained an element of inspecting inquiry. -Little Constance swallowed the cherry at a -gulp and the question it had bottled up burst out:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p> - -<p>“Evie, are you going to get married?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I almost shouted.</p> - -<p>Little Constance said no more, but her gaze remained -glued to my face in an absorption so intense -that she leaned forward, pressing her chest against -the edge of the table. Betty played with her knife -and fork with an air of deep thought. Judkins reentered -to my relief.</p> - -<p>He was passing the next dish when little Constance -broke the silence.</p> - -<p>“Evie, why did you get all red just now?”</p> - -<p>“Constance,” said her mother, “if you’re a good -girl and stop talking you can have a cherry when -lunch is over.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks, mama,” said little Constance, in her -most mouse-like manner.</p> - -<p>After lunch we drove about in the auto and -shopped, and as the afternoon began to darken Betty -haled me to a reception.</p> - -<p>“Madge Knowlton’s daughter’s coming out,” she -said. “And as you used to know her before you -went to Europe, it’s your duty to come.”</p> - -<p>“Why is it my duty? I was never an intimate of -hers.”</p> - -<p>I’m shy about going to parties now; I feel like -Rip Van Winkle when he comes back.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span></p> - -<p>“To swell the crowd. It’s a social service you owe -to a fellow woman in distress.”</p> - -<p>We entered the house through a canvassed tunnel -and inserted ourselves into a room packed with -women and reverberating with a clamor of voices. -We had a word and a hurried handclasp with Madge -Knowlton and her daughter, and then were caught -in a surging mass of humanity and carried into a -room beyond. The jam was even closer here. I -dodged a long hatpin, and was borne back against a -mantelpiece banked with flowers whose delicate -dying breath mingled with the scents of food and -French perfumery. When the mass broke apart I -had momentary glimpses of a glittering table with -a woman at either end who was pouring liquid into -cups.</p> - -<p>At intervals the crowd, governed by some unknown -law, was seized by migratory impulses. Segments -of it separated from the rest, and drove toward -the door. Here they met other entering segments -with a resultant congestion. When thus solidified -the only humans who seemed to have the key -of breaking us loose were waiters. They found their -way along the line of least resistance, making tortuous -passages like the cracks in an ice pack.</p> - -<p>From them we snatched food. I had a glass of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>punch, a cup of coffee, a chocolate cake, two marrons -and a plate of lobster Neuberg, in the order -named. I haven’t the slightest idea why I ate them—suggestion -I suppose. All the other women were -similarly endangering their lives, and the one possible -explanation is that we communicated to one -another the same suicidal impulse. It was like the -early Christians going to the lions, the bold ones -swept the weaker along by the contagion of example.</p> - -<p>I met several old acquaintances who cried as if -in rapturous delight.</p> - -<p>“Why, Evelyn Drake, is this really you?”</p> - -<p>“Evie—I can’t believe my eyes! I thought you -had gone to Europe and died there.”</p> - -<p>“How delightful to see you again. Living out of -town, I suppose. We must arrange a meeting when -I get time.”</p> - -<p>And so forth and so on.</p> - -<p>It made me feel like a resurrected ghost who had -come to revisit the glimpses of the moon. My old -place was not vacant, it was filled up and the grass -was growing over it. I was glad when one of those -blind stampeding impulses seized the crowd and -carried me near enough to Betty to cry, as I was -borne along, “I’m going home and I’d rather walk,” -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>and was swept like a chip on a stream to the door.</p> - -<p>It was raining, a thin icy drizzle. Beyond the -thronging line of limousines, the streets were dark -with patches of gilding where the lamplight struck -along the wet asphalt. They looked like streets in -dreams, mysteriously black gullies down which hurried -mysteriously black figures. I walked toward -Lexington Avenue, drooping and depressed, in accord -with the chill night and the small sad noises -of the rain. I was in that mood when you walk -slowly, knowing your best dress is getting damp and -feeling the moisture through your best shoes and -neither matters. Nothing matters.</p> - -<p>Once I used to enjoy teas, found entertainment -in those brief shouted conversations, those perilous -feasts. Perhaps I was sad because I was so out of it -all. And what was I in—what took its place? I -was going back to emptiness and silence. To greet -me would be a voiceless darkness, my evening companion -a book.</p> - -<p>I got on a car full of damp passengers. As if -beaten down by the relentless glare of the electric -lights, all the faces drooped forward, hollows under -the eyes, lines round the mouths. They sat in listless -poses, exhaling the smell of wet woolen and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>rubber and I sat among them, also exhaling damp -smells—also with hollows under my eyes and lines -round my mouth. That, too, didn’t matter. What -difference if I was hollowed and lined when there -was no one to care?</p> - -<p>My room was unlighted and cold. I lighted the -gas and stood with uplifted hand surveying it. It -was like a hollow shell, an empty echoing shell, that -waited for a living presence to brighten it. Just then -it seemed to me as if I never could do this—its loneliness -would be as poignant and pervasive when I -was there, would steal upon me from the corners, -surround and overwhelm me like a rising sea. My -little possessions, my treasures, that were wont to -welcome me, had lost their friendly air. I suddenly -saw them as they really were, inanimate things -grasped and held close because associated with the -memory of a home. In the stillness the rain -drummed on the tin roof and the line in a forgotten -poem rose to my mind, “In the dead unhappy night -and when the rain is on the roof.”</p> - -<p>I snatched a match and hurried to the fire. Thrusting -the flame between the bars of the grate, I said -to myself:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span></p> - -<p>“I must get some kind of a pet—a dog or a Persian -cat. I’ve not enough money to adopt a child.”</p> - -<p>The fire sputtered and I crouched before it. I -didn’t want any supper, I didn’t want to move. I -think a long time passed, several hours, during -which I heard the clock ticking on the mantel over -my head, and the rain drumming on the roof. Now -and then the rumbling passage of a car swept across -the distance.</p> - -<p>I have often sat this way and my thoughts have -always gone back to the past like homing pigeons -to the place where they once had a nest. To-night -they went forward. My married life seemed a great -way off, and the Evelyn Drake in it looked on by -the Evelyn Drake by the fire, a stranger long left -behind. The memories of it had lost their sting, -even the pang of disillusion was only a remembrance. -With my eyes on the leaping flames I looked over -the years that stretched away in front, diminishing -to a point like a railway track. My grandmother had -lived to eighty-two and I was supposed to be like -her. Would I, at eighty-two, be still a pair of ears -for young men’s love stories and young women’s -dreams of conquest?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span></p> - -<p>Oh, those years, that file of marching years, coming -so slowly and so inevitably, and empty, all -empty!</p> - -<p>The rain drummed on the roof, the clock ticked -and the smell of my best skirt singeing, came delicately -to my nostrils. Even <i>that</i> didn’t matter. From -thirty-three to eighty-two—forty-nine years of it. -I looked down at my feet, side by side, smoking on -the fender. Wasn’t it Oliver Wendell Holmes, -when asked to define happiness, answered, “four -feet on the fender”?</p> - -<p>There was a knock on the door, probably the -count to continue the recital of his love’s young -dream. My “Come in” was not warm.</p> - -<p>The door opened and Roger entered in a long wet -raincoat.</p> - -<p>I jumped up crying “Roger,” and ran to him with -my hand out.</p> - -<p>He took it and held it, and for a moment we stood -looking at each other quite still and not speaking. -I was too glad to say anything, too glad to think. -It was an astonishing gladness, a sort of reaction I -suppose. It welled through me like a warm current, -must have shone in my face, and spoken from my -eyes. I’ve not often in my life been completely outside<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> -myself, broken free of my consciousness and -soared, but I was then just for one minute, while I -looked into Roger’s face, and felt his hand round -mine.</p> - -<p>“You’re glad to see me, Evie,” he said and his -voice sounded as if he had a cold.</p> - -<p>That broke the spell. I came back to my eighteen-foot -parlor, but it was so different, cozy and pretty -and intimate, full of the things I care for and that -are friends to me. The rain on the roof had lost its -forlornness, or perhaps, by its forlornness accentuated -the comfort and cheer of my little room.</p> - -<p>We sat by the fire. Roger’s feet were wet and he -put them upon the fender.</p> - -<p>“Now, if you’d been plodding about in the rain -with me you’d put yours up, too. Hullo, what have I -said? Your face is as red as a peony.”</p> - -<p>“It’s the fire. I’ve been sitting over it for a long -time,” I stammered.</p> - -<p>Just then the register became vocal, with the -habanera from <i>Carmen</i>.</p> - -<p>Roger got up and shut it.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want to hear her sing?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“No, I want to hear you talk,” said he.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII</h2></div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">M</span>iss Harris</span> is going to appear in a concert. -She came glowing and beaming into -my room to tell me. Vignorol, her teacher, had arranged -it—with a violinist and a baritone—in -Brooklyn.</p> - -<p>“Why not New York?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Not <i>yet</i>,” said Miss Harris, moving about the -room with a jubilant dancing step, “but after this -is over—wait and see!”</p> - -<p>Great things are expected to come of it. The public’s -attention is to be caught, then another concert, -maybe an engagement in one of the American opera -companies—just for experience. It is to be the opening -of a career which will carry her to the Metropolitan -Opera House. The baritone is another of -Vignorol’s pupils, Berwick, a New Englander—nothing -much, just to fill up. The violinist is a Mrs. -Stregazzi, who also fills up, and little Miss Gorringe -accompanies. I was shown a pencil draft of the program -with Liza Bonaventura written large at the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>top—“Yes, it’s to be Bonaventura; I had a superstition -about it,” and the dress is to be white, or, with -a sudden bright air:</p> - -<p>“I might borrow your green satin—but of course -I couldn’t. You’re too small.”</p> - -<p>Since then the house has resounded with practising -from the top floor. Heavy steps and light feminine -rustlings have gone up and down the stairs. -Once the strains of a violin came with a thin whine -through the register as if some melancholy animal -was imprisoned behind the grill. In the dusk of the -lower hall I bumped into a young man with tousled -hair and frogs on his coat, whom I have since met as -Mr. Berwick.</p> - -<p>The star is in a state of joyful excitement which -has communicated itself to the rest of us. When in -the evening she goes over her repertoire, the Westerners -and Miss Bliss sit on the bottom steps of their -stairs, Mr. Hamilton and the count on the banisters -of theirs and I on the top step of mine. A Niagara -of sound pours over us, billowing and rushing down -through the well, buffeted between the close confining -walls. When each piece is ended Miss Harris -comes out on her landing, leans over the railing and -calls down:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p> - -<p>“How was that?”</p> - -<p>Then our six faces are upturned and we express -our approbation, according to our six different natures.</p> - -<p>Our mutual hopes for her success have drawn us -together and we have suddenly become very friendly. -Mr. Hazard drops in upon me in a paint-stiffened -linen blouse and Mr. Weatherby has confided -to me the money to pay for his laundry. Mr. Hamilton -has smoked a large black cigar in my dining-room, -and Miss Bliss has come shivering with -hunched shoulders and clasped red arms to “borrow -a warm” (her own expression) at my fire.</p> - -<p>In my excursions to the top floor I have met Mrs. -Stregazzi and Miss Gorringe. Mrs. Stregazzi is a -large blond lady with an ample figure and a confidential -habit. On our first meeting she called me -“dearie” and told me all about her divorce from Mr. -Stregazzi, who, I gathered, was her inferior, both in -station and the domestic virtues. In his profession—the -stage—he was something called “a headliner”, -and appeared to be involved mysteriously with -trained animals. Since his divorce he has married -another “headliner”. It’s like that story of the -Frenchman in Philadelphia: “He <i>is</i> a Biddle, she -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span><i>was</i> a Biddle, they are <i>both</i> Biddles.” I must ask -Lizzie Harris what it is. Miss Gorringe is a thin -sallow girl with an intelligent face, and Mr. Berwick -a bulky silent New Englander, in the early -twenties, who bears a strong resemblance to the bust -of Beethoven over Schirmer’s music store.</p> - -<p>They are strange people, artless as children, and -completely absorbed in themselves and their work. -They appear to have no points of contact with any -other world, and the real part of their world is the -professional part. They don’t say much about their -homes or their lives away from it.</p> - -<p>A few days ago they took tea with me, and as they -talked I had a series of glimpses, like quickly shifted -magic lantern slides, of their life on trains, in hotels, -behind the scenes and on the stage. It seemed to me -a sort of nightmare of hurry and scramble, snatched -meals, lost trunks, cold dressing-rooms. Maybe the -excitement makes up for the rest. It must be exciting—at -least that’s the impression I got as I sat -behind the teacups listening.</p> - -<p>Lizzie Harris seemed to find it enthralling, everything -they said interested her. Mrs. Stregazzi told -some anecdotes that I didn’t like—I don’t want to -be a prig, but they really were <i>too</i> sordid and scandalous—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> -our prima donna hung on the words of -that fat made-up woman as if she spoke with the -tongues of men and of angels. The more I know of -her the less able I am to get at the core of her being, -to place her definitely in my gallery of “women I -have known.” I had finally decided that in spite of -her tempests, her egotism and her weather-cock -moods, there was something rare and noble in her, -and here she was drinking in cheap gossip about a -set of people she didn’t know, and who seem to be a -mixture of artist, mountebank and badly brought-up -child.</p> - -<p>As I sat pouring the tea I felt again that curious -aloofness in her. But before it was more a withdrawal -of her spirit into herself, a retreating into an -inner citadel and closing all the doors. This time it -was the spirit reaching toward others and shutting -me out, like a child who forgets its playmate when a -circus passes by. She listened hungrily, now and -then commenting or questioning with a longing, almost -a homesick note. When they rose to go, with a -scraping of chair-legs and a concerted clamor of -farewells, she was reluctant to lose them, followed -them to the hall and leaned over the banister -watching their departing heads.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> - -<p>She made me feel an outsider, almost an intruder. -I was willing to efface myself for the moment and -stood by the table waiting for her to come back and -reestablish me in her regard. She said nothing, -however, but brushed by the door and went up-stairs. -In a few minutes Musetta’s song filled the house. -The next morning she came in while I was at breakfast -and asked me to lend my green satin dress to -Miss Gorringe, and when I agreed kissed me with -glowing affection.</p> - -<p>That all happened early in the week. Yesterday -afternoon I was witness to a scene, the effect of -which is with me still, at midnight, scratching this -down in my rose-wreathed back room. It was a -hateful scene, a horrible scene—but let me describe it:</p> - -<p>Calls of my name descending from the top floor -in Miss Harris’ voice, took me out to my door.</p> - -<p>“I am going over some of my things,” the voice -cried. “Come up and listen.” Then, as I ascended, -“It’s the scene between Brunhilda and Siegmund in -<i>Die Walkuere</i>, the <i>piéce de résistance</i> of the evening.”</p> - -<p>I didn’t find Miss Gorringe as I expected, but Mr. -Masters, sitting on the piano stool and looking glum. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>He rose, nodded to me, and sinking back on the stool, -laid his hands on the keys and broke into a desultory -playing. With all my ignorance I have heard -enough to know that he played uncommonly well.</p> - -<p>The future Signorita Bonaventura was looking -her best, a slight color in her cheeks, confidence -shining in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“We’ve been trying it over. Did you hear?”</p> - -<p>The weather had been warm, the register closed, -so I had only heard faintly.</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s going to be something great,” said the -prima donna.</p> - -<p>“Is it?” said Mr. Masters with his back to us.</p> - -<p>The sneering quality was strong in his tone and I -began to wish I hadn’t come.</p> - -<p>“Go across the room, Mrs. Drake,” he said curtly. -“Sit where you can see her.”</p> - -<p>I obeyed, sitting in the corner by the window. She -faced me and Mr. Masters was in profile.</p> - -<p>My friends tell me I am completely devoid of -the musical sense. It must be true, for I can not sit -through <i>Meistersinger</i>, and there are long reaches -of <i>Tristan and Isolde</i> that get on my nerves like a -toothache. But I <i>have</i> some kind of appreciation, do -derive an intense pleasure from certain scenes in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>certain operas. It was one of these scenes they were -now giving, that one in the second act of <i>Die -Walkuere</i> when Brunhilda appears before Siegmund.</p> - -<p>It has always seemed to me that the drama rose -above the music, overpowered it. I supposed this to -be the fancy of my own ignorance and never had the -courage to say it. But the other day I read somewhere -the opinion of Dujardin, the French critic, -and he expressed just what I mean—“It is not the -music, no, it is not the music, that counts in the -scene, but the words. The music is beautiful—of -course it is, it couldn’t be otherwise—but Wagner -was aware of the beauty of the poetry and allowed -it to transpire.”</p> - -<p>That is exactly what I should have said if I had -dared.</p> - -<p>Masters struck the opening notes and she began -to sing.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Siegmund sieh’ auf mich! Ich bin’s der bald du folgst—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Siegmund, look on me. I come to call thee hence.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>What a greeting!</p> - -<p>A stir of irritation passed through me. She looked -at Masters with a friendly air and sang the lines -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>with an absence of understanding and emotion that -would have robbed them of all meaning if anything -could. I wanted to shake her.</p> - -<p>Then I forgot—Masters began.</p> - -<p>If I was surprised at his playing his singing -amazed me. He had almost no voice, but he had all -the rest—the wonderful thing, imagination, the response -to beauty, power of representing a state of -mind. I don’t explain well, I am out of my province, -perhaps it’s better if I simply say he became Siegmund.</p> - -<p>As he played he turned and looked at her. His -whole face had changed, transformed by the shadow -of tragedy. To him Lizzie was no longer Lizzie, she -was the helmed and armored daughter of Wotan delivering -his death summons. I can pay no higher -tribute to him than to say I forgot him, the burlap -walls, the thin tones of the piano and saw a vision -of despairing demigods.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Wer bist du, sag</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Die so schön und ernst mir erscheint?”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Then Lizzie:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Nur Todgeweihten</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Taugt mein Anblick:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wer mich erschaut,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Der scheidet vom Lebenslicht.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p> - -<p>My vision was dispelled. No one could have kept -it listening to her and watching her. As they went -on what he created she destroyed; it was the most -one-sided, maddening performance. I found myself -eager to have her stop that I might hear him. Before -they had reached the end I knew that Mr. -Masters was an artist and she was not. That is all -there was to it.</p> - -<p>She turned to me, proudly smiling, with a questioning -“Well”.</p> - -<p>Mr. Masters, his head drooped, heaved a sigh.</p> - -<p>I could not be untruthful. I had been too deeply -moved.</p> - -<p>“Your voice is very fine,” I said in the flattest -of voices and looked at her beseechingly.</p> - -<p>She met my eyes steadily and her smile died -away.</p> - -<p>“Only a voice,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Miss Harris,” I cried imploringly. “You are -young, you have beauty—” She cut short my bromides -with an angry exclamation.</p> - -<p>“And no more temperament than a tomato can,” -Mr. Masters finished for me.</p> - -<p>He ran his fingers over the keyboard in a glittering -flow of notes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> - -<p>“You’re a liar,” she cried, turning furiously on -him.</p> - -<p>Now, for the first time, I saw her really angry, -not childishly petulant as in her orange-throwing -mood, but shaken to her depth with rage. She was -rather terrible, glaring at Masters with a grim face.</p> - -<p>“Am I?” he said, coolly striking a chord. “We’ll -see Tuesday night in Brooklyn.”</p> - -<p>I had expected him to answer her in kind, but he -only seemed weary and dispirited. Her chest rose -with a deep breath and I saw to my alarm that she -had grown paler.</p> - -<p>“You didn’t always think that,” she said in a -muffled voice.</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered quietly, “I believed in you -at first.”</p> - -<p>He spread his hands in a long clutching movement -and struck another chord. It fell deep into the -momentary silence as if his powerful fingers were -driving it down like a clencher on his words.</p> - -<p>“And you don’t any more?”</p> - -<p>“No, I’ve about done believing,” he responded.</p> - -<p>She ran at him and seized him by the shoulder. -He jerked it roughly out of her grasp and twirling -round on the stool faced her, exasperated, defiant, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>a man at the end of his patience. But his eyes said -more, full of a steely dislike. She met them and -panted:</p> - -<p>“You can’t, you don’t. Even you couldn’t be so -mean—” then she stopped, it seemed to me as if for -the first time conscious of the hostility of his gaze. -There was the pause of the realizing moment and -when she burst out her voice was strangled with -passion:</p> - -<p>“Go—get out—go away from me. I’m sick of it -all. I’ll stand no more—go—go.”</p> - -<p>She ran to the door and threw it open. I got up -to make my escape. Neither of them appeared to remember -I was there.</p> - -<p>“All right,” he said, calmly rising. “That suits -me perfectly.”</p> - -<p>He picked up his hat and coat and moved to the -door. I tried to get there before him, dodging about -behind their backs for an exit, then, like a frightened -chicken, made a nervous dive and got between -them. Her hand on my arm flung me back as if I -had been a chair in the way. I had a glimpse of -her full face, white and with burning eyes. She -frightened me.</p> - -<p>Mr. Masters walked into the hall and there came -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>to a standstill. After looking at the back and front -of his hat he settled it comfortably on his head -and moved toward the stairs.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she rushed after him and caught him by -the arm.</p> - -<p>“No—no—” she cried. “Don’t go.”</p> - -<p>I couldn’t see her face, but his was in plain view -and it looked exceedingly bored.</p> - -<p>“What is it now?” he said.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m so discouraged—you -take the heart out of me. I don’t know -what I’m saying and I’ve tried so hard—oh, Jack—”</p> - -<p>Her voice broke, her head sank. Mr. Master’s expression -of boredom deepened into one of endurance.</p> - -<p>“What do you want me to do?” he asked with -weary patience.</p> - -<p>“Come back. Don’t be angry. Forget what I -said.”</p> - -<p>She began to cry, shielding her face with one -hand, the other still holding him by the sleeve.</p> - -<p>He sighed, and glancing up, saw me. I expected -him to drive me forth with one fierce look. Instead -he made a slight grimace and reentered the room, -she holding to his sleeve. He dropped heavily on -the piano stool and she on the chair opposite, her -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>hands in her lap, two lines of tears on her cheeks. -Neither said a word.</p> - -<p>The way was clear and I flew out with the wild -rush of a bird escaping from a snare. As I ran -down the stairs the silence of that room, four walls -enclosing a tumult of warring passions, followed -me.</p> - -<p>It’s midnight and I haven’t got over the ugliness -of it. What am I to think? The thing many people -would think, I won’t believe, I can’t believe. No -one who knew her could. That the unfortunate creature -loves him is past a doubt—but how can she? -How can she humiliate herself so? Where is the -pride that the rest of us have for a shield and -buckler. Where is the self-respect? To cry—to let -him see her cry, and then—that’s the <i>comble</i>, as -the Paris art students say—to call him back!</p> - -<p>I feel sick, for I love her. If she hasn’t got a soul -or temperament or any of the rest of it that they do -so much talking about, she’s got something tucked -away somewhere that’s good, that’s true. It looks -at you out of her eyes, it speaks to you in her voice—and -then Masters comes along and it’s gone.</p> - -<p>I stopped here, and biting the end of my pen, -looked gloomily at the wall and met the cold stare of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>my ancestors. I wonder what the men would have -said if they had been there this afternoon. I’m not -sure—men are men and Lizzie is beautiful. But -about you ladies, I can make a guess. You would -purse your mouths a little tighter and say, “Evelyn, -you’re keeping queer company. Whatever you may -think in your heart, drop her. That’s the wise -course.” All but the French Huguenot lady, she’s -got an understanding eye. She feels something that -the others never felt, probably saw a little deeper -into life and it softened the central spot.</p> - -<p>No, my dears, you’re all wrong. You’re judging -by appearances and fixed standards, which is something -your descendant refuses to do. Go to sleep -and try and wake up more humble and humane. -Good night.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII</h2></div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">B</span>etty</span> had the dinner for Mr. Albertson last -night and of course I went, for Betty is like -royalty, she doesn’t invite, she commands. In a brief -telephone message she instructed me to wear my blue -crêpe and I wore it. Before dinner, in her room, she -eyed me critically and put a blue aigrette in my hair.</p> - -<p>Mr. Albertson was a gallant Southerner with -courtly manners and a large bald spot. We got on -very nicely, though he did not exhibit that appreciation -of my charms that marked the Idaho man from -the moment of our meeting. If, however, he should -develop it I have resolved to crush it by strategy. -I don’t know just how yet—the only thing I can -think of at present is to ask him to call and pretend -I’m drunk like David Garrick. I’ll get a better idea -if the necessity arises. I haven’t the courage to defy -Betty twice.</p> - -<p>Betty sent me home in the limousine, without the -footman and the chow dog. It was a cold still night, -the kind when the sky is a deep Prussian blue and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>all the lights have a fixed steady shine. As the car -wheeled into Fifth Avenue and I sat looking out of -the window, revolving schemes for the disenchanting -of Mr. Albertson, I saw Roger walking by. Before -I thought I had beckoned to him and struck on the -front window for the chauffeur to stop. The car -glided to the curb and Roger’s long black figure -came running across the street.</p> - -<p>“You!” he cried, “like a fairy princess with a -feather in your hair. What ball are you coming -from, Cinderella?”</p> - -<p>As soon as he spoke I grew shy. Do the women -who have ready tongues and the courage of their -moods, realize the value of their gifts?</p> - -<p>“I—I—it’s not a ball, it’s Betty Ferguson’s and -she’s sending me home.”</p> - -<p>“All right.” He said something to the chauffeur, -stepped in and the car started. “What a piece of -luck. I was coming from a deadly dinner and going -to a deadly club. What inspired you to hail me?”</p> - -<p>Nothing did, or something did that I couldn’t explain. -I felt round for an answer and produced the -first that came.</p> - -<p>“I wanted to talk to you about something.”</p> - -<p>“Go ahead.” He pulled the rug over me. “It’s -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>a nipping cold night abroad. Let’s hear what it -was you wanted to talk about.”</p> - -<p>For a moment I thought of telling him of Lizzie -Harris and Mr. Masters, then I knew that wouldn’t -do. Lizzie’s secrets were my secrets. I had to tell -him something and in my embarrassment I told him -the first thing that came into my head.</p> - -<p>“Betty asked me to dinner to meet a man from -Georgia.”</p> - -<p>As soon as I had said it I had a sick feeling that -he might be wondering why I should stop him on -Fifth Avenue at eleven o’clock of a winter’s night, -to impart this piece of intelligence.</p> - -<p>He received it with the dignity of a valuable communication.</p> - -<p>“Did she? And what was he like?”</p> - -<p>“Very charming. His name’s Albertson and he -has cotton mills down there.”</p> - -<p>“Must be a man of means.”</p> - -<p>“I believe he is.”</p> - -<p>It was very nice of Roger to take it so simply and -naturally, but you can always rely on his manners. -My embarrassment passed away. The auto sped out -into the concentrated sparklings of Plaza Square, -then swerved to the left, sweeping round the statue -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>of Sherman led to victory by a long-limbed and -resolute angel.</p> - -<p>“We’re going the wrong way. What’s Nelson doing?” -I raised a hand to rap on the window.</p> - -<p>“I told him to take us through the park. Put your -hand in your muff. Why did Betty ask you to meet -Mr. What’s-his-name from Georgia?”</p> - -<p>I know every tone of Roger’s voice, and the one -he used to ask that question was chilly. Betty’s plans -involved no secrecy, so I said, laughing:</p> - -<p>“I think she’s trying to make a match.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Roger.</p> - -<p>I had thought he would laugh with me, but in that -brief monosyllable there was no amusement. It came -with a falling note, and it seemed to be a sort of extinguisher -on the conversation, a full stop at the end -of it, for we both fell silent.</p> - -<p>The auto swept up the drive, gray and smooth between -gray trees. I could see a reach of deep blue -sky with the stars looking big and close, as if they -had come down a few billion miles and were looking -us over with an impartial curiosity. Across the park -the fronts of apartment-houses showed in gleaming -tiers, far up into the night, their lights yellower -than the stars. It was lovely to glide on, swiftly and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>smoothly, with the frost gripping the world in an -icy clasp while we were warm and snug and so -friendly that we could be silent.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t this beautiful, Roger?” I said, looking out -of the window. “Look on the other side of the park, -hundreds of lights in hundreds of homes.”</p> - -<p>Roger gave a sound that if I were a writer of -realistic tendencies, I should call a grunt.</p> - -<p>We met a hansom with the glass down, and on an -ascending curve another auto swooping by with two -great glaring lamps. I felt quite oddly happy; the -menacing figure of Mr. Albertson became no more -than a bogy. After all even Betty couldn’t drag me -struggling to the altar.</p> - -<p>“Why is Betty so anxious to marry you off?” -came suddenly from the corner beside me.</p> - -<p>Mr. Albertson assumed his original shape as a -marriageable male with a bald spot and a cotton -mill, and Betty slipped back into position. I wasn’t -sure she couldn’t drag any one to the altar if she -made up her mind to it. My voice showed the oppression -of this thought.</p> - -<p>“She thinks all women should be married.”</p> - -<p>“You have been married.”</p> - -<p>Something was the matter with Roger to say that.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p> - -<p>“Well, she thinks I’m poor and lonely.”</p> - -<p>“Are you?”</p> - -<p>I began to have an uncomfortable, complicated -feeling. Fear was in it, also exhilaration. It made -me sit up stiffly, suddenly conscious of a sensation of -trembling somewhere inside.</p> - -<p>“I am poor,” I said, “that is, poor compared to -people like Betty.”</p> - -<p>“And lonely, too?”</p> - -<p>The disturbance grew. It made me draw away -from Roger, pressed close into my corner, as if no -scrap or edge of my clothing must touch him. I was -afraid that my voice would show it and determined -that it mustn’t.</p> - -<p>“I’m lonely sometimes. That rainy night when -you came in unexpectedly I was.”</p> - -<p>My voice <i>wasn’t</i> all right. I cleared my throat and -pretended to look at the stars.</p> - -<p>Roger said nothing, but the secret subways of -emotion that connect the spirits of those who are in -close communion, told me he, too, was moved. The -air in the closed scented car did not seem enough for -natural breathing. It was like a pressure, something -that put your heart-beats out of tune, and made your -lips open with a noiseless gasp. I stood it as long as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>I could and then words burst out of me. They came -anyway, ridiculous words when I write them down:</p> - -<p>“But I’ll never marry any of them. No matter -what they are, or what Betty wants, or how many of -them she has up to dinner.”</p> - -<p>The pressure was lifted and I sank back trembling. -It was as if I had been under water and come up -again into the air. The spiritual telegraph told me -that Roger felt as I did, and that suddenly he or I -or both of us, had broken down a barrier. It was -swept away and we were close together—closer than -the night when we had held hands and forgotten -where we were, closer than we’d ever been in all -the years we’d known each other. It was not necessary -to say anything. In our several corners we sat -silent, understanding for the first time, I and the -man I loved.</p> - -<p>The sharp landscape slid by us, naked trees, -spotted lines of light, stretches of lawn grizzled with -frost, woodland depths with the shine of ice about -the tree roots, and then the flash of glassy ponds.</p> - -<p>We sat as still as if we were dead, as if our souls -had come out of our bodies and were whispering. -It was a wonderful moment of time, one of the unforgetable -moments that dot the long material years. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>All that’s gone before and all that’s going to come -dies away and there’s only the present—the beautiful -exquisite present. We only have a few like that -in our lives.</p> - -<p>It lasted till the auto drew up at my door. We said -good night and parted.</p> - -<p>Up in my room I sat a long time by the fire thinking -of the hundreds of women like myself, the disillusioned -ones, in the dark dens of tenements and -in the splendid homes near by. I tried to send them -messages through the night, telling them we could -rise out of the depths. I saw life as it really is, hills -and valleys, patches of blackness and then light, -but always with an unresting force flowing beneath, -the immortal thing that urges and upholds and -makes it all possible. I remembered words I used to -work on bits of perforated board when I was a little -girl, “God is Love.” I never understood what it -meant, even when I stopped working it on perforated -board and grew to the reasoning stage. To-night -I knew—got at last what a happy child might -understand—love in the heart was God with us, -come back to us again.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX</h2></div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">Y</span>esterday</span> was the concert day and I -couldn’t go—a bad cold. The house lamented -from all its floors, for it was going en masse, even the -trained nurse with a usurped right to the sun-dial.</p> - -<p>The only way I could add to the festivity of the -occasion was to distribute my possessions among that -section of the audience drawn from Mrs. Bushey’s -light housekeeping apartments. It began with the -Signorita Bonaventura, who wore my mother’s diamond -pendant, then went down the line:— Miss -Gorringe my green satin (she said it would be horribly -unbecoming, but the audience wouldn’t notice -her), Miss Bliss my black lynx furs, Mrs. Phillips, -the nurse, my evening cloak, Mr. Hazard my opera -glasses, Mr. Weatherby my umbrella—his had a -broken rib and it looked like snow. We were afraid -the count couldn’t find anything suitable to his age -and sex, but he emptied my bottle of Coty’s Jacqueminot -on his handkerchief and left, scented like a -florist’s. Mrs. Bushey came last and gleaned the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>field, a gold bracelet, a marabou stole and a lace -handkerchief she swore she wouldn’t use.</p> - -<p>Much noise accompanied the passage of the day -and some threatening mishaps. At eleven we heard -Berwick was hoarse, but at one (by telephone -through my room) that raw eggs and massage were -restoring him. At midday Miss Gorringe sent a -frantic message that the sash of the green satin -wasn’t in the box. Gloom settled at two with a bulletin -that Mrs. Stregazzi’s second child had croup. It -was better at five. Mr. Hazard’s dress suit smelled -so of moth balls that the prima donna said it would -taint the air, and Emma, the maid, hung it out on the -sacred sun-dial. There was a battle over this. For -fifteen minutes it raged up two flights of stairs, then -Mr. Hazard conquered and the sun-dial was draped -in black broadcloth.</p> - -<p>At intervals Lizzie came down to see me and use -the telephone. She was in her most aloof mood, forbidding, -self-absorbed. On one of her appearances -she found a group of us congregated about my steam -kettle. Our chatter died away before her rapt and -unresponsive eye. Even I, who was used to it, felt -myself fading like a photographic proof in a too -brilliant sun. As for the others they looked small and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>frightened, like mice in the presence of a well-fed -lioness, who, though she might not want to eat them, -was still a lioness. They breathed deep and unlimbered -when the door shut on her.</p> - -<p>In the late afternoon Roger came to see me. He -brought a bunch of violets and a breath of winter -into my bright little room. The threatening snow -had begun to fall, lodging delicately on eaves and -ledges, a scurry of tiny particles against the light of -street-lamps. We stood in the window and watched -it, trimming the house-fronts with white, carpeting -the steps, spreading a blanket ever so softly and -deftly over the tin roof. How different to the rain, -the insistent ruthless rain. The night when the rain -fell came back to me. How different that was from -to-night!</p> - -<p>There was a hubbub of voices from the hall and -then a knock. They were coming to see me before -they left. They entered, streaming in, grubs turned -to butterflies. The house was going cheaply in cars -over the bridge; only the prima donna and Miss -Gorringe were to travel aristocratically in a cab.</p> - -<p>Strong scents from the count’s Jacqueminot -mingled with the faint odor of moth balls that Mr. -Hazard’s dress suit still harbored. Miss Gorringe -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>had rouged a little and the green satin was quite -becoming. Miss Bliss had rouged a good deal and -had had her hair marcelled. In the doorway the -trained nurse hung back, sniffing contemptuously at -Mr. Hazard’s back. Mrs. Bushey, Mr. Hamilton and -Mr. Weatherby grouped themselves by the fireplace.</p> - -<p>“Where’s the prima donna?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Coming,” cried a voice from the stairs, and the -air was filled with silken rustlings.</p> - -<p>It was like an entrance on the stage, up the passage -and between the watching people, and I don’t -think any actress could have done it with more -aplomb. In her evening dress she was truly superb—a -goddess of a woman with her black hair in lusterless -coils and her neck and shoulders as white as -curds. Upon that satiny bosom my mother’s pendant -rose and fell to even breathings. Whatever anybody -else may have felt, the star of the occasion was -calm and confident.</p> - -<p>Her appearance had so much of the theatrical -that it must have made us suddenly see her as the -professional, the legitimate object of glances and -comments. Nothing else could explain why I—a -person of restrained enthusiasms—should have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>broken into bald compliments. She took them with -no more self-consciousness than a performing animal -takes the gallery’s applause, smiled slightly, then -looked at Roger, the stranger. I did so, too, childishly -anxious to see if he admired my protégée. He -evidently did, for he was staring with the rest of -them, intent, astonished.</p> - -<p>Her glance appeared to gather up his tribute as -her hands might have gathered flowers thrown to -her. He was one of the watching thousands that it -was her business to enthrall, his face one of the -countless faces that were to gaze up at her from -tier upon tier of seats.</p> - -<p>When the door shut on the last of them, laughter -and good nights diminishing down the stairs, he -turned to me with an air that was at once bewildered -and accusing.</p> - -<p>“Why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me she -was so good-looking?”</p> - -<p>“I did and you wouldn’t believe me,” I answered -gaily, for I was greatly pleased. It was a little -triumph over Roger with his hypercritical taste and -his rare approvals.</p> - -<p>The next morning I waited anxiously for news. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>I thought Lizzie would be down early, but the others -came before her, dropping in as the morning wore -away. With each entrance I grew more uneasy.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hazard was first, in a gray sweater.</p> - -<p>“Well, she looked great. I wish I could have -painted her that way. But—” he tilted his head, his -expression grown dubious. “You know, Mrs. Drake, -I don’t know one tune from another—but—”</p> - -<p>“But what?” I said sharply.</p> - -<p>“Well, it seemed to me Berwick got away with it.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean the audience liked him better?”</p> - -<p>He nodded, a grave agreeing eye on me.</p> - -<p>“He got them when he sang that thing about <i>The -Three Grenadiers</i>. It made your heart swell up.”</p> - -<p>He leaned nearer, lowering his voice. “And he -got them in that German duet, too.”</p> - -<p>He drew back and nodded again darkly, as if -wishing me to catch a meaning too direful for words.</p> - -<p>An hour later Miss Bliss blew in in a blue flannel -jacket and the remnants of her marcelle wave. By -contrast with her flushed and blooming appearance -of the evening before, she looked pinched and pallid. -She cowered over the fire, stretching her little -chapped hands to the blaze and presenting a narrow -humped back to my gaze.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> - -<p>“She didn’t seem to catch on some way or other. -I don’t know why but—”</p> - -<p>She stopped and leaned forward for the poker.</p> - -<p>“But what?”</p> - -<p>“Well—” She poked the fire, the edge of the -flannel jacket hitched up by the movement, showing -a section of corset laced with the golden string that -confines candy boxes. “She doesn’t give you any -thrill. I’ve heard people without half so much voice -who could make the tears come into your eyes. I -tell you what, Mrs. Drake,” she turned round with -the poker uplifted in emphasis, “<i>I</i> wouldn’t spend -<i>my</i> good money to hear a woman sing that way. -If I shell out one-fifty I want to get a thrill.”</p> - -<p>She was still there when the count came in. He -sat between us gently rocking and eying her with a -pensive stare. She pulled down her jacket and patted -solicitously at the remains of her marcelle.</p> - -<p>“She looked,” said the count, pausing in his -rocking, “she looked like a queen.”</p> - -<p>“Good gracious,” I cried crossly, “<i>do</i> drop her -looks. I saw her.”</p> - -<p>The count, unmoved by my irritation, answered -mildly:</p> - -<p>“One can’t drop them so easily.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> - -<p>“But her singing, her performance?”</p> - -<p>“Her performance,” murmured the young man, -and appeared to look through Miss Bliss at a distant -prospect. “It was good, but—”</p> - -<p>I had to restrain myself from screaming, “But -what?”</p> - -<p>“It was not so good as she is, had none of the—what -shall I say—<i>air noble</i> that she has.” He -screwed up his eyes as if projecting his vision not -only through Miss Bliss, but through all intervening -objects to a realm of pure criticism. “It has a -bourgeois quality, no distinction, no imagination, -and she—” Words were inadequate and he finished -the sentence with a shrug.</p> - -<p>Miss Bliss leaned forward and poked the fire, -once more revealing the golden string. The count -looked at it with a faint arrested interest. I was -depressed, but conventions are instinctive, and I said -sternly:</p> - -<p>“Miss Bliss, let the count poke the fire.”</p> - -<p>The count poked and Miss Bliss slipped to the -floor, and sitting cross-legged, comfortably warmed -her back.</p> - -<p>The count was gone when Mrs. Bushey entered. -Mrs. Bushey says she understands music even as she -does physical culture.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> - -<p>“It was a frost,” she explained, dropping on the -end of the sofa.</p> - -<p>“I know that,” I answered, “the paper this morning -said the thermometer was twenty-two degrees.”</p> - -<p>“Not that kind of a frost, a theatrical frost for -her. She hasn’t got the quality.”</p> - -<p>“No thrill,” murmured Miss Bliss, and no men -being present, stretched out her feet and legs in worn -slippers and threadbare stockings to the blaze.</p> - -<p>I fought against my depression—Mrs. Bushey did -not like Bonaventura.</p> - -<p>“She hasn’t got the equipment,” said Mrs. Bushey -with a sagacious air. Her eye roamed about the -room and lighted on Miss Bliss’ legs. “<i>Are</i> you -cold?” she asked, as if amazed.</p> - -<p>“Frozen,” answered Miss Bliss crossly.</p> - -<p>“How can that be possible when I’ve done everything -to make your room warm, spent all my winter -earnings on coal?”</p> - -<p>Miss Bliss cocked up her chin and replied:</p> - -<p>“You must have had very poor business this winter.” -Then to me very pointedly: “I wanted to ask -you, Mrs. Drake, if you’d lend me your Navajo -blanket, just for a few nights. It would look so bad -for the house if I was found frozen to death in bed -some morning.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p> - -<p>I agreed with alarmed haste, but Mrs. Bushey -did not seem inclined for war. She smiled, murmuring, -“Poor girl, you’re anemic,” and then, her eye -lighting on Marie Antoinette’s mirror:</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Harris’ll never get anywhere till she -gets some color into her voice. It’s the coldest organ -I ever heard. Would you mind if I took that mirror -away? I have a new lodger, a delightful woman -from Philadelphia, and I’ve no mirror for her—I -can’t, I literally <i>can’t</i>, buy one with my finances the -way they are. I suppose after this failure Miss Harris’ll -be late with her rent.”</p> - -<p>Thus Mrs. Bushey. When she had gone—taking -the mirror—Miss Bliss lay flat before the fire and -reviled her.</p> - -<p>Miss Gorringe came next with the green satin -dress. It was upon Miss Gorringe I was pinning my -hopes. None of the others knew anything. Miss -Gorringe, lifting out the dress with cold and careful -hands, looked solemn:</p> - -<p>“No, I can’t say it was a success. I’d like to because -she’s certainly one of the most lovely people -I’ve ever played for, but—” She depressed the corners -of her mouth and slowly shook her head.</p> - -<p>I sat up in my shawls and did scream:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> - -<p>“But what?”</p> - -<p>Miss Gorringe, used to the eccentricities of artists, -was unmoved by my violence. She placed the dress -carefully over the back of a chair.</p> - -<p>“She doesn’t get over,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Get over what?”</p> - -<p>I had heard this cryptic phrase before, but didn’t -know what it meant.</p> - -<p>“The footlights—across, into the audience. And -she ought to, but they were as cold as frogs till Berwick -woke them up with <i>The Three Grenadiers</i>. <i>He</i> -can do it. He hasn’t got any better voice or method -but,” she gave a little ecstatic gesture, “temperament—oh, -my!”</p> - -<p>“Has she got no temperament at all?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“I’ve never played for anybody who had less.” -Miss Gorringe held up the green scarf. “Here’s the -sash.”</p> - -<p>“Not a bit of thrill,” Miss Bliss chanted, prone before -the fire.</p> - -<p>“Can’t a person get temperament, learn it in some -way?”</p> - -<p>Miss Gorringe pondered:</p> - -<p>“They can teach them rôles, hammer it into them. -When a person’s got the looks she has they sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> -do it. But I guess they’ve done all they can -for her. She’s been with Vignorol for two years. He -wouldn’t have taken her unless he thought there was -something in it. And John Masters has been training -her besides, and I’ve heard people say there’s -no one better than Masters for that. You see they -can teach her how to walk and stand and make -gestures, but they can’t put the thing into her head -or her voice. She doesn’t seem to understand, she -doesn’t feel.”</p> - -<p>I was silent. She did feel, I knew it, I’d seen it. -There was some queer lack of coordination between -her power to feel and her power to express.</p> - -<p>Miss Gorringe administered the coup de grâce.</p> - -<p>“She sang the duet from <i>The Valkyrie</i> as if she -was telling Siegmund to put on his hat and come to -supper.”</p> - -<p>“It’s imagination,” I said.</p> - -<p>“It’s temperament,” Miss Gorringe corrected. -“And without it, the way she is, she’d better go in -for church singing, or oratorio, or even teaching.”</p> - -<p>The dusk was gathering and I was alone when she -came down. She threw herself into the wicker chair -beside my sofa. Her face looked thinner and two -slight lines showed round her mouth.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span></p> - -<p>“Well?” I said, investing my voice with a fictitious -lightness. “Where have you been all day?”</p> - -<p>“I’m tired or I’d have been down earlier. Have -you seen the others?”</p> - -<p>With her deadly directness she had gone straight -to the point I dreaded.</p> - -<p>“Yes, they’ve been in.”</p> - -<p>“Did they like it?”</p> - -<p>One of the most formidable things about this -woman is the way she keeps placing you in positions -where you must either lie and lose your self-respect -or tell the truth and incur her sudden and alarming -anger. I was not afraid of that now, but I couldn’t -hurt her. I tried to find a sentence that would be -as truthful and painless as the circumstances permitted. -The search took a moment.</p> - -<p>“They didn’t,” she answered for me.</p> - -<p>She turned her face to the window and drummed -on the chair-arm with her fingers, then said defiantly:</p> - -<p>“They don’t know anything.”</p> - -<p>“Of course they don’t,” I cried. “An Italian -count, an artist, a model, a woman who rents floors.”</p> - -<p>Her eye fell on the green dress.</p> - -<p>“Miss Gorringe has been here.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span></p> - -<p>I nodded.</p> - -<p>“What did <i>she</i> say?”</p> - -<p>I got cold under my wrappings. Had I the courage -to tell her? She looked at me and gave a slight -wry smile.</p> - -<p>“Did she tell you that Berwick got away with it?”</p> - -<p>“Some one did. I think it was Mr. Hazard, but -he’s a painter and—”</p> - -<p>She interrupted roughly.</p> - -<p>“That’s nothing—a big bawling voice singing -popular songs. If they’d let me sing <i>Oh, Promise -Me</i> I’d have had the whole house.”</p> - -<p>For the first time in my experience of her I saw -she was not open with herself. I knew that she had -realized her failure and refused to admit it. She -leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, frowning, -haggard and miserable.</p> - -<p>“I’ll get the notices to-morrow,” she said in a -low voice.</p> - -<p>It was horribly pitiful. There would be no -friendly deception about the notices.</p> - -<p>“Vignorol’s arranged for several good men to go. -He wanted their opinions. They’ll give me a fine -notice on <i>The Valkyrie</i> duet.”</p> - -<p>“Did that go well?” I asked just for something to -say.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, splendidly,” she answered, without looking -up. “It’s one of the things I do best.”</p> - -<p>The room was getting dim and I was thankful for -it. The dusk hid the drooping and discouraged face, -but it could not shut out the voice with its desperate -pretense. It was worse than the face.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said suddenly, straightening up, “I’ll -see Masters to-morrow. He’s coming to bring me -the notices.”</p> - -<p>There was fear in the voice. I knew what the interview -with Masters would be, and she knew, too. -In a moment of insight I saw that she had been -fighting against her dread all day, had come down -to me for courage, was trying now to draw it from -my chill and depressing presence. It was like a -child afraid of the dark, hanging about in terror and -unwilling to voice its alarm.</p> - -<p>I sat up, throwing off my wraps and laid my hand -on hers.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie, don’t mind what he says.”</p> - -<p>Her hand was cold under mine.</p> - -<p>“He knows,” she answered almost in a whisper, -“he <i>knows</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I can get backers for you”—it was rash, but I -know how to manage Betty—“better than he ever -was, the best kind of backers.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span></p> - -<p>She jerked her hand away and glared at me.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by that? Do you think he’s -going to give me up? Why, you must be crazy.” She -jumped to her feet looking down at me with a face -of savage anger. “Do you think I haven’t made -good? Have they,” with a violent gesture to the -door, “told you so? They’re fools, idiots, imbeciles. -Masters give me up—ah—” She turned away and -then back. “Why he’s never had any one with such -promise as I have. He’s banking on me. I’m going -to bring him to the top. He borrowed the money to -send me to Vignorol. Throw me down now, just -when I’m getting there, just when I’m proving he -was right? Oh, I can’t talk to you. You’ve no sense. -You’re as big a fool as all the rest.”</p> - -<p>And she rushed out of the room, banging the door -till the whole apartment shook.</p> - -<p>I lay thinking about it till Emma came to get me -my supper. She was right in one thing—I <i>was</i> a -fool. In my blundering attempt at encouragement -I had gone straight to the heart of her fear, dragged -it out into the light, held up in front of her the -thing she was trying not to see—that Masters would -give her up. Fool—it was a mild name for me. And -<i>poor</i> Lizzie—tragic Bonaventura!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p> - -<p>It’s night again and I am dressed in my best with -a fur cloak on to keep off the chill. I’ve got to write, -not a sudden visitation of the Muse, but to ease my -mind. If you haven’t got a sympathetic pair of ears -to pour your troubles into, pouring them out on paper -is the next best thing.</p> - -<p>It’s two days since I have seen Lizzie. Yesterday -I was in my room all day nursing my cold and expecting -her, but she didn’t come. Neither did she -to-day, and all I could surmise was that she was -angry with me for being a fool. As I feel I was -one and yet don’t like to hear it from other people, -I made no effort to get into communication with her.</p> - -<p>This evening I was well enough to go out in a -cab with all my furs and a foot warmer, to dine with -Roger’s widowed sister, Mrs. Ashworth. I was a -good deal fluttered over the dinner, guessed why it -had been arranged. It was a small affair, the Fergusons, -Roger and I. Preceded by a call from Mrs. -Ashworth, it had a meaningful aspect, a delicate -suggestion of welcoming me into the family. I blush -as I write it. I don’t know why I should, or why -love and marriage are matters surrounded by self-consciousness -and shame. Who was it explained the -embarrassment of lovers, their tendency to hide -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>themselves in corners, as an instinctive sense of guilt -at the prospect of bringing children into a miserable -world? I think it was Schopenhauer. Sounds like -him—cross-grained old misanthrope.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ashworth is Roger’s only near relation and -he regards her as the choicest flower of womanhood. -I don’t wonder. In her way she is a finished -product, no raw edges, no loose ends. Everything -is in harmony—her thin faintly-lined face, her -silky white hair, her pale hands with slightly prominent -veins, her voice with its gentle modulations. -Nothing cheap or second rate could exist near her. -She wouldn’t stamp them out—I can’t imagine her -stamping—they would simply wither in the rarified -atmosphere. Her friends are like herself, her house -is like herself. When I go there I feel strident and -coarse. As I enter the portal I instinctively tune -my key lower, feel my high lights fading, undergo -a refining and subduing process as if a chromo were -being transmuted into a Bartolozzi engraving.</p> - -<p>As my cab crawled down-town—I need hardly -say Mrs. Ashworth lives in a house on lower Fifth -Avenue, built by her father—I uneasily wondered -if the Bohemian atmosphere in which I dwelt had -left any marks upon me. I tried to obliterate them -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>and made mental notes of things I mustn’t mention. -Memories of Miss Bliss’ golden corset string rose uneasily, -and Lizzie Harris, and oh, Mr. Masters! I -ended by achieving a sense of grievance against Mrs. -Ashworth. No one had any right to be so refined. -It was all very well if you inherited a social circle -and large means, but— The cab drew up with a -jolt and I alighted. All unseemly exuberance died -as the light from the door fell on me. I spoke so -softly the driver had difficulty in hearing my order -and when I walked up the steps I minced daintily.</p> - -<p>But it was a delightful dinner. Harry and I were -on one side, Betty and Roger on the other. At the -foot of the table was Mrs. Ashworth’s son, Roger -Clements Ashworth, a charming boy still at college. -It was all perfectly done, nothing showy, nothing in -the fashion. Betty’s pearls looked a good deal too -large beside the modest string that Mrs. Ashworth -wore, which was given to her great, great grandmother -by Admiral Rochambeau. The dining-room -walls were lined with portraits, with over the fireplace, -that foundation stone of the family’s glory, -Roger Clements, “The Signer.”</p> - -<p>I thought of my apartment and my late associates -and felt that I was leading a double life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> - -<p>When I came home the house was very silent. -Mounting the dim dirty stairs with the smell of dead -dinners caught in the corners, I wondered how Mrs. -Ashworth could countenance me. But after all, it -was part of her fineness that she had no quarrel with -the obscure and lowly. If she could not broaden the -walls of her world—and you had only to talk to her -ten minutes to see that she couldn’t—within those -walls all was choice and lovely. I would have to live -up to it, that was all.</p> - -<p>I had got that far when I heard a heavy step and -Mr. Masters loomed up on the flight above. The -stairs are very narrow and I looked up smiling, expecting -him to retreat. He came on, however, not -returning my smile, staring straight before him with -an immovable, brooding glance. I can’t say he -didn’t see me, but he had the air of being so preoccupied -that what his eye lighted on did not penetrate -to his brain. As at our first meeting I received -an impression of brutal strength, his broad shoulders -seeming to push the walls back, his flat-topped head -upheld on a neck like a gladiator. I intended asking -him about the concert and the notices, but his look -froze me, and I backed against the wall for him to -pass.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p> - -<p>As he brushed by he growled a word of greeting. -He was in the hall below when I broke out of -the consternation created by his manner, leaned -over the rail and called down:</p> - -<p>“Mr. Masters, how is Miss Harris?”</p> - -<p>“All right,” he muttered without stopping or -looking up and went on down the lower flight to the -street.</p> - -<p>They had had the interview.</p> - -<p>The house was as silent as a tomb. I stole to the -foot of the upper flight, looked up and listened. Not -a sound. The rustling of my dress as I moved startled -me. What <i>had</i> he said to her? I couldn’t read -his face—but his manner! I wavered and waited, -the street noises coming muffled through the intense -stillness. Then I decided I’d not intrude upon her, -and came in here. Whatever happened she’ll tell me -in her own good time, and the quietness up there is -reassuring. Her anger is apt to take noisy forms. -If she had been throwing oranges out of the window -I would have heard her. But I do wish I might have -seen her to-night.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="X">X</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> didn’t</span> sleep well that night. The memory of -Mr. Masters’ set sullen face kept me wakeful. -At four I got up, lit the light and tried to read -Kidd’s <i>Social Evolution</i>. Through the ceiling I -could hear Mr. Hamilton’s subdued snoring on the -floor above. It seemed like the deep and labored -breathing of that submerged world whose upward -struggle I was following through Mr. Kidd’s illuminating -page.</p> - -<p>After breakfast, when no sign or word had come -from Lizzie, I decided to stay in till I heard from -her. I dawdled through the morning and when -Emma was cleaning up went out on the landing and -listened. The upper floors were wrapt in quiet. I -stole up a flight and a half and looked at her door—tight -shut and not a sound. I went down again worried, -though it was possible she had gone out and I -not heard her. After lunch I opened the register -and listened—complete silence. During the rest of -the afternoon I sat waiting for her footfall. Dusk -came and no woman had mounted the stairs. At -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>seven a tap came at my door and Count Delcati -pushed it open.</p> - -<p>The count brought letters from the Italian aristocracy -to its New York imitation and goes to entertainments -that the rest of us read of in the papers. -He was arrayed for festival and looked like an up-to-date -French poster, a high-shouldered black figure -with slender arms slightly bowed out at the -elbows. His collar was very stiff, his shirt bosom a -clear expanse of thick smooth white. He wore his -silk hat back from his forehead, and his youthful yet -sophisticated face, with its intense black eyes and -dash of dark mustache, might have been looking at -me from the walls of the Salon Independent.</p> - -<p>He removed his hat, and standing in the doorway, -said:</p> - -<p>“Have you seen her to-day?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered. “Have you?”</p> - -<p>He shook his head.</p> - -<p>“I think she must be away. When I came home at -six I went up there and knocked, but there was no -answer.”</p> - -<p>There was nothing in this to increase my uneasiness. -She came and went at all hours, often taking -her dinner at what she called “little joints” in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>lower reaches of the city. Nevertheless my uneasiness -did increase, gripped hold of me as I looked at -the young man’s gravely attentive face.</p> - -<p>“Have you seen her since the concert?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, the day after, when you were all in here.”</p> - -<p>“She hadn’t seen the notices?”</p> - -<p>I shook my head.</p> - -<p>He leaned against the door-post and gazed at his -patent leather shoes. As if with reluctance he said -slowly:</p> - -<p>“I have.”</p> - -<p>“What were they like?”</p> - -<p>“Rotten.”</p> - -<p>He pronounced the word with the “r” strangled -yet protesting, as if he had rolled his tongue round it, -torn it from its place and put it away somewhere in -the recesses of his throat.</p> - -<p>“Oh, poor girl!” I moaned.</p> - -<p>“That’s why I went up there. She must have seen -them and I wished to assure her they were lies.”</p> - -<p>“Did they say anything very awful?”</p> - -<p>He shrugged.</p> - -<p>“They spoke of her beauty—one said she had a -good mezzo voice. But they were not kind to her, to -Mr. Berwick, <i>very</i>.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span></p> - -<p>I said nothing, sunk in gloom.</p> - -<p>The count picked up his fur-lined coat from the -stair rail, and shook himself into it.</p> - -<p>“I should wait to go to her when she comes in, -but this <i>meeserable</i> dinner, where I sit beside young -girls who know nothing and married ladies who -know too much—no mystery, no allure. But I must -go—perhaps you?—” He looked at me tentatively -over his fur collar.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go up as soon as she comes in,” I answered. -“If there’s anything I can do for her be assured I’ll -do it.”</p> - -<p>“You are a sweet lady,” said the count and departed.</p> - -<p>After that I sat with the door open a crack waiting -and listening. The hours ticked by. I heard Mr. -Hamilton’s step on the street stairs, a knock at the -Westerner’s door, and as it opened to him, a joyous -clamor of greeting in which Miss Bliss’ little treble -piped shrilly. Hazard was painting her and she -spent most of her evenings in there with them. It -was a good thing, they were decent fellows and their -room was properly heated.</p> - -<p>At intervals the sounds of their mirth came from -below. The rest of the house was dumb. At eleven -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>I could stand it no more and went up. If she wasn’t -there I could light up the place for her—she rarely -locked her door—and have it bright and warm.</p> - -<p>It was dimly lighted and very still on the top floor, -the gas-jet tipping the burner in a small pale point -of light. I knocked and got no answer, then opened -the door and went in. The room was dark, the window -opposite a faint blue square. In the draft -made by the opening door the gas shot up as if -frightened, then sunk down, sending its thin gleam -over the threshold. As I moved I bumped into the -table and heard a thumping of something falling on -the floor. I saw afterward it was oranges. I groped -for matches, lighted the gas and looked about, then -gave a jump and a startled exclamation. Lizzie -Harris was lying on the sofa.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie,” I cried sharply, angry from my fright, -“why didn’t you say you were there?”</p> - -<p>She made no sound or movement and seized by a -wild fear, I ran to her. At the first glance I thought -she was dead. She was as white as a china plate, -lying flat on her back with her eyes shut, her hands -clasped over her waist. I touched one of them and -knew by the warmth she was alive. I clutched it, -shaking it and crying:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> - -<p>“Lizzie, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”</p> - -<p>She tried to withdraw it and turned her face away. -The movement was feeble, suggesting an ebbing -vitality. I thought of suicide, and in a panic looked -about for glasses and vials. There was nothing of -the kind near her. In my lightning survey I saw a -scattering of newspaper cuttings on the table among -the rest of the oranges.</p> - -<p>“Have you taken anything, medicine, poison?” I -cried in my terror.</p> - -<p>“No,” she whispered. “Go away. Let me alone.”</p> - -<p>I was sorry for her, but I was also angry. She -had given me a horrible fright. Failure and criticism -were hard to bear, but there was no sense taking -them this way.</p> - -<p>“What <i>is</i> the matter then? What’s happened to -make you like this?”</p> - -<p>“Let me alone,” she repeated, and lifting one -hand, held it palm upward over her face.</p> - -<p>That something was wrong was indisputable, but -I couldn’t do anything till I knew what it was. I -put my fingers on the hand over her face and felt -for her pulse. I don’t know why, for I haven’t the -least idea how a pulse ought to beat. As it was I -couldn’t find any beat at all and dropped her hand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> - -<p>“I’ll have to get a doctor, I’ll call the man in the -boarding house opposite.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t,” she said in a voice which, for the first -time, showed a note of life. “If you bring a doctor -here I’ll go out in the street as I am.”</p> - -<p>She was in the blue kimono. I didn’t know whether -she had strength enough to move, but if she had I -knew that she would do as she said and the night -was freezing.</p> - -<p>“I won’t call the doctor if you’ll tell me what’s -happened to you?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you,” she said, and raising the hand from -her face caught at my skirt. I bent down for her -voice was very low, hardly more than a whisper.</p> - -<p>“Masters has left me.”</p> - -<p>“Left you,” I echoed, bewildered. “He was here -last night. I saw him.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes held mine.</p> - -<p>“Left me for good,” she whispered, “forever.”</p> - -<p>Any words that I might have had ready to brace -up a discouraged spirit died away.</p> - -<p>“What—what do you mean?” I faltered.</p> - -<p class="p2b">“He and I were lovers—lived together—you must -have known it. He got tired of me—sick of me—he -told me so himself—those very words. He said he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>was done with it all, the singing and me.” She -turned her head away and looked at the wall. “I’ve -been here ever since. I don’t know how long.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<a id="i_150"><img src="images/i_150.jpg" width="350" alt="“Masters has left me”" -title="" /></a></div></div> - -<p class="caption">“Masters has left me”</p> - -<p class="p2">I stood without moving, looking at her, and she -seemed as dead to my presence as if she had really -been the corpse I at first thought her. Presently I -found myself putting a rug over her, settling it with -careful hands as if it occupied my entire thoughts.</p> - -<p>I do not exactly know what did occupy them. -A sort of sick disgust permeated me, a deep overwhelming -disgust of life. Everything was vile, the -world, the people in it, the sordid dirt of their lives. -I almost wished that I might die to be out of it all.</p> - -<p>Then I sat down beside her. She lay turned to -the wall, with the light of the one burner making -long shadows in the folds of the rug. Her neck and -cheek had the hard whiteness of marble, her hair, -like a piece of black cloth, laid along them. The -sickening feeling of repugnance persisted, stronger -than any pity for her. I suppose it was the long -reach of tradition, an inherited point of view, transmitted -by those prim and buckramed ladies on my -dining-room wall, and also perhaps that I had never -known a woman, well, as a friend, who had done -what Lizzie Harris had done. It was the first time -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>in my life, which had moved so precisely in its prescribed -groove, that I had ever taken to my heart, -believed in, grieved over, loved and trusted a woman -thus stained and fallen.</p> - -<p>I will also add, for I am truthful with myself, -that when I got up and went to her, all inclination -to touch her, to console and comfort her, was gone. -For those first few moments she was physically objectionable -to me, as if she might have been covered -with dirt. Yet I felt that I must look after her, had -what I suppose you would call a sense of duty where -she was concerned. I have always hated the phrase; -to me it signifies a dry sterile thing, and it held me -there because I would have been uncomfortable if I -had gone. Is it the training women get in their -youth that makes them like this, makes them only -give their best when the object is worthy, as we ask -only the people to dinner who can give us a good -dinner back? I heard the sense of duty chill in my -voice as I spoke to her.</p> - -<p>“Have you had anything to eat since—that is, -to-day?”</p> - -<p>She did not answer. I bent farther over and -looked at the profile with the eyes closed. They -were sunken, as if by days of pain. I have seen a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>good many sick people in my life, but I had never -seen any one so changed in so short a time. I gazed -down at her and the appeal of that marred and -anguished face suddenly broke through everything, -stabbed down through the world’s armor into the -human core. I tried to seize hold of her, to make -my hands tell her, and cried out in the poor words -that are our best:</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for you.”</p> - -<p>It was like taking hold of a dead body. Her arm -fell from my hand an inert weight. Condemnation -or condonement were all the same to her.</p> - -<p>What was I to do? The clock marked midnight. -The joyful sounds from below had ceased. I did -not like to rouse the others, for, as far as I could -see, she was in no immediate danger. She appeared -to be in a condition of collapse, and I had never -heard of any one dying of that. It was twenty-four -hours since I had seen Masters on the stairs. She -had had nothing to eat since then. Food was the -best thing and I went into the kitchen to get some.</p> - -<p>The top floor has what Miss Bliss calls “the bulge” -on all others by having a small but complete kitchen. -The gaslight showed it in a state of chaos, piles of -plates waiting to be washed, the ice-box with opened -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>door and a milk bottle overturned, some linen lying -swathed and sodden over the edge of the laundry -tub. I made a brew of tea and brought it to her, but -one might as well have tried to make a statue drink. -In answer to my pleadings she turned completely to -the wall, moving one hand to the top of her head -where it lay outstretched with spread fingers. In -the faintly lighted room, in the creeping cold of a -December midnight, that speechless woman with her -open hand resting on her head, was the most tragic -figure I have ever seen.</p> - -<p>I took the tea back to the kitchen and washed the -plates. Also I hunted over the place for any means -of self-destruction that might be there. There were -vials in the medicine closet that I stood in a row and -inspected, emptying those I wasn’t sure about into -the sink. As I worked I thought, sometimes pursuing -a consecutive series of ideas, sometimes in disconnected -jumps. It was revolutionary thinking, -casting out old ideals, installing new ones. I was -outside the limits within which I had heretofore -ranged, was looking beyond the familiar horizon. -In that untidy kitchen, sniffing at medicine bottles, I -had glimpses far beyond the paths where I had left -my little trail of footprints.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p> - -<p>I didn’t know why she had given herself to Masters. -Strange as it may sound, it did not then seem -to me to matter. It was her affair, concern for her -conscience, not mine. What was my concern was that -I could not give my love and take it back. It went -deeper than her passions and her weaknesses. It -went below the surface of life, underlay the complicated -web of conduct and action. It was the one -thing that was sure amid the welter of shock and -amaze.</p> - -<p>And I understood Masters, was suddenly shifted -into his place and saw his side. He had tried to -make her understand and she wouldn’t, then on the -straining tie that held them had dealt a savage blow, -brought an impossible situation to the only possible -end. I hated him, if she had been nothing to me I -would have hated him. Shaking a bottle of collodion -over the sink I muttered execrations on him, and as -I muttered knew that I admired the brutal courage -that had set them both free.</p> - -<p>The dawn found me sitting by her frozen in mind -and body. I had had time to think of what I should -say to all inquiries: the failure of the concert, the -blow to her hopes, had prostrated her. It was half -true and quite plausible.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span></p> - -<p>When the light was bright and the street awake -I went out into the hall and waited. Miss Bliss was -the first person I caught, coming up from the street -door with a milk bottle. Her little face was full of -sleep that dispersed under my urgent murmurings. -She stepped inside the door and hailed tentatively:</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Miss Harris.”</p> - -<p>There was no answer and she ventured less buoyantly:</p> - -<p>“Don’t you feel good, Miss Harris?”</p> - -<p>The lack of response scared her, yet she stood fascinated -like the street gamin eying the victim of an -accident. She had seen enough to do what I wanted, -and I took her by the arm and pulled her into the -hall.</p> - -<p>“She looks like she was dead,” she whispered, -awed. “Would you think a big husky woman like -that would take things so hard?”</p> - -<p>I had prepared my lesson in the small hours and -answered glibly:</p> - -<p>“She’s not half so strong as you think and very -sensitive, morbidly sensitive.”</p> - -<p>“Um,” said Miss Bliss, “poor thing! I don’t see -how if she was so sensitive, she could have stood -that man Masters around so much.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p> - -<p>She went down to dress and presently the news -percolated through the house. There was an opening -and shutting of doors and whisperings on the top -flight. Everybody stole up and offered help except -the count, who rose late to the summons of an alarm -clock. Mr. Hazard went across the street for the -doctor, met Mrs. Bushey on her way to physical -culture and sent her in.</p> - -<p>I met her in the third-floor hall and we talked, -sitting on the banister. The count’s alarm clock had -evidently done its work, for he eyed us through the -crack of his door.</p> - -<p>“How dreadful—terribly unfortunate,” Mrs. -Bushey muttered, then, looking about, caught the -count’s eye at the crack: “Good morning, Count -Delcati. You’re up early.”</p> - -<p>The count responded, the gleaming eye large and -unwinking as if made of glass.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey’s glance returned to me. The smile -called forth by the greeting of the star lodger died -away.</p> - -<p>“If her concert was such a failure and she’s sick, -how is she going to live?”</p> - -<p>I hadn’t thought of that. It added a complication -to the already complex situation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, she must have something,” I said with a -vaguely reassuringly air. “She hasn’t been making -money but—”</p> - -<p>“Do you know anything positive of her financial -position?” interrupted Mrs. Bushey.</p> - -<p>It was hard to be vague on any subject with Mrs. -Bushey, on the subject of finances impossible. She -listened to a few soothing sentences then said -grimly:</p> - -<p>“I see you don’t really know anything about it. -Please try and find out. Of course I’m one of the -most kind-hearted people in the world, but”—she -held her physical culture manuals in the grip of one -elbow and extended her hands—“one must live. I -can’t be late with my rent whatever my lodgers -can be.”</p> - -<p>The count’s voice issued unexpectedly through -the crack:</p> - -<p>“I am late two times now and I still stay.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey smiled at the eye.</p> - -<p>“Of course, Count Delcati, but you’re different. -I know all about you. But Miss Harris—a singer -who can’t make good. They’re notoriously bad pay.” -She turned sharply on me. “What seems to be the -matter with her?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span></p> - -<p>“Collapse,” I said promptly. “Complete collapse -and prostration.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bushey hitched the books into her armpit -and patted them in with her muff.</p> - -<p>“Those are only words. I’m glad Mr. Hazard’s -gone for the doctor.” She turned and moved toward -the stair-head. “And if it’s anything contagious she -must go at once. Don’t keep her here five minutes. -The doctor’ll know where to send her.” She began -the descent. “If I’d only myself to think of I’d let -her stay if it was the bubonic plague. But I won’t -expose the rest of you to any danger.” She descended -the next flight and her voice grew fainter: -“I’m only thinking of you, my lodgers are always -my first consideration. If any of you got anything -I’d never forgive myself.” She reached the last -flight. “I wouldn’t expose one of you to contagion if -I never made a dollar or rented a room. That’s the -way I am. I know it’s foolish—you needn’t tell me -so, but—” The street door shut on her.</p> - -<p>The doctor came with speed and an air of purpose. -At last he had somewhere to go when he ran down -the stairs with his bag, and it was difficult for him to -conceal his exhilaration. He was young, firm and -businesslike, examined Lizzie, asked questions and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>said it was “shock”. He was very anxious to find out -what had “precipitated the condition,” even read the -notices, and then sat with his chin in his hand looking -at the patient and frowning.</p> - -<p>Out in the hall I enlarged on her high-strung organization -and he listened, fixing me with a searching -gaze that did not conceal the fact that he was -puzzled. We whispered on the landing over nursing, -food and the etceteras of illness, then branched -into shocks and their causes till he suddenly remembered -he had to be in a hurry, snatched up his bag -and darted away.</p> - -<p>That was yesterday. To-night I have brought up -my writing things and while I watch am scratching -this off at the desk where, not so long ago, I found -her choosing her stage name. Poor Lizzie—is there -a woman who would refuse her pity?</p> - -<p>I can run over the names of all those I know and -I don’t think there’s one, who, if she could look -through the sin at the sinner, would entirely condemn. -The worst of it is they all stop short at the -sin. It hides the personality behind it. I know if I -talked to Betty this way she’d say I was a silly -sentimentalist with no knowledge of life, for even -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>my generous Betty wouldn’t see over the sin. There’s -something wrong with the way women appraise -“the values” in these matters; actions don’t stand in -the proper relations to character and intentions. -We’re all either sheep or goats. Everything that -makes our view-point, books, plays, precedent, public -opinion, will have it that we’re sheep or goats, -and though we can do a good many bad things and -remain pure spotless sheep, there’s just one thing -that if we do do, puts us forever in the corral with -the goats.</p> - -<p>But, oh—I groan as I write it—if it only hadn’t -been Masters! That brute, that brigand! A hateful -thing some one once told me keeps surging up in -my memory—Rousseau said it I think—that one of -the best tests of character was the type of person -selected for love and friendship. I can’t get it out -of my head. What fool ever told it to me? Oh—all -of a sudden I remember—it was Roger—Roger! I -feel quite frightened when I think of him. He would -be so angry with me for being mixed up in such an -affair, or—as he’s never angry with me—angry with -fate for leading me into this <i>galère</i>. He is one of -the people who adhere to the sheep and goat theory. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>To him women are black or white, and the white -ones must have the same relation to the black that -Voltaire had to <i>Le bon Dieu</i>—know them by sight -but not speak.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XI">XI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span>t is</span> three weeks since I have written a word. -There’s been too much to do, and sleeping about -in chairs and on the foot of beds is not stimulating -to the brain. We have had an anxious time, for Lizzie -Harris has been desperately ill. Doctor Vanderhoff—that’s -the young man’s name—has had no necessity -to run to the corner of Lexington Avenue and -then wonder which way to go, for he has been in -here a good deal of the time. He is a dear, and a -clever dear, too, for he has pulled Lizzie back from -dreadful dangers. For a while we didn’t think she -would ever be herself again. Her heart—but what’s -the sense of recapitulating past perils. She’s better, -that’s enough, and to-night I’m down in my apartment -leaving Miss Bliss in charge.</p> - -<p>She’s another dear, poor little half-fed thing, running -back from her sittings to post up-stairs, panting -and frost nipped, and take her place in that still front -room. How still it’s been, with the long motionless -body on the bed, that wouldn’t speak and wouldn’t -eat, and hardly seemed to breathe. Sometimes the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>men came up and took a turn at the nursing. The -count was no use. The sight of her frightened him -and he had to be taken into the kitchen and given -whisky. But young Hazard was as good as a hospital -graduate, soft-handed and footed, better than -Mrs. Phillips, who came up once or twice between -her own cases, was very superior and nagged about -the sun-dial.</p> - -<p>When he could, Mr. Hazard watched for the first -half of the night and Dolly Bliss and I went into the -kitchen and had supper of tea and eggs. We’ve -grown very intimate over these midnight meals. I -don’t see how she lives—ten dollars a week the most -she has made this winter, and often gaps without -work. One night I asked her if she had ever posed -for the altogether. Under normal circumstances I -would no more have put such a question than I’d -have inquired of Mrs. Bushey what she had done -with her husband. But with the specter of death at -our side, the reticences of every day have dropped -away.</p> - -<p>She nodded, looking at me with large pathetic -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Often in the past, but now, unfortunately, I’m -not in demand for that. I’m getting too thin.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> - -<p>In this close companionship I have found her generous, -unselfish and honest to the core. Is our modesty -an artificial attribute, grafted on us like a bud -to render us more alluring? This girl, struggling -against ferocious poverty, is as instinctively, as -rigorously virtuous as I am, as Betty, as Mrs. Ashworth, -yet she does a thing for her livelihood, the -thought of which would fill us with horror. I’m -going to put it to Betty, but I wouldn’t dare tell -her what I really think—that of the two points of -view Miss Bliss’ is the more modest.</p> - -<p>When we were sure Lizzie was on the up-grade, -a new worry intruded—had she any independent -means? Nobody knew. Mrs. Bushey was urgent -and to keep her quiet I offered to pay the top-floor -rent for a month and found that the count had -already done it. I, who knew her best, feared she -had nothing, and it was “up to me” to get money -for her from somewhere.</p> - -<p>Of course Betty was my natural prey and yesterday -afternoon fate rendered her into my hands. -She came to take me for a drive in a hansom, bringing -with her her youngest born, Henry Ferguson, -Junior, known familiarly as Wuzzy. Wuzzy is three, -fat, not talkative and spoiled. He wore a white -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>bunny-skin coat, a hat with rosettes on his ears, -leather leggings and kid mitts tied round his wrists -with ribbons. He had so many clothes on that he -moved with difficulty, breathing audibly through his -nose. When he attempted to seat himself on the prie-dieu, -the only chair low enough to accommodate -him, he had to be bent in the middle like a jointed -doll.</p> - -<p>I can not say that I love Wuzzy as much as I do -Constance. He is the heir of the Fergusons and the -conquering male is already apparent. It is plain to -be seen that he thinks women were made to administer -to his comfort and amuse him in his dull -moments. I have memories of taking care of Wuzzy -last autumn at Betty’s country place when his nurse -was off duty. I never worked so hard in my life. -Half the energy and imagination expended in what -the newspapers call a “gainful occupation” would -have made me one of those women of whom <i>The -Ladies’ Home Journal</i> prints biographies.</p> - -<p>I carried him down-stairs. It was not necessary, -for dangling from the maternal hand he could have -been dragged along, but there is something so nice -about hugging a healthy, warm, little bundle of a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>boy. As I bent for him he held up his arms with a -bored expression, then stiff and upright against my -shoulder, looked down the staircase and yawned. -It’s the utter confidence of a child that makes it so -charming. Wuzzy relinquished himself to my care -as if, when it came to carrying a baby down-stairs, -I was the expert of the western world.</p> - -<p>As we descended I rubbed my cheek against his, -satin-smooth, cold and firm. He drew back and -gazed at me, a curiously deep look, impersonal, profound. -The human being soon loses the capacity -for that look. It only belongs to the state when -we are still “trailing clouds of glory.”</p> - -<p>We squeezed him between us and tooled away -toward Fifth Avenue. It was a glorious afternoon -and it was glorious to be out again, to breathe the -keen sharp air, to see the park trees in a thin -purplish mist of branch on branch. Wuzzy, seeing -little boys and girls on roller skates, suddenly -pounded on us with his heels and had to be lifted to -a prominent position on our knees, whence he leaned -over the door and beat gently on the air with his -kid mitts.</p> - -<p>“What a bother this child is,” sighed Betty, boosting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> -him up, “I only brought him because I had to. -Some relation of his nurse is sick and she went out -to see them.”</p> - -<p>Her only son is the object of Mrs. Ferguson’s -passionate adoration, yet she always speaks of him -as if he was her greatest cross.</p> - -<p>Wuzzy comfortable, his attention concentrated on -the moving show, I brought my subject on the carpet.</p> - -<p>“Dear me, how dreadful,” Betty murmured, much -moved by the expurgated version of Lizzie Harris’ -troubles. “Wuzzy, if you don’t stop kicking me with -your heels I’ll take you home.”</p> - -<p>Wuzzy stopped kicking, throwing himself far -over the door to follow the flight of a golden-locked -fairy in brown velvet. We held him by his rear -draperies and talked across his back.</p> - -<p>“It’s a cruel situation,” I answered. “Everything -has failed the poor creature.”</p> - -<p>“She has no means of livelihood at all?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure yet, but I don’t think so. As soon -as she’s well enough I’ll find out. Meantime there’s -this illness, the doctor—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” Betty interrupted, “I know all that. -But it needn’t bother you. I’ll attend to it.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span></p> - -<p>“Dear Betty!” I let go of Wuzzy to stretch a hand -across to her.</p> - -<p>“Now, <i>don’t</i> be sentimental, Evie. This is the sort -of thing I like doing. If I could find some one—”</p> - -<p>The prospects suddenly palled on Wuzzy and he -threw himself violently back and lay supine between -us, gazing up at the trap.</p> - -<p>“Good heavens, why did I bring him,” groaned -his mother. “I wouldn’t take care of a child like -this for millions of dollars. Why <i>do</i> nurses have sick -relations? There ought to be a special breed raised -without a single human tie. Get up, Wuzzy.”</p> - -<p>She tugged at his arm, but he continued to stare -upward, inert as a flour sack.</p> - -<p>“What does he see up there?” I said, bending my -head back to try and locate the object. “Perhaps it’s -something we can take down and give him.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t unless you break the hansom to pieces. -It’s the trap.”</p> - -<p>I felt of it. Wuzzy’s eyes followed my hand with -a trance-like intentness and he emitted a low sound -of approval.</p> - -<p>At that moment, as though fate pitied our helplessness, -the trap flew back and a section of red -face filled the aperture.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span></p> - -<p>“Is it straight down the avenue I’m to go, Mrs. -Ferguson?” came a cheerful bass. “You ain’t told -me.”</p> - -<p>Wuzzy looked, flinched, his pink face puckered -and a cry of mortal fear burst from him. He -clutched us with his mitts and wrenched himself to a -sitting posture, then, determined to shut out the -horrible vision, leaned as far over the door as he -could and forgot all about it. Betty gave directions -and we sped along into the line of carriages by -Sherman’s statue. We had to wait there, and a -policeman with gesticulating arms and a whistle -caught Wuzzy’s attention. He waved a friendly mitt -at him, muttering low comments to himself. His -mother patted his little hunched-up back and took -up the broken thread:</p> - -<p>“What was I saying? Oh, yes—if I could get -some one who would hunt up such cases as Miss Harris’ -and report them to me I’d pay them a good -salary. Those are the people one never hears about, -unless in some accidental way like this.”</p> - -<p>The policeman whistled and we moved forward. I -began to feel uncomfortable. I’d never before told -Betty half a story. She went on:</p> - -<p>“Of course there’s charity on a large scale, organized<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> -and all that. But the hundreds of decent -people who get into dreadful positions and are too -proud to ask for aid, are the ones I’d like to help. -Especially girls, good, hard-working, honest girls.”</p> - -<p>In my embarrassment I fingered Wuzzy’s ear-rosette. -He resented the familiarity and angrily -brushed my hand away.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do let him alone,” said his mother. “You -can’t tell how he’ll break out if he gets cross—and -I know Miss Harris is all that, in spite of her hat and -her looks, or you wouldn’t be so friendly with her.”</p> - -<p>“Charity given to her is charity given where it’s -needed,” I muttered with a red face.</p> - -<p>I felt wretchedly underhanded and mean, and -that’s one of the most unbearable feelings for a self-respecting -woman to endure. For one reckless moment -I thought of telling Betty the whole story. And -then I knew I mustn’t. I couldn’t make her understand. -I couldn’t translate Lizzie into the terms with -which Mrs. Ferguson was familiar. I saw that -broken woman emerging from my narrative a -smirched and bespattered pariah of the kind that, -from time immemorial, ladies have regarded as their -hereditary foe.</p> - -<p>It would have been indulging my conscience at -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>her expense, and my conscience—well, it had to -resign its job for the present. It was odd that with -a worthy intention and in connection with one of -the best of women, I felt my only course was to -deceive. All may have been well with Pippa’s world, -but certainly all was not well with mine. I don’t -know what was wrong, only that something was. -I know I should have been able to tell the truth, I -<i>know</i> I ought not to have been made to feel a coward -and a sneak.</p> - -<p>Betty enlarged upon her scheme of benefaction -and we drove down the avenue, full from curb to -curb and glittering in its afternoon prime. Wuzzy -was much entertained, leaning forward to eye passing -horses and call greetings to dogs on the front -seats of motors. Once when he needed feminine attention -he turned to me, remarking commandingly, -“Wipe my nose.” As I performed this humble service -he remained motionless, his eyes raised in abstraction -to a church clock. I have heard many people -envy the care-free condition of childhood and -wish they were babes again. I never could agree -with them; the very youthful state has always -seemed to me a much overrated period. But as I -obeyed Wuzzy’s command it suddenly came upon me -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>how delightful it would be to be so utterly free of responsibility, -so unperplexed by ethical problems, so -completely dependent, that even the wiping of one’s -nose was left to other hands.</p> - -<p>I left Lizzie early that evening. Miss Bliss and -Mr. Hazard were with her and I had a fancy they -liked being together without me sitting about and -overhearing. I pulled a chair up in front of the -fire and mused over that question of taking Betty’s -money. My discharged conscience was homesick and -wanted to come back. In the midst of my musing -Roger came in, and presently, he and I sitting one -on either side of the grate, it occurred to me that he -would be a good person to put in the place of my -conscience—get his opinion on the vexed question -and not let him know it. I would do it so cleverly -he’d never guess and I could abide in his decision. -Excellent idea!</p> - -<p>“Roger,” I began in a simple earnest tone, “I -want to ask you about a question of ethics, and I -want you to give me your full attention.”</p> - -<p>“Go ahead,” said Roger, putting a foot on the -fender. “I’m not an authority, but I’ll do my best.”</p> - -<p>“Suppose I knew a woman—no, a man’s better—who -was, well, we’ll say a thief, not a habitual thief -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>but one who had thieved once, got into bad company -and been led away. And I happened to know he -wanted help—financial—to tide him over a period of -want. Would I be doing something underhanded if -I asked some one—let’s say you—to give him the -money and didn’t tell you about the thieving?”</p> - -<p>I thought I had done it rather well. Roger was -interested.</p> - -<p>“Are you supposed to know for certain he’d only -committed the one offense?”</p> - -<p>“Quite sure,” with conviction.</p> - -<p>“What made him do it?”</p> - -<p>It wasn’t so easy as I thought. Theft didn’t seem -to fit the case.</p> - -<p>“Well—he was tempted, and—er—didn’t seem -to have as strict a moral standard as most people.”</p> - -<p>“Um,” Roger considered, then: “This seems to -be a complicated case. Was he completely without -will, no force, no character?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” I said sharply. “He had a great deal -of will and any amount of character.”</p> - -<p>“He sounds like a dangerous criminal—plenty of -force and will and no moral standard.”</p> - -<p>I felt irritated and raised my voice in a combative -note:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p> - -<p>“Now, Roger, don’t be narrow-minded. Can’t -you imagine quite a fine person who mightn’t think -stealing as wrong as you or I think it?”</p> - -<p>Roger did not look irritated, but he looked determined -and spoke with an argumentative firmness:</p> - -<p>“Evie, I’ve always regarded you as an unusually -intelligent woman. As such I’d like you to explain -to me how a fine person of will and character can -steal and not think it as wrong as you or I would -think it.”</p> - -<p>It wasn’t working out as I expected and because -it wasn’t and because Roger was giving it his full -attention, I felt more irritated.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I tell you he’d fallen into bad company?”</p> - -<p>“You did and I’ve taken it into consideration, -but—”</p> - -<p>“Roger, this isn’t a legal investigation. You’re -not trying to break up the beef trust or impose a -fine on Standard Oil. It’s just a simple question -of right and wrong.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you think it’s simple. This person -with any amount of character fell under a bad influence?”</p> - -<p>“That’s it—he was undermined, and though he -was, as I said, a fine person, quite noble in some -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>respects, he didn’t think stealing was so wicked as -the average respectable citizen does.”</p> - -<p>Roger put the other foot on the fender and looked -at me with increasing concentration.</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand at all. Let me try and get -to the bottom of it. What did he steal?”</p> - -<p>For a moment I stared at him blankly without -answering.</p> - -<p>He went on. There was no doubt about his giving -me his full attention, it was getting fuller every -moment.</p> - -<p>“If you’ll tell me the nature of his theft and under -what provocation and circumstances it was committed -maybe I’ll be able to get a better idea of the -kind of person he was. What did he steal?”</p> - -<p>“But, Roger, this is a hypothetical case.”</p> - -<p>“I know it is, but that doesn’t make any difference -in the answer. What was the nature of the theft—money, -jewels, grafting on a large scale, or taking -an apple from the grocer’s barrel?”</p> - -<p>I looked around the room in desperation, saw the -blank left on the wall by the Marie Antoinette -mirror, and said doggedly:</p> - -<p class="p2b">“He stole a mirror.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<a id="i_176"><img src="images/i_176.jpg" width="350" alt="“Let me try and get at the bottom of it”" -title="" /></a></div></div> - -<p class="caption">“Let me try and get at the bottom of it”</p> - -<p class="p2"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span></p> - -<p>“A mirror,” said Roger with the air of having -extracted an important bit of evidence. “Umph— -Why did he take it?”</p> - -<p>“Roger, what’s the sense of going into all these -details?”</p> - -<p>“Evie,” with maddening obstinacy, all the more -maddening because it was so mild, “if I’m to give -an answer I must know. Did he intend to sell it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he did.”</p> - -<p>I was so angry that I felt ready to defend any one -who stole anything from anybody.</p> - -<p>“My dear girl,” said Roger, still mild but also -reproachful, “how can you sit there and tell me that -a man who steals a mirror intending to sell it is a -fine person, quite noble in some respects?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you. I won’t. I asked you a simple -question about a man—a man I just made up—and -you cross-examine me as if I was being tried -for murder and you were the lawyer on the other -side.”</p> - -<p>“But, Evie, I only was trying to do what you -asked.”</p> - -<p>“Well, stop trying. Let that man and his mirror -drop or I’ll lose my temper.” I snatched up the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>poker and began to poke the fire. “I’ve lost it now.” -I poked furiously in illustration. “It’s too aggravating. -I did so want your opinion about it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, here it is—”</p> - -<p>I stopped poking and leaned forward, so far forward -that to keep my balance I had to put a foot on -the fender.</p> - -<p>“Has one a right to accept pecuniary aid for a -person who has committed an offense—the first—without -telling the benefactor of that offense? Is -that it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“I think one has.”</p> - -<p>“You’re sure they needn’t tell the benefactor?”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t. If you want to give a man a hand-up -why rake up his past?”</p> - -<p>I got it at last. My bad temper vanished. I -was wreathed in smiles—</p> - -<p>“Oh, Roger,” I cried joyously, “that’s just what -I wanted you to say. It’s such a relief that we’ve -worked it out at last,” and I heaved a sigh and put -the other foot on the fender.</p> - -<p>I sat for a moment, absently looking down, then -I became conscious of my feet, side by side on the -brass rail—two small patent leather points. I looked -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>along the rail and there on the other side were -Roger’s—two large patent leather points. They -looked like four small black animals, perched in -couples, sociably warming themselves by the blaze.</p> - -<p>“What are you smiling at?” said Roger.</p> - -<p>“How near we came to quarreling over an imaginary -man stealing an imaginary mirror,” said I.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XII">XII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">L</span>izzie</span> is coming to life, hesitatingly and as if -with reluctance. I suppose it’s natural for her -to be extraordinarily weak, but I never would have -believed she could be conscious enough to talk and -so utterly indifferent to everything that should concern -her. When I told her about the money, saying -it came from a friend, she murmured, “That’s all -right,” and never asked who the friend was. She -seemed to have no interest in the subject, or in any -subject, for that matter. She makes me think of -a brilliant, highly colored plant that a large stone -has fallen on.</p> - -<p>One afternoon last week, when I was sitting by -the table in her room reading, she suddenly spoke.</p> - -<p>“Evie, how long is it that I’ve been sick here?”</p> - -<p>“Nearly a month. You’ve been very ill, but -you’re getting better now every day.”</p> - -<p>She said no more and I got up and began moving -about the room, arranging it for the evening. I was -pulling down the blinds when I heard her stirring, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>and looking back, saw that she had twisted about -in the bed and was watching me. In the dusk, her -face, framed in elf locks of black hair, looked like -a white mask. I thought she was going to ask me -something—there was a question in her eyes—but -she made no sound. I lighted the lamp and shifted -into place the paper rose that hung from the shade. -She continued to follow my movements with the intent -observation of an animal. I have seen dogs -watch their masters just that way. The feeling that -something was on her mind grew stronger. I went to -her and sat on the side of the bed.</p> - -<p>“Do you want to ask me anything?” I said.</p> - -<p>She shook her head, but her eyes were unquiet. -Suddenly I thought I guessed. I put my hand on -hers and spoke very low.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie, the thing you told me that night when I -came up and found you here”—I looked into her -face to see if she understood—“I’ve never told to -anybody.”</p> - -<p>She stared at me without answering.</p> - -<p>“Do you know what I mean?”</p> - -<p>She gave a slight affirmative nod.</p> - -<p>“And I never will tell it to any one unless you -ask me to.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> don’t care if you tell it,” she said with weak -indifference.</p> - -<p>It was the first gleam of her old self. Whatever -she had wanted to say to me it was not that. Other -women—the women of my world—would have been -fearful of their secret lightly guarded. I don’t believe -she had given it a thought. Either her trust -in me was implicit or she didn’t care who knew -it. I like to think it was the first.</p> - -<p>She settled back against the pillow and made -feeble smoothings of the sheet. Still persuaded of -her inward disquiet I sat silent waiting for her to -speak. After a moment or two she did.</p> - -<p>“Have any letters come for me?”</p> - -<p>I knew <i>this</i> was the question. I got up and gave -her the pile of letters stacked on the desk. She -looked over the addresses, then pushed them back to -me.</p> - -<p>“I was afraid he might write to me,” she said. -“But it’s all right, he hasn’t.”</p> - -<p>I got a shock of displeased surprise.</p> - -<p>“You didn’t expect him to <i>write</i> to you, Lizzie?”</p> - -<p>“He might have.”</p> - -<p>“But after—after what you told me, surely, oh, -surely, you don’t want to hear from him?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p> - -<p>I was fearful of her answer. If she was waiting, -hungering for a letter from him, it would have been -too much even for me.</p> - -<p>“That’s just it—I <i>don’t</i> want to. It’s all in the -past, as if it had happened a hundred years ago. I -want it to stay there—to be dead.”</p> - -<p>She looked into my eyes, a deep look, that for -some inexplicable reason reminded me of Wuzzy’s. -I have long realized that my point of view, my -mental processes, are too remote from hers for me -ever to see into her mind or understand its workings. -But I was certain that she meant what she said. -My poor Lizzie, coming up out of the Valley of the -Shadow, with her feeble feet planted on the past.</p> - -<p>A few days after this she was well enough to sit -up in bed with her hair brushed and braided, and -read her letters. One was from Vignorol asking her -why she had not come for her lessons.</p> - -<p>She gave it to me, remarking:</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d answer that. Tell him I’ve been -sick, and that I’ll never come for any more lessons.”</p> - -<p>I dropped my sewing, making the round eyes -of astonishment with which I greet her unexpected -decisions.</p> - -<p>“You’re not thinking of giving up your singing?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, forever.”</p> - -<p>“But why? Surely you’re not going to let one -failure discourage you.”</p> - -<p>I was disturbed. From a few recent remarks, I -am satisfied that she has no means whatever. She -<i>must</i> go on with her singing; as Mrs. Bushey would -say, “One must live.” She could curb her ambitions, -make her living on a less brilliant plane.</p> - -<p>“I’ll never sing again,” she answered.</p> - -<p>“You might give up attempting the opera, or even -concerts. But there are so many other things you -could do. Church singing—you began that way.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s it. I began, and I’m not going back -to where I began. I’m going on or I’m going to -stop. And I can’t go on.”</p> - -<p>I thought she alluded to her lack of means and -said:</p> - -<p>“Lizzie, I can get the money for you to go back to -Vignorol—I can get people who will stand behind -you and give you every chance.”</p> - -<p>She looked listlessly at the wall and shook her -head.</p> - -<p>“It’s no use. I don’t want it. Masters was right. -I know it now.”</p> - -<p>“You mean—” I stopped; it seemed too cruel.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p> - -<p>But she was minded now to be as ruthlessly clear-sighted -about herself as she had once been obstinately -blind.</p> - -<p>“The whole equipment—I haven’t got it. He -banked too much on my looks, thought they were -going to go farther than they did. If I’d had a -great voice—one of the wonderful voices of the -world, like Patti or Melba—it wouldn’t have mattered -about not having the rest. But there are -hundreds with voices as good as mine. He thought -beauty and dramatic instinct were going to carry -me through. He knew I had the one and he thought -he could give me the other—train it into me. Nobody -knows how hard he tried. He used to make -me stand up and go over every gesture after him, -he even made marks on the floor where I was to put -my feet. And then he’d sit down and hold his -head and groan. Poor Jack”—she gave a little dry -laugh—“he had an awful time!”</p> - -<p>I could realize something of Masters’ desperation. -To have discovered a song-bird in the western wilds, -hoped to retrieve his fortunes with it and then found -a defect in its mechanism that neither work nor -brains nor patience could supply—it <i>was</i> bitter luck.</p> - -<p>“He was an artist,” she went on. “He could -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>have gone straight to the top but he lost his voice -after the first few years, while he was still touring -the small European towns.”</p> - -<p>I noticed that she spoke in the past tense, her tone -one of melancholy reminiscence as if he really <i>was</i> -dead. She might have been delivering his funeral -sermon and placing flowers of memory on his tomb.</p> - -<p>“Why couldn’t you have got from him what he -tried to teach you? I can’t understand, you’re so -intelligent.”</p> - -<p>She mused for a moment, then said:</p> - -<p>“I’ve been thinking of that myself while I’ve been -lying here. Looking back I don’t seem to have given -it my full mind and I’ve been wondering if perhaps -I wasn’t too taken up with him. I couldn’t get away -from the real romance, the love-making and the -quarrels, first one and then the other. There wasn’t -anything else in my life. I hadn’t time to be interested -in those women I had to pretend to be. My -affairs and me were the only things that counted.”</p> - -<p>“But you were so much in earnest, so desperately -anxious to succeed.”</p> - -<p>She gave me a side look, sharp and full of -meaning.</p> - -<p>“Because, though I wouldn’t acknowledge it, I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>knew he wanted to break with me and the only -way I could keep him was to make good.”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens, how horrible!” I winced under -her pitiless plain speaking.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was,” she said gently.</p> - -<p>There was a pause. The little palliatives I had to -offer, the timid consolations, were shriveled up by -that fierce and uncompromising candor. Her voice -broke the silence, quietly questioning:</p> - -<p>“I suppose you think I did a very bad thing?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lizzie, don’t ask me that. I can’t sit in -judgment. That’s for you, not for me.”</p> - -<p>She looked at her hands, long and thin on the -quilt. Thus down-drooped, her face was shockingly -haggard and wasted. Yet of the storm which had -caused this ruin she was now speaking with a -cold impersonal calm, as if it had all happened to -somebody else. My own emotions that swelled to -passionate expression died away before that inscrutable -and baffling indifference.</p> - -<p>“He was a very fine man,” she said suddenly.</p> - -<p>“<i>Fine?</i>” I gasped.</p> - -<p>“Yes, in lots of ways. About his art and work -for one thing—he had great ideals. And he was -very good to me.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p> - -<p>That was the coping stone. I heard myself saying -in a faint voice:</p> - -<p>“How?”</p> - -<p>“Well, for one thing, he never lied to me. He -told the truth about the singing, about me, about -everything. He wasn’t a coward, either. He didn’t -run away and send me a letter. He came and had it -out with me, made me understand.”</p> - -<p>This time I couldn’t speak. Her next words were -like the laying of the final wreath on the bier of -the loved and respected dead:</p> - -<p>“It had to end and he ended it. He didn’t care -how much it hurt me, or what I felt, or what anybody -thought. That’s the right way to be—not to -let other people’s feelings make you afraid, not to -be considerate because it’s easier than fighting it out. -He was a fine man.”</p> - -<p>That was John Masters’ obituary as delivered by -his discarded mistress.</p> - -<p>The thing I couldn’t get over was that she showed -no signs of penitence. As far as I could see she was -in no way inclined to admit her fault, to bow her -head and say, “I have sinned.” Her own conduct in -the affair seemed to be the last thing that troubled -her. Yet I can say that I, a woman with the traditional<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> -moral views, could not think her either abandoned -or base. I don’t know to what world or creed -she belonged, or to what ethical code she adhered, -except that it was not mine or anybody else’s that I -have ever known. Whatever it was it seemed to -uphold her in her course. What was done was -done and that was the end of it. No strugglings of -inner irresolution, no attempt to exonerate or exculpate, -disturbed her somberly steadfast poise. What -would have been admirable to any one was her -acceptance of the blow, and her recognition of her -lover’s right to deliver it.</p> - -<p>As she improved, moved about the room and took -her place against accustomed backgrounds, I began -to realize that the change in her was more than skin -deep. Her wild-fire was quenched, her moods, her -beamings, her flashes of anger were gone. A wistful -passivity had taken their place, lovely but alien to -her who was once Lizzie Harris. Whatever Masters -had said in that last interview had acted like an -extinguisher on a bright and dancing flame. It -made me think of Dean Swift and Vanessa. Nobody -knows what the dean said to Esther Vanhomrigh -in the arbor among the little trees—only she had -returned from it a broken thing to die soon after. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>Her lover had killed her; Lizzie’s had not quite, -but he had certainly put out the light in that wayward -and rebellious spirit.</p> - -<p>It has its good points, for those people who are -to help her find her more comprehensible, much -more to their liking than they would the old Lizzie. -Roger, for example, has met her again and is quite -impressed. It was the other afternoon when I was -sitting with her in her front room. The door was -open and as I talked I listened for steps that would -stop two flights below at <i>my</i> door. I had had no -word that steps might be expected, but one doesn’t -always need the word. There are mornings when a -woman wakes and says to herself, “He’ll come to-day.” -It had been one of these mornings.</p> - -<p>At five, when the lights were lit and I had put on -the tea water to boil, I heard the ascending feet. -If it was some one for me could I bring them up? -Lizzie would be delighted. I ran down and found -him standing at my door preparing to knock with -the head of his cane. Would he mind coming up—I -didn’t like to leave her too much alone? No, -he wouldn’t, and up he came.</p> - -<p>Lizzie, long and limp in the easy chair, was -sheltered from the lamp glow by the paper rose. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>She smiled and held out her hand and I saw he was -shocked by the change in her, as well he might be. -The only other time he had seen her was the night -of the concert, the climax of that little day to which -every dog of us is entitled.</p> - -<p>All things that are frail and feeble appeal to -Roger. Both he and Mrs. Ashworth get stiff and -ice-bound before bumptious, full-fed, prosperous -people. He sat down beside her and made himself -very agreeable. And I was pleased, immensely -pleased; could better endure the thought of Lizzie -like a smashed flower if by her smashing she was -to win his approval and interest.</p> - -<p>As I made the tea I could hear their voices rising -and falling. Coming up the passage with the tray -the doorway framed them like a picture and I -stopped and gazed admiringly. It was like the -cover of a ten-cent magazine—a graceful woman -and a personable man conversing elegantly in a -gush of lamplight. The lamplight was necessary -to the illusion, for it hid Roger’s wrinkles and made -his gray hair look fair. He could easily have -passed for the smooth-shaven, high-collared wooer, -and Lizzie, languidly reclining with listening eyes, -quite fittingly filled the rôle of wooee.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> -<p>An hour afterward, as we went down-stairs, -Roger was silent till we got to my door. Then he -said:</p> - -<p>“She seems very different from what she was that -night when I saw her in your room.”</p> - -<p>“She is different. You don’t seem to realize -she’s been very sick.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but—”</p> - -<p>I pushed open the door.</p> - -<p>“Roger, aren’t you coming in?”</p> - -<p>“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m going out to dinner and -I have to go home and change.”</p> - -<p>I was disappointed, but I wouldn’t have shown -it for the world. I couldn’t help thinking it was -rather stupid of him not to have made a move to -get away sooner, to have a moment’s talk in my -parlor by my lamplight.</p> - -<p>“From what you told me of her I thought she was -rather high-pitched and western.”</p> - -<p>“I <i>never</i> said that.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe you didn’t, but somehow I got the impression. -She’s anything but that—delicate, fine.”</p> - -<p>“Um,” I responded. These positive opinions on -a person I knew so much better than he did rasped -me a little.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span></p> - -<p>Roger shifted his hat to his left hand and moved -to the stair-head.</p> - -<p>“There’s something very unusual about her, a -sort of fragile simplicity like a dogrose. Good-by, -Evie. Good night.”</p> - -<p>I went into my room. It was cold and the chill -of it struck uncomfortably on me. I had a queer -feeling of being suddenly flat—spiritually—as a -flourishing lawn might feel when a new roller goes -over it. It improves the looks of the lawn. That it -didn’t have the same effect on me I noticed when -I caught myself in the chimneypiece glass. What -a dim little colorless dib of a woman I was! And -how particularly dim and colorless a dib I must look -beside Lizzie.</p> - -<p>I got my supper, feeling aggrieved. I had never -before accused fate of being unfair when it forgot -to make me pretty. But now I felt hurt, meanly -discriminated against. It wasn’t just to give one -woman shining soulful eyes, set deep under classic -brows, and another small gray-green ones that said -nothing and grew red in a high wind. It wasn’t -a square deal.</p> - -<p>Yesterday afternoon Betty turned up and found -the invalid sitting in my steamer chair looking at -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>the juniper bush. Betty had never spoken to her -before and they talked amicably, Mrs. Ferguson -visibly thawing. I left them, for I want Betty to -know her and help her of her own free will, want -to eliminate myself as the middleman.</p> - -<p>I was in the kitchenette, getting tea again, when -Betty came to the door and hissed her impressions -in a stage whisper.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you tell me she was so charming?”</p> - -<p>Business with the kettle.</p> - -<p>“She’s one of the sweetest creatures I ever met.”</p> - -<p>Business with the hot water.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know why I ever thought she looked -theatrical. She must have had on somebody else’s -clothes. She’s a Madonna—those eyes and that sad -far-away look.”</p> - -<p>Business with the toast.</p> - -<p>Betty was so interested that she got into the -kitchenette with me. The congestion was extreme, -especially as she takes up so much room and is so -hard. You can’t squeeze by her or flatten her -against walls—you might as well try to flatten a -Corinthian column. I had to feel round her for -cups and plates, engirdle her glistening and prosperous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> -bulk and grope about on the shelves behind -her.</p> - -<p>“It’s absurd of her fooling about with this music. -She ought to marry. Has she any serious admirer?”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t any woman who looked like that have -serious admirers? Betty, I can’t find the cups. -Would you mind moving an inch or two?”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t mind at all if there was an inch or -two to move in to. When you have a kitchen like -this you’re evidently expected to hire your maid -by measure. Who’s her admirer?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, every man in the house.”</p> - -<p>“Are any of them possible?”</p> - -<p>I pried her back from the stove and inserted -myself between her and it, feeling like a flower -being pressed in the leaves of a book.</p> - -<p>“No, not very possible.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll have to see what I can do.”</p> - -<p>As I poured the water on the tea I couldn’t help -saying over my shoulder:</p> - -<p>“There’s Mr. Albertson. He’s still unclaimed in -the ‘Found’ Department.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Albertson hadn’t loved me at first sight and -Betty feels rather sore about it. She drew a deep -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>breath, thereby crushing me against the front of -the stove.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said consideringly. “He won’t do. -He’s too old and too matter-of-fact. Besides, I want -him for one of the Geary girls, my second cousins, -who live up in the Bronx and make shoe bags. -I’m not sure which he’ll like best, so to-morrow night -I’m having them both to dine with him.”</p> - -<p>Then we had tea and Betty’s good impression -increased. She went away whispering to me on the -stairs that she was quite ready to tide Miss Harris -over her difficulties and help her when she had decided -what she wanted to do.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIII">XIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he</span> weather is fine and we are all recuperating. -I must confess the physical and spiritual -storm of the last six weeks has rather laid me waste. -I haven’t felt so much in so many ways since—well, -my high water mark was the last year of my married -life and that’s getting to be a faded canvas. -The metaphor is somewhat mixed, but if I draw attention -to it it can pass. I’m like that letter-writing -English woman who couldn’t spell, and when she -was doubtful about a word always underlined it -and if it was wrong it passed for a joke.</p> - -<p>We sit about a good deal in my front room and -late in the afternoon Lizzie’s admirers drop in. The -doctor, by the way, is one of them. He says he’s -still interested in “the case,” poor young man. Lizzie -greets them with wistful softness and seems as indifferent -to their homage as if they were pictures -hanging on the wall. I talk to them, and while we -talk we are acutely conscious of her, singularly -dominated by her compelling presence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p> - -<p>In all the change in her that quality is as strong -as ever. I do not yet know what it is that makes -her the focusing point of everybody’s attention, but -that she is, nobody who has lived in this house could -deny. I believe actresses are trained to “take the -stage and hold it,” but Lizzie has the faculty as a -birthright. It is not her looks; I have seen hundreds -of women who were as handsome as she and -had no such ascendency. It is not the high-handed -way she imposes her personality upon every one, because -she doesn’t do that any more. It is not her -serene self-absorption, her unconscious ignoring of -<i>your</i> little claims to be a person of importance. It’s -something so powerful no one can escape it, and so -subtle no one can define it—some sort of magnetic -force that puts her always in the center, makes -her presence felt like an unescapable sound or a -penetrating light. Wherever she is she is “it.” -“Where the MacGregor sits there is the head of the -table.”</p> - -<p>Wednesday afternoon in the slack hours—the rush -hours are from five to seven, when the men come -home from business—Mrs. Stregazzi, the eldest -small Stregazzi and Mr. Berwick dropped in. They -had just heard of her illness and came to make inquiries.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> -Berwick explained this because Mrs. Stregazzi -couldn’t. In a large, black lynx turban that -looked like Robinson Crusoe’s hat, and a long plush -coat, she dropped on the end of the sofa tapping her -chest in explanatory pantomime and fetching loud -breaths from the bottom of her lungs.</p> - -<p>Berwick looked morosely at her, then explained:</p> - -<p>“It’s cigarettes—cuts her wind.”</p> - -<p>“It’s my new corset,” Mrs. Stregazzi shot out between -gasps, “and your stairs.”</p> - -<p>The small Stregazzi, a little pale girl of ten, eyed -her mother for a considering moment, then apparently -satisfied with her symptoms, sat down on -the prie-dieu and heaving a deep sigh, folded her -hands in her lap and assumed a patient expression.</p> - -<p>Lizzie’s illness disposed of, the conversation -turned—no, jumped, leaped, sprang—into that -world of plays and concerts in which they had their -beings. Mrs. Stregazzi, though still having trouble -with her “wind,” launched forth into a description -of the concert tour she and Berwick were to -take through New England. Berwick had made a -hit at Lizzie’s concert and he’d “got his chance at -last.”</p> - -<p>I sat aside and marveled at her. She must have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>been forty years old and she looked as weather-beaten -as if, for twenty of the forty years, she had -been the figurehead of a ship. But vigor and enthusiasm -breathed from her. With the Robinson -Crusoe hat slipped to one side of her head and the -new corsets emitting protesting creaks as she swayed -toward me, she gasped out the route, the terms, the -programs, then dabbing at the little girl with her -muff, exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“And the kids are going to stay with mommer -in the Bronx. Mrs. Drake, I’ve got the cutest little -flat at One Hundred and Sixty-ninth Street. Wish -you’d go up there some day and you’ll see the best -pair of children and the grandest old lady in Manhattan.”</p> - -<p>Berwick growled an assent and Miss Stregazzi, -with her air of polite patience, filled in while her -mother caught her breath.</p> - -<p>“Grandma’s seventy-two. She used to sing in the -opera chorus, but she’s got too old.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Stregazzi nodded confirmation, her eyes full -of pride.</p> - -<p>“That’s the way she pulled me along and got my -education. Didn’t let go of the rudder till I could -take hold. Now I do it. It’s been a struggle, took -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>me into vaudeville, where I met Stregazzi and had -my troubles, but they’re over now. I’m back where -I belong and mommer can rest, blessed old soul. I -keep them pretty snug, don’t I, Dan?”</p> - -<p>Berwick gave a second growl and then the conversation -swung back to the inevitable topic. I felt -as if I were on a scenic railway on a large scale, being -rushed perilously along with wild drivings -through space, varied by breathless stoppages in -strange towns. I never heard so much geography -since my school-days or so much scandal since I -came to the age when I could listen to my elders. -Names I knew well and names I’d never heard -jostled one another in those flying sentences, and -the quarrels! <i>and</i> the divorces! <span class="allsmcap">AND</span> the love-affairs! -I looked uneasily at the little girl and caught her -in the act of yawning. In proof of her grandmother’s -good training she concealed her mouth with -a very small hand in a very dirty white glove. Her -mother ended a graphic account of the trials of a -tertium quid on the road:</p> - -<p>“And he pulled a kodak from under his coat and -snapped them just in the middle of the kiss. <i>That</i> -divorce wasn’t contested.”</p> - -<p>The little girl, having accomplished her yawn, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>dropped her hand and said without interest, but -as one who feels good manners demand some sort -of comment:</p> - -<p>“Whose divorce?”</p> - -<p>“No one you know, honey. A lady I toured with -two seasons ago.”</p> - -<p>Lizzie and Berwick listened. I had never heard -him do anything else. Before I came to live here -if I had been told of the excellence of his vocal performance -and then seen him I would have shaken -my head and said: “That’s not the man.” A winter -at Mrs. Bushey’s has taught me that the artist does -not have a brand upon his brow like Cain.</p> - -<p>His listening was of a glowering unresponsive -kind; Lizzie’s was all avid attention. It was the -first time since her illness that she had shown any -animation. A faint color came into her face, now -and then she halted Mrs. Stregazzi’s flow of words -with a sharp question. The projected tour was the -thing that absorbed her. She kept pulling Mrs. -Stregazzi out of the scandals back to it. There was -no envy in her interest. It was to me extremely pathetic, -she, the failure, speeding Berwick on his way -to success. As might have been expected he was -stolidly indifferent to it, but I was amazed to see that -Mrs. Stregazzi, whom I was beginning to like, was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>untouched or was too engrossed in her own affairs -to notice anything else.</p> - -<p>Outside at the head of the staircase she paused, -and giving a glance at the closed door, said in a lowered -voice:</p> - -<p>“Where’s Masters?”</p> - -<p>Berwick had gone on ahead, the little girl with -her arm hooked over the banister was slowly descending. -Mrs. Stregazzi’s eye, holding mine, was -intelligent and questioning. I saw that she knew -and took it for granted that I did.</p> - -<p>“He doesn’t come any more. They’ve had a difference—a -quarrel, I think.”</p> - -<p>“Left her!” She raised her painted eyebrows, and -compressing her lips, looked down the stairs and -emitted a low “Umph!”</p> - -<p>A world of meaning was in that sound, a deep -understanding pity.</p> - -<p>“I thought he’d do it,” she said, as if speaking to -herself. “She couldn’t hold him the way things -were going.”</p> - -<p>She stood musing, her head slightly drooped. -The Robinson Crusoe hat changed its angle and slid -down over her forehead. When the fur interfered -with her vision she arrested its progress, ramming -it violently back.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> - -<p>“I guess she feels pretty bad,” she ruminated, still -with the effect of thinking aloud. “That man’s got -a terribly taking way with women.”</p> - -<p>I felt very uncomfortable. If it was unnecessary -to contradict her it was also unnecessary to admit -her charges by receiving them in silence. I changed -the subject:</p> - -<p>“She says she’ll never sing again. It’s very unfortunate.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Stregazzi harpooned the hat with an enormously -long pin, tipped by a diamond cluster.</p> - -<p>“Never sing again—oh, rats!”</p> - -<p>She grimaced as she charged with the pin through -a series of obstructions.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you be afraid, dearie. She’ll sing—she -can’t help it.”</p> - -<p>“But she’s positive about it. She insists.”</p> - -<p>“Does she?” She shook her head, testing the -solidity of the anchorage. “She’ll be back singing -before the spring. <i>You</i> don’t know, but it’s in her -blood. We can’t keep off, none of us. And <i>she!</i> -Just wait. That’s all she’s made for.”</p> - -<p>The little Stregazzi had come to an end of her -adventure against the newel post. She lolled upon -it, wiping the crevices with her fingers, then looking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> -at her gloves to see how much dirtier they were.</p> - -<p>Her mother descended a step, paused, cogitated, -then turned to me, frowning.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he’s done nothing for her?”</p> - -<p>I saw she meant money. The astonishing rawness -of it made me redden to my hair. She waited for -my answer, blind apparently to the expression of -anger which must have been as plain as my outraged -blush.</p> - -<p>“As to that—” I began haughtily.</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t. Well, I’ll send her round fifty dollars -to-morrow and if that’s not enough drop me a line -at mother’s and I’ll forward some more. This is -the best contract I’ve ever had.”</p> - -<p>When I explained and tried to thank her for Lizzie -she laughed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t bother to tell her about it. It’s all -in the day’s work. If you’ve got some rich woman -interested in her so much the better. But, dearie,” -she laid her hand on mine resting on the banister, -“don’t you fret about her. <i>She’ll</i> go back to the -old stamping ground.”</p> - -<p>When I went back into the room Lizzie was sitting -in the wicker chair gazing out of the window. -She spoke without looking at me.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> - -<p>“Do you know what I feel like? As if it was night -and I was on a ship going out to sea, and as if the -land was getting smaller and smaller. I can just see -the lights of houses and little towns twinkling in a -line along the edge of the shore.”</p> - -<p>“Where’s the ship going?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know and I don’t care,” came her answer -through the dusk.</p> - -<p>A knock cut off my reply. It was Roger, dropped -in for an hour before dinner. Lizzie rose and was -for going, but I urged her to stay and she sank -back in her chair, glad, poor soul, to be with us -and escape the dreariness of her own thoughts. -I lit the student lamp and he and I sat down by it -with Lizzie near the window, the light falling across -her skirts, the upper part of her dimly blocked out -in shadows and the pale patches of her face and -hands.</p> - -<p>As usual, she said almost nothing and a selfish -fear stirred in me that she was going to spoil our -hour. It’s hard for two people on intimate confidential -terms, to have a gay spontaneous interview -while a third sits dumb in a corner. I think Roger -felt the irk of it at first. He did most of the talking -and he did it to me. But as the time wore on I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>noticed that he began to address himself more and -more to her. He seemed unconscious of it and it set -me wondering. Was he—a man not susceptible to -personal influences—going to feel that queer magnetic -draw? It interested me so much that I forgot -to follow what he said and watched him, and there -was no doubt about it—he <i>did</i> keep turning toward -the window, where he could see nothing but a motionless -shape and the indistinct oval of a face.</p> - -<p>The conversation resolved itself into a monologue, -two mute ladies and a talking man.</p> - -<p>Roger really did feel it; Roger, who would hardly -listen to me when I told him about her in the restaurant. -It showed what a force she possessed, -and my fancy dwelt on it till I began to see it as -a visible thing stretching from her and reaching -out toward him. It was an uncanny idea, but it -obsessed me, and Roger’s voice sunk to a rumbling -bass murmur as I tried to picture what it might -look like—a thin steady ray like a search-light, or -a quivering thread of vibrating air, or long clutching -tentacles such as an octopus has, or a spectral -arm of gigantic size like the one Eusapia Pallidino -conjured out of shape when “the conditions were -favorable.” The cessation of his voice broke my -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>imaginings and I was rather glad of it. Next time -I see him I’m going to tell him about them and ask -him which of the collection it felt most like.</p> - -<p>I wrote all this a week ago, and reading it over -to-night it seems strange that I was only amused, -strange by contrast with the way I feel about the -same thing now. It’s not that there’s any difference, -or that anything has gone wrong, but—well, -it was a joke then and it doesn’t seem to be a joke -any more.</p> - -<p>What’s made the change was something that happened -here this afternoon. It’s nothing at all, but -it disturbed me. I hate to think it did. I hate to -write it did. I hate to have the suspicious petty -side of me come up and look at me and say: “I’m -still here. You can’t get rid of me. I’m bound up -with the rest of you and every now and then I -break loose.”</p> - -<p>If I wasn’t a foreboding simpleton who had had -her nerve shaken by bad luck I’d simply laugh. -And instead of doing that I feel like a cat on the -edge of a pond with a stone tied around its neck, and -I can’t sleep. I put out the light and went to bed -and here I am up again, wrappered and slippered, -writing it out. If I put it down in black and white, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>see it staring up at me in plain words, it will fall -back into its proper place. An insignificant thing—a -nonsensical thing—the kind of thing you tell to -your friends at a lunch as a good story on yourself.</p> - -<p>I was out with Betty and didn’t get home till -five. As I came up the stairs I heard voices on the -top floor, just a low rise and fall, nothing distinguishing. -Since her illness Lizzie keeps her sitting-room -door open and I knew the voices were from -there. I supposed one of the admirers was with her -and went into my rooms and took off my things. -Then I thought it would be nice to go up and make -them tea. And I went up and it was Roger.</p> - -<p>That’s all.</p> - -<p>Why should <i>that</i> keep me awake? Why all evening -should it have kept coming up between me and -the pages I tried to read? Aren’t they both my -friends? Why can’t they laugh and talk together -and I be contented? And it was all so natural and -explicable. Roger had come to <i>my</i> door and, finding -me out, had gone up there to wait for me.</p> - -<p>But—oh! Why should one woman be beautiful -and one plain? Why should one charm without an -effort, be lovely with a flower’s unstudied grace, -and another stand awkward, chained in a stupid -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>reserve, caught in a web of self-consciousness, afraid -of being herself? Why is Lizzie Harris as she is -and I as I am? I can’t write any more, I don’t get -anywhere. I know it’s all right. I <i>know</i> it, but—something -keeps me awake.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIV">XIV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span>t’s</span> two weeks to-day since that night when I -couldn’t sleep. It’s been a horrible two weeks—a -sickening, disintegrating two weeks. My existence -has been dislocated, thrown wide of its bearings, -as if the world had taken a sudden wild revolution, -whirled me through space, and I had come up dizzy -and bewildered, still in the old setting, but with -everything broken and upside down.</p> - -<p>It began with that visit of Roger to Lizzie’s sitting-room. -The morning after I felt humiliated, -utterly ashamed of myself. It’s no new thing for -me to be a fool. I permit myself that luxury. But -to be a mean-spirited, suspicious fool was indulging -myself too far. I saw Lizzie and she spoke about -Roger, simply and sweetly, and my folly grew to a -monumental size, beneath which I was crushed. -And my dread faded as the horror of a nightmare -fades when the morning comes, with the sun and -the sounds of every day.</p> - -<p>I have heard people say that these moments of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>relief in a period of anxiety are all that enable -one to bear the strain. I don’t think that’s true. -Alterations of stress and serenity tear one to pieces. -If you’re going to be put on the rack it’s better to -have no reprieve. Then your mind accepts it, gets -accustomed to it and you tune up your nerves, screw -your courage to the sticking place and march forward -with the calm of the hopeless.</p> - -<p>On Sunday afternoon—that was yesterday—Roger -and I were to have tea with Mrs. Ashworth. -He came earlier than I expected, wanting to take -a walk with me before we went there. Lizzie was -in my sitting-room, also Miss Bliss, picking over -the last box of chocolates contributed by the count. -Miss Bliss was not dressed for receiving—instead of -the kimono and the safety pin she wore the Navajo -blanket, and when she saw him she gave a cry that -would have done credit to Susanna when she discovered -the elders. I would have seen the humor of -it—the model who had posed for the altogether in -abject confusion at being caught huddled to the chin -in a blanket as thick as a carpet—had I not had all -humor stricken from me by the sight of Roger in the -doorway. The cry had halted him. He evidently -had no idea what had caused it. His eyes swerved -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>from Miss Bliss to sweep the room in a quick questioning -glance. When it touched Lizzie something -shot up in it—the question was answered. Miss Bliss -made her escape without anybody noticing her, and -I heard about the walk and went into the back room -to get my outdoor things.</p> - -<p>I have explained how the kitchenette and bathroom -are a connecting passage between the two -larger rooms of the suite. I came back through -them, and having left the sitting-room door open, -could see at the end of the little vista Roger and -Lizzie by the table. As once before I had stopped -to watch them, I stopped now, not smilingly this -time, but furtively, guiltily.</p> - -<p>They were talking together. To watch wasn’t -enough—I had to hear and I stole forward, stepping -lightly over the bathroom rug and half closed -the door. Standing against it, I listened. Heaven -knows the conversation was innocent enough. She -was telling him about a bracelet she wore that belonged -to some of those Spanish people she was descended -from. I suddenly felt as if I was looking -through a keyhole, and had stretched out my hand -to shut the door when a silence fell. Then all the -acquired decencies of race and breeding left me. I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>pushed the door open a crack and peered in. She -had taken the bracelet off and given it to him and -he was turning it about, studying it while she -watched him.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been told it’s quite valuable as an antique,” -she said. “Do you suppose it really is?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about the antique, but I should -think it might have some value. The design’s very -unusual,” he answered, and handed it back to her.</p> - -<p>She clasped it on her arm, and as she did so, her -head down-bent, they were silent, his eyes on her -face.</p> - -<p>I had never seen him look at any woman that way, -but I had seen other men. It is an unmistakable look, -the mute confession of that passion which makes the -proudest man a slave.</p> - -<p>I closed the door and leaned against it. For a -moment I felt sick and frightened—frightened at -what I’d seen and frightened of myself.</p> - -<p>Presently I came into the room and found them -still talking of the bracelet. And then Roger and I -started for our walk, leaving Lizzie alone.</p> - -<p>He suggested that we go round the reservoir and -I agreed, stepping along silently beside him. It was -a raw bleak afternoon, no sun, everything gray. The -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>streets were sprinkled with sauntering Sunday people -who had a detached dark aspect against the toneless -monochrome. They looked as if they were moving -in front of painted scenery. The park was wintry, -sear boughs patterned against the sky, blurs of -denuded bushes, expanses of hoary grass. Along the -roadway the ruts were growing crumbly with the -frost, and little spears and splinters of ice edged -the puddles.</p> - -<p>The reservoir shone a smooth steely lake, with -broken groups of figures moving about it. Some of -them walked briskly, others loitered, red and chilled. -All kinds of people were making the circuit of that -body of confined and conquered water—Jews and -Gentiles, simple and gentle, couples of lovers, companies -of young men, family parties with the children -getting in the way and being shoved to one side, -stiff stout women like Betty trying to lose a few -pounds. On the west side vast apartment-houses -made a rampart, pierced with windows like a line -of forts.</p> - -<p>We commented on the cold and Roger quickened -the pace, sweeping me along the path’s outer edge. -Presently he began to talk of Lizzie, leaning down -to catch my answers, keen, impatient, straining to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>hear me and not lose a word. He is a tall man and -I am a small woman and I bobbed along at his shoulder -trying to keep up with him, trying to sound -bright and interested, and feeling myself a meager -unlovely body carrying a sick and shriveled heart.</p> - -<p>“No, she’ll never sing again,” I said, in answer to -a question. “She seems to have made up her mind -to that.”</p> - -<p>He swung his cane, cutting at the head of a dry -weed.</p> - -<p>“That’s a good thing.”</p> - -<p>“Why is it a good thing?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, because,” he dropped a pace behind me to -let a straggling, red-nosed family pass and I craned -my head back to hear him. “She’s not fitted for that -kind of life. It’s not for women like her.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>He was beside me again.</p> - -<p>“She’s too—er—too fine, too delicately organized.”</p> - -<p>I didn’t answer. Knowing what I did, what was -there for me to say?</p> - -<p>“The women to succeed in that have got to be aggressive, -fight their way like men. She never could -do it.”</p> - -<p>I again had no response and we fared on, I trying -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>to keep up, hungry for his next word and fearful -of what it might be. It came in a voice that had an -artificial note of carelessness.</p> - -<p>“What’s become of that man you told me about, -that man we saw in the hall one night when you first -went up there?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what’s become of him.”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t seen him lately?”</p> - -<p>“No, not for some weeks.”</p> - -<p>There was another pause. I wasn’t going to help -him. It was part of my torment to wait and see how -he was going to get the information he wanted, to -see Roger, uneasy and jealous, feeling round a subject, -not daring to be frank. When he could wait -no longer his voice showed a leashed and guarded -impatience.</p> - -<p>“You led me to believe he was a great friend of -hers.”</p> - -<p>“He <i>was</i>.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Was?</i> Is he so no longer?”</p> - -<p>“No, they’ve had a quarrel of some sort.”</p> - -<p>“Umph.”</p> - -<p>Again a silence. We passed a trio of Jewish girls -in long coats who looked me over solemnly with -large languorous eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p> - -<p>“He was a horrible-looking bounder,” he said.</p> - -<p>“He was what he looked,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Then how,” he exclaimed, unable to restrain the -question, “<i>could</i> he have been a friend of hers?”</p> - -<p>He was embarrassed and ashamed, and to hide it -cut vigorously at the dead weeds with his cane. -Through this childish ruse his desire to know was as -plain as if he had expressed it in words of one -syllable.</p> - -<p>“He was her sponsor. She was a sort of speculation -of his; he was training her for the operatic -stage. I’ve told you all this before.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know, but—well, it’s a reasonable explanation.”</p> - -<p>He had been speaking with his face turned from -me, his eyes following the slashings of the cane. Now -he lifted his head and looked across to the apartment-houses. -The movement, the brightened expression, -the tone of his voice, told of a lifted weight. -He had heard it all before, but then he hadn’t cared. -Now, caring, he wanted to hear it again, to be assured, -to have all uncertainty appeased.</p> - -<p>“It was a business arrangement,” he said. “Yes, -I remember, you told me some time ago.”</p> - -<p>This time I didn’t answer because a thought had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>surged up in my mind that had put everything else -out—I ought to tell him! He was under Lizzie’s -spell and Lizzie was as unknown to him as if she -had been an inhabitant of Mars. He was charmed -by a creature of his own creating, an ideal built up -on her beauty and her weakness. Did he know her -as she really was he would have recoiled from her -as if she had been one of the sirens from whom -Ulysses fled. She was the opposite of everything -he imagined her to be, of everything he held sacred -in woman. John Masters had been her lover. It -was appalling, monstrous. I <i>must</i> tell him.</p> - -<p>And then I thought of her and how she had confessed -her secret and I had said I wouldn’t tell.</p> - -<p>The impulse to reveal it for his sake and the impulse -to keep silent for hers, began to struggle in -me. I became a battle-ground of two contending -forces. The desire to tell was strongest; it was like -a live thing fighting to get out. It filled me, crushed -every other thought and impulse, swelled up through -my throat and pressed on my lips. I bit them and -walked on with fixed eyes. As if from a distance I -heard Roger’s voice:</p> - -<p>“From what you said he must be an impossible -cad. I knew she couldn’t have had him for a friend. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>Poor girl, having to associate with a man like that because -business demanded it. What a rotten existence.”</p> - -<p>I had to tell.</p> - -<p>“Roger,” I said, hearing my voice sound hoarse.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>I felt suddenly dizzy and halted. Like a vision -I saw Lizzie lying on the sofa, whispering to me -that Masters had left her. The inside of my mouth -was so dry I had difficulty in articulating. I stammered:</p> - -<p>“Wait. I can’t walk so fast.”</p> - -<p>He was very apologetic.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Evie, dear, I beg your pardon. You should -have told me before. I am so used to walking alone -that I forgot.”</p> - -<p>We moved at a slower pace. The view that had -receded from my vision came back. My face was -damp and the icy air blowing on it was good. The -spiritual fight went on, with my heart beating and -beating like a terrible warlike drum urging me on. -Now was the time for him to know, before it was -too late. We were half-way round—I could get it -over before we’d made the full circuit. And then -I’d be at peace, would have done a hideous thing -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>that I ought to do. Now—now! I fetched up a -breath from the bottom of my lungs. He spoke:</p> - -<p>“That’s why she oughtn’t to go on with this singing. -It brings a woman into contact with people -that she shouldn’t meet.”</p> - -<p>Each sentence seemed to point my way clearer. -If he’d had any doubts, hadn’t been so completely -without suspicion. But to hear him talk this way! -I tried to make a beginning with Lizzie’s whispering -voice getting in the way. I couldn’t find a -phrase, nothing came but blunt brutal words. There -was a moment when I thought I was going to cry -these out, scream at him, “Roger, she was that man’s -mistress!” Then everything blurred and I caught -hold of the fence.</p> - -<p>I was pulled back to reality by the quick concern -of his voice.</p> - -<p>“Evie, are you ill?”</p> - -<p>I suppose I looked awful. His face told me so; he -was evidently scared. I realized I couldn’t go on -with it, must wait till a better time. The thought -quieted me and my voice was almost natural, though -my lips felt loose and shaky.</p> - -<p>“I’m tired, I think.”</p> - -<p>“You’re as white as death. Why didn’t you tell -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>me? Good heavens, what an idiot I am not to have -noticed before.”</p> - -<p>Two men and a child stopped. The intent and -glassy interest of their eyes helped to pull me together. -I let go of the fence and put my hands, -trembling as if with an ague, into my muff. Roger -gave the trio a savage look, before which they -quailed and slunk reluctantly away, watching us -over their shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Come,” he said commandingly, and pulled my -hand through his arm. “We’ll go to the Eighty-sixth -Street entrance and get a cab.”</p> - -<p>We walked forward, arm in arm, and I gradually -revived. I couldn’t come to any decision now. I -wasn’t fit. I must think it over by myself. My -forces began to come back and the feeling of my -insides falling down into my shoes went away. Roger -was in a state of deep contrition and concern, bending -down to look into my face, while I held close -to his arm. People stared at us. I think they took us -for lovers. They must have thought the gentleman -had singular taste to be in love with such a sorry -specimen of a woman.</p> - -<p>When we reached the Eighty-sixth Street entrance -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>he wanted to take me home, but I insisted on going -to Mrs. Ashworth’s. I couldn’t bear the thought of -my own rooms. Alone there, I would go back to -that appalling subject and I couldn’t stand any more -of it now. We got into a taxi and sped away through -the Sunday quietness of the city, sweeping through -Columbus Circle and then down to Fifth Avenue. I -leaned against the window watching the long line -of vehicles. I was empty of sensation, gutted like a -burned-out house, and that purposeful procession -caught and carried my attention, exercising on my -spent being a hypnotic attraction. Roger, finding me -inclined for silence, sat back in his corner and -lighted a cigarette. He had accepted my explanations -in perturbed good faith. We sped on this way, -with the glittering rush that swept by my window, -lulling me into a sort of exhausted torpor.</p> - -<p>The usual adjusting of myself to Mrs. Ashworth’s -environment was not necessary. I harmonized better -than I had ever done before. I am sure every -red corpuscle in my blood was pale, and if, on my -former visits I had instinctively moved softly, now -I did so because I was too limp to move any other -way. If refinement, as some people think, is merely -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>an evidence of depleted vitality, I ought to have appeared -one of the most refined females of my day -and generation.</p> - -<p>Betty was there and Harry Ferguson, Harry -obviously ill at ease. I know just how he felt—as if -he was too big for the chairs, and when he spoke it -sounded like a stevedore. I used to feel that my -manner of speech oscillated between that of the cowgirl -in a western melodrama and the heroine of one -of my favorite G. P. R. James’ romances, who, when -she went out riding, described herself as “ascending -her palfrey.” Betty, I noticed, escaped the general -blight. She is too nervelessly unconscious; wouldn’t -be bothered trying to correspond with anybody’s -environment.</p> - -<p>I sat in a Sheraton chair and watched Mrs. Ashworth’s -hands as she made tea. The prominent veins -interested me. I have heard that they are an indication -of blue blood, and though they are not pretty, -they suit Mrs. Ashworth as everything about her -does. Her hands move deftly and without hurry -and she never interrupts conversation with queries -about sugar and cream. A maid, who was neither -young nor old, pretty nor ugly, an unobtrusive, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>perfectly articulated piece of household machinery, -made noiseless flittings with plates. Mrs. Ashworth -does not like men servants. I suppose they are -clumsy and by their large bulky shapes and gruff -voices, disturb the rhythm of that beautiful, mellow, -subdued room.</p> - -<p>Presently I was sipping my tea and looking at -Harry Ferguson trying to sip his in a perfect way. -I knew that he didn’t like tea, would have preferred -a Scotch highball, but didn’t dare to ask for it. He -spilled some on the saucer, then dropped the spoon -and had to grovel for it, coming up red and guilty, -looking as if he had been caught in some shameful -act. I could hear him telling Betty on the way home -that it was nonsense taking him to tea—why the -devil hadn’t she dropped him at the club. And -Betty, making vague consoling sounds while she -studied the appointments of passing motors.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly they began to talk of Lizzie Harris -and I forgot Mrs. Ashworth’s veins and Harry’s -embarrassments. Betty explained her to our hostess, -and I sat looking into my cup and listening. It was -what might have been called the popularized version -of a complicated subject—Lizzie as a sad and chastened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> -neophyte who had failed in a great undertaking -and been shattered. Mrs. Ashworth was -softly sympathetic. She turned to me.</p> - -<p>“Roger tells me that she is a charming person -and very handsome.”</p> - -<p>I agreed.</p> - -<p>“Pretty tough,” Harry growled. Then abashed -by the rudeness of his tone, cleared his throat and -stared at Roger Clements the Signer as if he had -never noticed him before.</p> - -<p>“I was wondering,” said Betty, “if she could -teach singing. You know she has nothing.”</p> - -<p>I became aware that Betty had not come for -nothing to sit on a Sheraton chair and drink tea. -As usual she had “a basic idea”. So had Mrs. -Ashworth—two entirely dissimilar minds had converged -to the same point.</p> - -<p>“Roger and I were talking about her the other -evening,” said Roger’s sister, “and I suggested that -there are a great many women teachers and their -standing is good, I hear.”</p> - -<p>On the subject of the wage-earning woman Mrs. -Ashworth is not well informed. I fancy she has -admitted the fact that there must be wage-earning -women with reluctance. It would be better for them -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>all to be in homes with worthy husbands. But it -has penetrated even to Mrs. Ashworth’s sheltered -corner that these adjuncts are not always found.</p> - -<p>“We could get her pupils,” said Betty with determination—she -felt Mrs. Ashworth’s quality sufficiently -to subdue it—“pupils among the right sort -of people. And you and I, and some others I know, -could give her a proper start.”</p> - -<p>They talked on outlining a career for Lizzie as -a singing teacher of the idle rich. They would put -her on her feet, they would make her more than -self-supporting. Their combined social influence -extended over that narrow belt which passes up -through Manhattan Island like a vein of gold. Lizzie -would be placed in a position to tap the vein.</p> - -<p>If I had suddenly hurled the truth into that benevolent -conspiracy, what a transformation! All the -interest now centered round that pitiful figure would -dissolve like a morning mist and float away to collect -about something more deserving and understandable. -If I should represent her case as sufficiently -desperate they would give her money, but -that much more valuable thing they were giving -now—the hand extended in fellowship—would be -withdrawn as from the contact of a leper.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p> - -<p>In <i>their</i> case I felt no obligation to tell. What -they were doing would not hurt them and it was -necessary for her. I came back to the old starting -point—to help her, to get her back to where she -ought to be, I must deceive and go on deceiving. -Unquestionably something was wrong with my -world. If I could only have lived in Pippa’s or -fitted Pippa’s philosophy to mine! But could anybody? -I wish Robert Browning was in my place, -sitting here to-night by the student lamp, half dead -trying to decide what is the right thing to do.</p> - -<p>Oh, I’m so tired—and I can’t get away from it, I -can’t stop thinking of it. Why did they ever meet? -Why did I go down-stairs that afternoon and bring -him up? Why did a man—cold and indifferent—suddenly -catch fire as he had done? Why couldn’t -I be left in peace? Why was it he, my man, who -had come to bring me back to life and joy? Why? -why? why?</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XV">XV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>hings</span> have been in a state of quiescence for -the last few days and then, yesterday, there -was a new development.</p> - -<p>When I say things have been quiescent, I mean -on the outside. In the inside I have been as far -from quiescent as I ever was in my life. That last -year with Harmon wasn’t nearly so bad as this. It -was just my own affair then. When your heart is -breaking you can sit quiet and listen to it cracking -and it doesn’t matter to anybody but yourself. It’s -just a chance of fate that you should be a little floating -particle full of pain. The world goes on the -same and you don’t matter.</p> - -<p>But when other people’s destinies are tangled up -in yours, when you have to decide what’s best for -<i>them</i> with your reason and your inclination pulling -different ways—that’s having trouble for your -shadow in the daytime and your bedfellow at night. -If I was an indifferent spectator who could stand -off and study the situation with an impartial eye, I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>could come to a just decision. It’s trying to lift -myself out of it and be fair that’s so agonizing—it’s -being afraid that I may tell for my own sake, betray -Lizzie to save myself.</p> - -<p>There are strong, clear-minded people who could -think straight to a conclusion, take the responsibility -and act, then eat their dinner and go peacefully -to bed. I’m not one of them. I’ve always -been the kind who sees both sides and wavers, afraid -if they champion one they may be unjust to the -other. Last night I was thinking of the girl in -<i>The Master Builder</i> when she tells the hero that -he hasn’t “a robust conscience.” Then I thought -of John Masters and how he broke the fetters of -his own forging. They were both right. I can see -it and I admit it but I never would have had the -courage to do as they did. To hurt and hurt for -yourself—no, I couldn’t.—But I must get on to the -new development.</p> - -<p>Betty came yesterday afternoon and took me for -a drive. Under normal circumstances this is one -of my greatest treats. To be with Betty is always -good, and to watch the glory of New York on -parade while Betty explains charitable schemes or -gives advice on the best mode of life for a widow -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>of moderate means, has been one of the joys of the -winter. Then there were small individual pleasures -that I silently savored as we glided along: the -springy softness of the cushions, the fine feel of the -fur rug, wonderful clothes in show-windows, and -wonderful clothes out of show-windows making -beautiful ladies more beautiful. And there was an -experience that never lost its zest, full of a thrilling -significance: when we all stopped, a block of vehicles -from curb to curb, and let the foot passengers -pass. It assured me we were still a democracy. If -we had lived in the days before the French Revolution -we’d have gone dashing along and the foot -passengers would have had to dodge our proud -wheels at the peril of their lives. Now we wait on -their convenience. I have seen the whole traffic -drawn up while a tramp shuffled across, while we -millionaires—I am always a millionaire when I -ride with Betty—sat back and were patient. I have -always hoped Thomas Jefferson was somewhere -where he could look down and see.</p> - -<p>Yesterday all joy and interest were gone from it. -Odd how our inward vision gives the color to externals; -how, when our spirit is darkened, the sun -gets dim and the sky less blue. We paint the world -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>ourselves. I remember after my mother died that -for a long time all nature looked gray and my close -cozy intimacy with it was suddenly gone. But, that’s -another story.</p> - -<p>Betty lifted me out of a depressed silence by a -suggestion; she said it had been germinating in her -mind since Sunday. Wouldn’t it be better, instead -of starting her as teacher, to send Lizzie Harris to -Europe for several years to go on with her studies?</p> - -<p>“She oughtn’t to give up all she’s done, and teaching -singing when you’ve expected to be a prima -donna yourself, isn’t a very exhilarating prospect.”</p> - -<p>It was so like Betty! Always thinking of something -just a little bit better. Mrs. Ashworth never -would have got beyond the teaching and it had taken -Roger and Betty to get her that far. I straightened -up and felt that the afternoon was brightening.</p> - -<p>“It’s too early for her to throw it up,” Betty went -on. “She hasn’t given it a fair trial. She gets one -setback and an illness and then says it’s over. I -don’t believe it is and I want to give her another -chance.”</p> - -<p>“But”—to keep square with myself I had to bring -up difficulties—“she declares she’ll never sing -again.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, rubbish! We all declare we’ll never do -things again. Harry and I had a fight last autumn -and <i>I</i> declared I’d never speak to him again, and I -was speaking—and glad to do it—in two hours.”</p> - -<p>“Your husband’s not your profession.”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear,” said Betty with a smile, “but my -marriage is, and being a successful wife is not so -very different from being a successful prima donna. -I tell you this is all nonsense about her refusing to -go on. She’s cut out for the stage. The opera -bores me to death. I’d never go if it wasn’t for my -two strings of pearls and the prohibitive price of the -box. But I really think, if she was in it, I could -stand even <i>Tristan and Isolde</i>.”</p> - -<p>I looked out of the window—wonderful how the -gay animation of the street had come back. And -it was Betty’s idea and Betty was generally right.</p> - -<p>“I could suggest it to her,” I said.</p> - -<p>“That’s exactly what I intend you to do, and as -soon as possible. I hate things dangling on. Make -it perfectly plain to her: I’ll undertake the whole -matter, give her as long a time as she needs with -any teacher she chooses. And don’t you see if she’s -taken out of this place where she’s had the failure -and been so discouraged, she’ll take a fresh hold? -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>It’ll be a new start in new surroundings, and she’ll -feel like a new person.”</p> - -<p>The most sensitively self-questioning woman must -have admitted the force of the argument. If Betty’s -previous efforts to play the god in the machine had -been ill-inspired, this time she redeemed herself.</p> - -<p>“Very well,” I said cheerfully. “As Mrs. Stregazzi -would say, I’ll ‘take it up with her’ this -evening.”</p> - -<p>Betty took me home and I ran up the stairs. I -was like a child hastening to impart joyful tidings. -Lizzie was in her kitchen occupied over household -affairs. A glass lamp turned too high, stood on a -shelf, the delicate skein of smoke rising from its -chimney, painting a dusky circle on the ceiling. The -gas, also too high, rushed from its burner in a torn -flame that leaped and hissed like a live thing caught -and in pain. Lizzie, being well enough to attend to -her own needs, the place was once more in chaos. I -turned down the lamp and the gas, shut off the sink -faucet, which was noisily dribbling, and lifting a -pie from the one wooden chair, put it on the ice-box -and sat down to impart my news.</p> - -<p>She listened without interruption, leaning against -the wash-tub.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span></p> - -<p>“Well?” I said, as she didn’t speak. My voice -was sharp, her silence got on my nerves.</p> - -<p>“To go to Europe and study,” she said dreamily, -“that’s been the dream of my life.”</p> - -<p>“Well, your dream’s come true, Lizzie!” I jumped -up ready to take her in my arms and hug her. “You -can go as soon as your trunk’s packed.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>“It’s too late now.”</p> - -<p>“Too late!” I fell back from her, unbelieving, -aghast—“What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>Her face bore an expression of sad renouncement.</p> - -<p>“The dream’s over, I’m awake.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean to say you’re going to refuse.”</p> - -<p>She gravely nodded.</p> - -<p>“But, Lizzie, think, listen. You don’t realize what -a chance this is. Any teacher you may choose, -for as long as you like, all worry about money over. -I know Mrs. Ferguson, she’s never attempted anything -that she hasn’t carried through—”</p> - -<p>I launched forth into a eulogy of Betty, and -branched from that into a list of the advantages accruing -to the object of her bounty, holding them up, -viewing them from all sides like choice articles I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>was offering for sale. I was eloquent, I was persuasive, -I introduced irrefutable arguments. Any -other woman standing with reluctant feet on the -verge of such an enterprise, would have ceased to -be reluctant and leaped toward the future I pictured.</p> - -<p>But Lizzie was immovable. I saw my words flying -off her as if they were bird-shot striking on an -armored cruiser. She had only one reason for refusing -but that was beyond the power of words to -shake—she had given up her career as a singer; -nothing would ever make her return to it.</p> - -<p>I sank down on the wooden chair, my head on my -breast, despair claiming me. She went about the -kitchen in a vague incompetent way picking things -up and putting them down, then suddenly wanting -them and forgetting where they were. As she trailed -about she drove home her refusal with a series of -disconnected sentences, bubbles of thought rising -to occasional speech. I didn’t answer her, sitting -crumpled on the chair—until she had refused, I -hadn’t realized how much I had hoped.</p> - -<p>Presently she swept into the back room, carrying -a pile of plates with the air of an empress bearing -the royal insignia. I heard her setting them on -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>the dining-table and then a rattle of silver. She -came back and hunted about, feeling on shelves and -opening cupboard doors, then said, in the deep tones -made for the great tragic rôles:</p> - -<p>“Evie, there was a lemon pie somewhere around -here. You’re not sitting on it by any chance?”</p> - -<p>Filled with misery I indicated the pie on the top -of the ice-box. In the pursuit of her domestic duties -she had thrown a dish-cloth over it. She removed -the cloth, and picking up the pie, looked it over -solicitously.</p> - -<p>“You’re going to sup with me to-night and eat -this.”</p> - -<p>The bitter appropriativeness of Lizzie feeding me -on lemon pie pierced through my anguish—I -laughed. I laughed with a loud strident note, leaning -my head back against the wall and looking at -the smoke mark on the ceiling. Lizzie, pie in hand, -stood looking at me in majestic surprise.</p> - -<p>“What are you laughing at?”</p> - -<p>“My thoughts. They’re very funny—you and I, -sitting up here alone and carousing on lemon pie.”</p> - -<p>“We’re not going to be alone. Mr. Clements is -coming. I asked him to supper and when he looked -uncertain tempted him by saying you’d be here.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> - -<p>Roger and I eating lemon pie, dispensed by -Lizzie—now the gods were laughing, too.</p> - -<p>“I can’t come,” I said sulkily.</p> - -<p>She looked utterly dismayed, as if she had heard -a piece of news too direful to believe. If it had been -any one but Lizzie Harris I should have said she -was going to cry.</p> - -<p>“Not come! Why not?”</p> - -<p>“Mightn’t I have an engagement?”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t. I asked you if you had this -morning.”</p> - -<p>“I have a headache.”</p> - -<p>She put the pie on the wash-tub with a distracted -gesture, and began beseechingly, her head tilted toward -her shoulder, eyes and mouth pleading:</p> - -<p>“Ah, now, Evie, <i>don’t</i> have a headache. The party -was to be a surprise for you. I’ve been getting it -together all afternoon. And I ordered the pie -especially. <i>Please</i> feel well. Mr. Clements has been -so good to me and I wanted to return his kindness -and I knew he wouldn’t enjoy it half so much if -you weren’t here.”</p> - -<p>I know every word was genuine. I believe she -is still ignorant of Roger’s feeling for her. One -of the things I have often noticed about her is that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>she seems unconscious of, or indifferent to, her attraction -for men. I have never heard her speak of -it or seen her show any pleasure in it. Small coquettes -and flirts, the women who make a study of -charming, can not hide their pride of conquest, love -to recount the havoc they have wrought. There is -none of that in Lizzie. Sometimes I have thought -she is so used to admiration that she accepts it as a -part of her life, like the sunshine or the rain. -Roger, as “a kind man,” is just lumped in with -the count and the doctor and Mr. Hamilton. And -with her blindness to other people’s claims she -makes no inquiry, takes no notice of the humbler -romances of the rest of us. She has never said a -word to me about Roger as <i>my</i> friend. If she has -ever given it a thought she has ticketed him as just -“a kind man” to me also.</p> - -<p>I lay back in the wooden chair and stared at her -with a haggard glance.</p> - -<p>“Do you like Mr. Clements, Lizzie,” I said solemnly.</p> - -<p>She nodded, then reached for the pie and began -touching its surface with the tip of a finger.</p> - -<p>“Immensely. I don’t see how any one could help -it. He’s so kind.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span></p> - -<p>Her attention was concentrated on what she held. -She scrutinized it as if it were a treasure in which -she searched for a possible flaw.</p> - -<p>“He’s more than kind,” I answered. Even in my -misery I felt a tinge of irritation that she should -accept Roger’s homage as if he was of no more -value than the count or the doctor.</p> - -<p>“Of course he is,” she replied. “He’s so intellectual. -And then he has such lovely manners. -I think he’s more of a gentleman than any man I’ve -ever known.”</p> - -<p>I thought of Masters. Was she in her mind comparing -them? If she was there was no sign of it -in her face. She murmured a commendatory phrase -of the pie, and holding it off on the palm of an outspread -hand, carried it into the back room.</p> - -<p>I sat on the wooden chair staring after her. Did -she care for Roger? Was she going to transfer her -incomprehensible affections to him? It was a hideous -thought. She came back and swept about, collecting -the feast, and my dazed eyes followed her. How -could she do such a thing unless she was so lacking -in a central core of character that she was nothing -but the shell of a woman?</p> - -<p>It was a queer scrappy meal, most of it sent round -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>from the delicatessen store on Lexington Avenue. -Such as it was the hostess offered it with as smiling -an aplomb as if Delmonico’s head chef had produced -it in an inspired moment. No qualm that her chief -guest might not enjoy ham and beer disturbed her -gracious serenity. Petronius Arbiter treating his -emperor to a gastronomic orgy, could not have recommended -the nightingale’s tongues more confidently -than Lizzie did the canned asparagus, bought at -a discount.</p> - -<p>That Roger enjoyed it was evident. I don’t suppose -he had ever been at a supper where the ladies -waited and sometimes, when the plates ran short, -washed them between courses. Lizzie’s inexpertness -caused continuous breaks in the progress of the feast—important -items overlooked, consultations as to the -proper order of the viands, an unexpected shortage -of small silver. Before we had got to the canned -asparagus, I found myself assuming the management. -Roger rising and pursuing an aimless search -for the beer opener, and Lizzie making rapid futile -gropings for it in the backs of drawers and the bottoms -of bowls, was distracting to my orderly sense. -They couldn’t find it anywhere. They had too -much to say, got in each other’s way, forgot to hunt -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>and stood laughing, while I took up the search and -ran it to earth on a nail in the kitchen.</p> - -<p>After that the party shifted its base entirely and -became mine. They were glad to relinquish it to -me, took their seats with the air of those who know -an uncongenial task has found the proper hands. I -directed it, grimly attentive, and it was not the least -of my pain that I saw they thought I was pleased to -do so. If I had ever done any one a deadly wrong -he would have been avenged had he seen me—making -things pleasant for Roger and Lizzie, ministering -to their creature comfort, too engrossed -in my labors to join in. I was the chaperon, I was -the maiden aunt, I was Mrs. Grundy.</p> - -<p>When we reached the last course I found that the -coffee machine had not been emptied of the morning’s -dregs and took it into the kitchen, while Lizzie -put the pie on the table. From my place at the sink -I could see it, a foamy surface of beaten-egg, glistening -against the white expanse of cloth. Lizzie -was proud of her pie and refused my offer to cut -it. She held the knife poised for a deliberating -moment, then sliced carefully, while Roger watched -from across the table and I from beside the sink. -She cut a piece for me and put it at my place, then -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>one for Roger. Leaning from her seat she handed -him the plate and he took it, the circle of porcelain -joining their hands. Over it he looked at her with -shining passion-lit eyes.</p> - -<p>To me, watching from that squalid kitchen, their -outstretched arms were symbolic of their attitude -one to the other, the piece of pie, a love potion she -was offering. It was “Isolde” holding out the cup to -“Tristan”. Probably any one reading this will -laugh. Believe me, in that moment, I tasted the fulness -of despair—that darkening of the dear bright -world, that concentrating of all the pain one can feel -into one consummate pang.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XVI">XVI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> am</span> convinced now. Roger loves her. Until -that supper I had ups and downs—times when -I felt unsure, hours when I argued myself into the -belief that I was mistaken. But when I came down -to my rooms that night my uncertainties were ended. -As I lay in the dark I saw everything as clear as -crystal. It seemed as if I was clairvoyant, caught -up above myself, the whole situation visualized before -me like a picture.</p> - -<p>Since then there’s been only one question—what -ought I to do?</p> - -<p>Apart from my own feeling for Roger—supposing -he was only the friend he used to be—should -I let him give his heart and his name to a woman, -whom, if he knew the truth, he would put away from -him like a leper? Every ideal and instinct that -make up the sum of his being would revolt, if he -knew about Lizzie and John Masters. I know this, -I don’t just think it because I want to. According -to his code all women must be chaste and all men -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>honest, and if they’re not, he doesn’t want to have -anything to do with them. It may not be generous, -but that’s not to the point. He is so made and so will -remain. He has been kinder to me than any one in -the world—kind and just, as far as he knew. Should -I, who could prevent it, stand by and watch him—the -illustration isn’t flattering but it’s apt—rushing -toward the precipice like the Gadarene swine?</p> - -<p>And then Lizzie is entirely unfitted to be the wife -of such a man. She belongs to another world that -he doesn’t understand and couldn’t tolerate. He -would think the people she foregathers with were -savages. He hasn’t seen her with them, he doesn’t -know how blind she is to the niceties of manners -and breeding that to him are essentials. I try to -fit her into his environment, put her up in a niche -beside Mrs. Ashworth—Lizzie, with her tempests, -her careless insults, her impossible friends! Suppose -there had never been any John Masters, that -she was as pure as Diana, could she ever be tamed -to the Clements’ standard?</p> - -<p>Memories of her keep coming up, throwing -oranges out of the window, listening hungrily to -Mrs. Stregazzi (fancy Mrs. Stregazzi at Mrs. Ashworth’s -tea table talking about her corsets and her -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>cigarettes!) facing Masters like an enraged lioness, -weeping against his shoulder and pleading with him -to come back. Good heavens, if no man had even -touched her hand except in the clasp of friendship, -she is not the woman for Roger. And she lived, -willingly, proudly, without a twinge of conscience, -with John Masters!</p> - -<p>That’s one side and here’s the other:</p> - -<p>Lizzie’s happiness, Lizzie placed beyond all need, -Lizzie the wife of a man so high-thinking and right-doing -that everything in her that was fine must -answer to his call. Under his influence she might -change, become what he now imagines her to be. -Women have done that often, grown to love the -man they marry and molded themselves to his -ideal. Have I the right to stand between her and -such a future, bar the way to Eden, an angel with -a flaming sword?</p> - -<p>I can’t.</p> - -<p>In utter abandon she told me the story that I can -now use against her. She trusted me and I answered -her trust with a promise that I would never tell, -unless she asked me to. It is true that she said she -didn’t care if I did tell. But does it matter what she -said? Wouldn’t I, if I used the permission given -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span>in sickness of heart and body, be meaner than the -meanest thing that crawls? Am I to buy my happiness -at such a price?</p> - -<p>I can’t.</p> - -<p>If she still had her career it would be different. -I could see her going forward in it, certain it was -the best thing for her. But her career is over. She -is to settle down as a singing teacher, plod on patiently, -watch others making for the goal that was -once to be hers. She can’t do it any more than she -can fly.</p> - -<p>If I thought that she was vicious, bad at heart, -I would be certain I ought to tell. But with all her -faults she is generous, kindly and honest. It’s her -chance—the one chance that comes to all of us. Is -it my business to take it from her, to interfere, with -my flaming sword, and say, “No, this is not for you. -You have committed the woman’s unpardonable sin. -If you don’t feel the proper remorse it will be my -place to punish you, to shut you out from the possibilities -of redemption. Whatever <i>you</i> may think -about it, <i>I</i> think that you belong in the corral with -the goats and I’m going to do all in my power to -keep you there”?</p> - -<p>I can’t.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p> - -<p>And so I go on, round and round like a squirrel -in a cage. I wonder if the squirrel ever feels as -I do.</p> - -<p>They come in to see me and say I look ill. Roger -is particularly solicitous, wants me to go south for -a month with Mrs. Ashworth. I could no more -leave this place, and the spectacle of his infatuation, -than I could tell him what is making me hollow-eyed -and wan.</p> - -<p>One of the bitterest of my thoughts is that I know—an -instinct tells me—he is really still fondest of -me. I am and always will be the better woman for -him, the one that in the storm and stress of a life’s -companionship, is his true mate. His feeling for -Lizzie is a temporary aberration. He has been bewitched—La -Belle Dame Sans Merci has him in -thrall. Some day he will wake from the dream—and -then? He will find Lizzie beside him, La -Belle Dame Sans Merci directing the domestic -régime, tactfully accommodating herself to his -moods, taking the place of the undistinguished wife -of a distinguished husband.</p> - -<p>Oh—why do I write like this! It’s low, contemptible, -vile. I’m going to stop. I’m going to -bow my head and say it’s done and give up.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span></p> - -<p>I wrote that two days ago, pressed the blotter -over it and said to myself, “The squirrel has had -enough. It’s going to lie down in its cage.”</p> - -<p>To-night—it’s past midnight and a big moon is -shining on the back walls—I begin with a new pen -on a fresh sheet to show how the squirrel didn’t -stop. Poor ridiculous, demented squirrel!</p> - -<p>There is a sort of grotesque humor about it, I -can stand off and laugh at myself.</p> - -<p>This afternoon the count came in to see me with -news. His people have sent for him to go back to -Rome.</p> - -<p>“Have you already learned the banking business -as conducted in America?” I inquired. I’m not so -sympathetic as I used to be but the count doesn’t -seem to notice it.</p> - -<p>He took a cigarette and answered with deliberation:</p> - -<p>“I have now, for four months, pasted letters in -a book. It seems that I am to go on forever pasting -letters in a book. I wrote it to my father and he -sends me an answer saying, ‘My son, you can paste -letters in a book as well in Rome as in New York. -Come back at once. I find this pasting too expensive!’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p> - -<p>I expressed fitting regrets at this paternal interference.</p> - -<p>“It is with great sorrow that I leave,” said the -count sadly, “I have made many charming friends -here.”</p> - -<p>He removed his cigarette and bowed to me. I -inclined my head. Our mutual lack of spirits did -not prevent us from being extremely polite.</p> - -<p>“You, dear madame, have been sweetly kind to -the exile. I don’t know what I should have done -without your ever beautiful sympathy.”</p> - -<p>I made deprecating murmurs.</p> - -<p>“A young man like myself, a romantic, must have -a confidante, one who feels and understands, one -who has lived.” I bowed again in melancholy admission -of the fact. “It will be hard to go.”</p> - -<p>He looked really troubled. His handsome warmly-tinted -face wore an expression of gravity that -made him seem much older. His eyes, usually alert -and full of laughter, were wistfully dejected.</p> - -<p>“I have loved her,” he said quietly.</p> - -<p>For the first time in our acquaintance it seemed -to me that the count was speaking from that center -of feeling that we call the heart. He appeared no -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>longer an irresponsible, almost elfish youth, but a -man who, as he himself expressed it, had lived. I -was impressed.</p> - -<p>“Have you told her?” I asked.</p> - -<p>He shook his head murmuring:</p> - -<p>“I decide to and I put it off. It is too hard. I -fear what I may say.”</p> - -<p>A sudden idea took possession of me. Writing -it down in cold blood it sounds like the deranged -fancy of a lunatic. At the moment when it came, I -regarded it not only as a possible solution of all our -difficulties, but as an inspiration. My only excuse -is that self-preservation is the law of nature. I was -drowning and I caught at a straw.</p> - -<p>“Do you really love Lizzie Harris?” I asked in -a voice tense to the trembling point.</p> - -<p>“Very really.”</p> - -<p>“More than that other lady, the thin one who wore -the fur dress?”</p> - -<p>“Much more.”</p> - -<p>“More than any woman you have ever known?”</p> - -<p>“A hundred times more.”</p> - -<p>We must have presented an absurdly solemn appearance, -I planting my questions like a detective -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>administering the third degree, the count nodding -automatically as he jerked out his answers, his eyes -fixed on me with an almost fierce stare.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you marry her?”</p> - -<p>That was my inspiration. It seems to me the most -inexplicable aberration that ever seized a sane -woman—only for the moment I wasn’t sane. One of -the curious points about it was that I never thought -of Lizzie at all, whether she would want him or not. -All I saw was the count transformed into a genie, -unexpectedly come to my aid. I make no doubt if -she had shown reluctance I would have counseled -him to kidnap her as his ancestors kidnaped the -Sabine women.</p> - -<p>His expression brought me back to sense. He -was looking at me with a blank unbelieving surprise -as if I had suggested something beyond the limits -of human endeavor. If I had urged him to inaugurate -a conspiracy against his king or an exploring -party to the moon, he could not have appeared -more astonished.</p> - -<p>“Marry her!” he ejaculated.</p> - -<p>“Yes, marry her. You love her, you’ve just -said so.”</p> - -<p>“Most assuredly I do, to distraction.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span></p> - -<p>“Then why do you look so surprised?”</p> - -<p>“But marriage—me?” He laid a finger on his -breast and tapped on the top button of his waistcoat, -regarding me from beneath raised brows. His expression -was that of an intelligent person who can -not believe that he has heard aright. It made me -angry.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you. I could hardly be alluding to anybody -else after what you’ve just said.”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear lady—” he sent a roving glance -round the room as if hunting for some one who -would explain, then came back to me. As he met -my eyes he smiled, deprecatingly, almost tenderly, -the smile with which maturity greets the preposterous -antics of a child. “Is it a joke you make?”</p> - -<p>“No, it is not,” I answered, “and I don’t see why -you should think it was. When you love a person -you marry them, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Alas, not always. I could never marry Miss -Harris. She is not of my order.”</p> - -<p>“Order?” I was the one who ejaculated now.</p> - -<p>“Exactly. Whomever I may love I only marry -in my order.”</p> - -<p>My inspiration collapsed, pierced by this unexpected -and unfamiliar word. For a moment we sat -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span>regarding each other. I don’t know how I looked -but I don’t think it could have been as abject as I -felt or the count, who is one of the most amiable -of youths, would have wanted to know what was the -matter. If I had had my wits about me I should -have pretended it was a joke but I was too ashamed -and crushed to pretend anything. In the embarrassing -pause I tried to smile, a feeble propitiatory -smile, which he answered in kind, brightly and reassuringly. -I saw he expected me to go on, and I -didn’t know how to go on except to argue it out -with him.</p> - -<p>“What does your order matter if you love a -person?”</p> - -<p>“But everything. It is, as you say here, what -we’re there for.”</p> - -<p>“But you do marry out of your class. Italian -nobles have married American women who were -without family.”</p> - -<p>He gave a gay smile, jerking his head with a little -agreeing movement toward his shoulder:</p> - -<p>“Ah, truly, yes, but with fortunes—large fortunes. -We need them, we have not got the huge -moneys in Italy that you have here. But the adorable -Miss Harris has nothing. Figure to yourself, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>Mrs. Drake; she must work for her living. If I come -home to my father with a story like that, what happens? -He is enraged, he turns me out—and then <i>I</i> -have to work for <i>my</i> living.” He gave a delightful -boyish laugh. “At what?—pasting letters in a -book? That is all I know.”</p> - -<p>“Foreigners are very hard for Americans to understand,” -I muttered, wondering if any foreigner -of any race would ever have understood why a respectable -American widow should offer her friend -in marriage to an unwilling Italian count.</p> - -<p>He leaned from his chair, pointing the smoking -cigarette at me. His melancholy had vanished. He -was a boy again, a light-hearted Latin boy, intrigued -and amused at the sentimental point of view -obtaining under the stars and stripes.</p> - -<p>“It is you who are hard for us to understand—so -loving money and so loving love. And which -you like the best we can’t find out. For us one is -here and one is there.” He pointed with the cigarette -to two opposite corners of the room. “Miss Harris -I adore but I do not marry her.” He planted his -romance in the left-hand corner with a jab of his -cigarette. “And I marry a lady whom I may not -love, but who has fortune and who is of my class.” -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>He planted her in the opposite corner with a second -jab. “They are so far apart.” And he waved the -cigarette between the two, with a sweep wide enough -to indicate the distance that severed sentiment from -obligation.</p> - -<p>That was the end of it. I pulled myself together -and led the conversation into a comparison of national -characteristics. I don’t know what he thought -of me, probably that I was a horrible example of -what can be produced by a romance-ridden country.</p> - -<p>When I think of it now (if I cared a farthing -what happened to me) I would be quite scared. I -wonder if I’ve inherited a queer strain from any of -my forebears. They don’t look like it, but you can’t -tell from portraits and miniatures. In their days -it was the fashion to paint out all discreditable characteristics -as, in ours, it is the highest merit to paint -them in. Could it be possible that one of those pop-eyed, -tight-mouthed women ever swerved from “a -sweet reasonableness” and bequeathed the tendency -to me? I’ve read somewhere that while the inclination -to wrong-doing may not be transmitted, the -weakened will can pass on. Is my lunacy of to-day, -my distracted waverings, my temptations to disloyalty, -the result of some one else’s lapse from the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>normal? (The lamp’s going out. With the room -getting dim I can see the moonlight in a clear wash -of silver on the windows.) It wasn’t the little -Huguenot lady. But her husband opposite, the formidable -Puritan in the wig, was one of the jury -who condemned the witches. That may be it. His -cruelty is coming back to be paid for by his descendant—the -poor old witches are getting even at last. -Perhaps my descendants will some day writhe in -atonement for my faults. But I have no descendants! -I never will have.</p> - -<p>It’s the lamp’s last sputter—going out as I’m going -out. In a minute it will be dark, with the moonlight -filling the gulfs of the backyards and I, alone -in the night, listening to the stillness, wondering -if I was only created to be an expiatory offering.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XVII">XVII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">A</span>s</span> soon as Betty heard that the European offer -was refused she turned her attention to the -lessons. Bustling about, making appointments, talking -over reluctant mothers, forcing people to study -singing who never thought of doing so, she is an -inspiring sight to everybody but the object of her -campaign.</p> - -<p>Lizzie makes me uneasy. She has shown no enthusiasm, -taking it all for granted as though busy -ladies could not better employ their time than by -helping her to fortune. Betty thinks it timidity, -that she is distrustful of herself. I know better. -Her languor conceals a dreary disinclination. She -has never said a word of thanks to Betty or Mrs. -Ashworth. Once or twice I have suggested that -they have taken a good deal of trouble and she -might—I have always stopped there and she has -never asked me to go on. What is the good of telling -a person they ought to have feelings which nature -seems to have left out of them?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p> - -<p>Last night Roger came and after a few moments -with me suggested that we go up-stairs and talk over -the new work with her. I wouldn’t, said I was sleepy -and wanted to go to bed. When he had gone I -lowered the lights and sat waiting to hear his footsteps -coming down. I waited an hour and a half, -and then they came, descending the creaking staircase, -passing my door, and going on to the street. -That wasn’t a good night for sleeping. In the small -hours I got up and tried to read. The book was -painfully appropriate, <i>The Love Letters of Mademoiselle -de Lespinasse</i>. I read them till I heard the -milkman making his rounds.</p> - -<p>There is something horribly humiliating about -women’s love-letters. When the passion is unrequited, -or half requited as it was with De Lespinasse, -they are so abject. She made a brave stand, -poor soul, tried to find Guibert a wife and pretend -she didn’t mind. But when she began to sicken -to her death, all her bravery vanished. Those last -letters are like a shrill frenzied wail. And she was -a very first-class woman in love with a very second-class -man. I suppose it’s a sort of sex tradition -that we should adore and adhere in this ignominious -way. We’ve had it hammered into us that to love -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>and cling was our mission till it’s grown to have a -fictitious value, and we feel if we don’t love and -cling something is wrong with us. And what’s accomplished -by it—who is benefited by our useless -suffering?</p> - -<p>The other evening down-town in the dusk I passed -a girl waiting on the corner by a show-window. -The light fell full on her face and I knew by her expression -why she was there—a rendezvous with her -young man who was late. She was angry, close-lipped -and sullen-eyed. I could read her thoughts—she -was going to tell him her opinion of him, be -haughty and frigid, give him a piece of her mind -and leave him. Just then he came slouching up, a -lowering surly cub, and when she saw him she -couldn’t hide her joy. Her anger vanished at his -first word. She’d have believed anything he told -her knowing in her heart it was a lie. She hardly -wanted his excuses, so glad he’d come, so pitifully -slavishly glad.</p> - -<p>It’s shameful, crushing, revolting. Here am I, -the heir of all the ages in the foremost files of time, -feeling just the same as that subjugated shop-girl. -Roger up-stairs with Lizzie, and I can’t sleep, and -can’t eat, and can’t stop caring, and worst of all, if -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span>he wanted to come back to me I’d open my arms -to him. Talk of the forward march of women! -When the cave man went forth to find a new wife, -the old discarded one left in the corner by the fire -felt just the same as I do in the opening of the twentieth -century.</p> - -<p>But now, as Pepys says, to bed. I’ll sleep if I -have to take a thumping dose of trional which I -was taught in my youth was even more wicked than -powdering your nose.</p> - -<p>This afternoon Lizzie went forth to give her first -lesson and I stayed in to wait for her. I was anxious -about it. If the survival of the fittest prevails among -educators as it does in the animal kingdom I felt -sure that Lizzie as a teacher would not survive. Her -pupil is the spoiled child of fortune, sixteen, with -a voice as small as her <i>dot</i> will be large. Betty had -conjured me to make our protégée give up the black -tea-tray hat and I had tried and failed. Before her -haughty and uncomprehending surprise I had -wilted. No one would have had the courage to -tell her why she should look meek and unassuming. -As it was she had dressed herself with unusual care, -even to the long green earrings which I hadn’t seen -for months. She was more like the duchess in an -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span>English comedy cast for Broadway, than a penniless -music teacher being pushed up the ladder.</p> - -<p>As I sat waiting Miss Bliss came in—wrapped in -the Navajo blanket. She threw it back and stood -for me to admire, very dainty in a new pink blouse -with a Pierrot frill encircling her neck and a broad -pink ribbon tied round her head. Boyishly slender, -her arms extended to hold out the blanket, she had -the fragile grace of a Tanagra figurine—a modern -Tanagra with a powdered nose and a dash of carmine -on the lips. When I told her she was pretty she -blushed, dropped the blanket on the floor and herself -on the blanket, and said a girl owed it to herself -always to look her best.</p> - -<p>“You might meet a man in the hall,” she murmured, -mechanically reaching for the poker, “and -what’s the sense of looking like a slob?”</p> - -<p>When she poked the fire a belt held down the -back of the blouse. The kimono jacket, the safety -pin and the golden corset string were gone, if not -forever, at least till their owner was safely landed -in her own little flat with her own little husband.</p> - -<p>Our gossiping stopped when we heard Lizzie’s -step on the stairs. She entered without knocking, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span>sweeping in and slamming the door. A brusk -nod was all Miss Bliss got and my greeting was a -curt “Hello, Evie.” She threw herself into a rocker, -and extending her feet beyond the hem of her -skirt, sunk down in the chair and looked at her -boots. In her hand she held a bunch of unopened -letters.</p> - -<p>I was keyed up for something unusual but I -hadn’t seen her in this state since her illness. We -waited for her to speak, then as she showed no inclination -to do so I remarked, with labored lightness:</p> - -<p>“Well, Lizzie, how was it?”</p> - -<p>“Beastly,” she answered, without looking up.</p> - -<p>“Was your pupil a nice girl?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Was she disagreeable?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, but I detested her. A little, simpering, -affected idiot. <i>Sing</i>—that fool!”</p> - -<p>She lifted her head and looked round the room -with a wild and roving eye. Her glance, raised -high, avoided us as if the sight of her fellow humans -was disagreeable. Miss Bliss cleared her -throat and stirred cautiously on the blanket. She -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span>knew where Lizzie had been and was exceedingly -anxious to hear her adventures in the halls of -wealth, but didn’t dare to ask.</p> - -<p>“It really isn’t of any consequence what she’s -like,” I soothed. “Just take her as a matter of business.”</p> - -<p>“Matter of business!” She struck her hands on -the arms of the chair with a slapping sound and -jumped up. “What have I to do with business?” -Then she walked to the window and stood drumming -with her fingers on the pane.</p> - -<p>The quick nervous tattoo fell ominously on my -uneasiness. Miss Bliss sent a furtive masonic look -at me, and glanced away. With an elaborate air of -nonchalance she patted her frill and picked at her -skirt, and finally, unable to stand the combined pressure -of our silence and her own curiosity, said -boldly:</p> - -<p>“What kind of a house was it?”</p> - -<p>Lizzie answered slowly, pronouncing each word -with meticulous precision:</p> - -<p>“It was a large, shiny, expensive house. It was -a hideous house. Nobody who was anything, or -ever expected to be anybody, ought to go into such -a house.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span></p> - -<p>“You don’t say!” exclaimed Miss Bliss, artlessly -amazed. “I read about it in the papers and they -said it cost millions and had things in it out of -kings’ palaces.”</p> - -<p>To this there was no response, and Dolly Bliss -and I began to talk together. We chose a safe topic—a -bargain sale of stockings at Macy’s. We tried -to invest it with a careless sprightliness, which was -difficult, not so much because of the subject but by -reason of the tattoo on the pane. It was like an -accompaniment out of tune. We couldn’t seem to -give our minds to the stockings while it went on, -even when we raised our voices and tried to drown -it. Suddenly it stopped and we stopped, too, dropping -the stockings and eying each other with fixed -stares. Each of us was determined not to look at -Lizzie and it took all our will to refrain.</p> - -<p>She began moving about behind us, and we tried -a new subject—the count’s approaching departure. -We said nice things about him, echoed each other. -I remarked that he was a charming person, and Miss -Bliss remarked that he was a <i>very</i> charming person. -We had to make a great effort. It was almost impossible -to keep it up with that woman padding -about behind your chair like an ill-tempered tiger. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>When a sudden unexpected sound of tearing paper -came from her, I jumped as if the tiger had made -a spring at me. She was opening one of her letters. -It loosened the tension. We suppressed gasps and -took up the count again, more as if he was a human -being and less as if he was the center piece at a dull -dinner-party. Lizzie’s voice, loud and startled, -stopped us.</p> - -<p>“What do you think of this—Mrs. Stregazzi’s -married Berwick!”</p> - -<p>The count fled from our minds like an offended -god. We ejaculated, “Berwick!—Mrs. Stregazzi!” -and sat stunned.</p> - -<p>Lizzie consulted the letter:</p> - -<p>“Last week in Portland, Maine. She says, ‘We’re -as happy as clams and everybody predicts a great -future for Dan.’”</p> - -<p>“Well!” I breathed and looked at the other two. -Lizzie’s temper was gone, a shared sensation made -her one with us.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever!” she murmured as any ordinary -young woman might have done.</p> - -<p>“Why she’s fifteen years older than he is.”</p> - -<p>“More like twenty. She’s not so young as she -looks.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span></p> - -<p>“Good gracious, how extraordinary!” I fell -back in my chair aghast before this evidence of a -woman’s daring. “And those two children, <i>and</i> -the grandmother!” Mrs. Stregazzi’s dauntless -courage began to pale when I compared it to the -bridegroom’s.</p> - -<p>“Maybe he wanted a home,” Miss Bliss hazarded.</p> - -<p>“A man may want a home but he doesn’t want a -ready-made family in it.”</p> - -<p>It was my place in the trio to voice the sentiments -of that staid and unadventurous middle class, which -is described as “the backbone of the country.”</p> - -<p>“Singers don’t want homes,” said Lizzie, “they’re -in the way.”</p> - -<p>“It must have been love,” I said in an awed voice. -“Nothing else could explain it.”</p> - -<p>For a moment we were silent, each deflecting her -glance from the other to an adjacent object. I don’t -know why it should have been, but Mrs. Stregazzi’s -reckless act seemed to have depressed us. Any one -coming into the room would have said we had had -bad news.</p> - -<p>Miss Bliss broke the spell, emerging from depths -of thought in which she had been evolving a working -hypothesis.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span></p> -<p>“I don’t see why it is so strange,” she said ponderingly.</p> - -<p>“You don’t?”—the backbone of a country in -which all men are free and equal does not bend -readily—“with that disparity and he just beginning -his career?”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t.” She was sitting cross-legged, -holding an ankle in each hand and rocking gently. -“I’ll tell you just what I think—I believe they were -lonely. Lots of people get married because they’re -lonely.”</p> - -<p>“She had a mother and two children.”</p> - -<p>“She took care of them, they weren’t companions. -Berwick’s a companion, likes what she does and -works at the same thing. It’s great to have a person -like that around.” She nodded, with shrewd -eyes shifting from one face to the other. “I’ve -seen a lot and I’ve noticed. All sorts of people get -married, and it comes out right. It’s not just the -young ones and suitable ones that pull it off. It’ll -be fine for Mrs. Stregazzi to have him to go round -with, and it’ll be fine for him to have her to think -about and talk things over with.”</p> - -<p>“They can help each other along in their work,” -I admitted.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span></p> - -<p>“They can be fond of each other,” said Miss -Bliss.</p> - -<p>She ceased rocking and looked out of the window, -the shrewd eyes growing dreamy. Our appearance -of depression returned, a shade darker than before. -Mrs. Stregazzi and Berwick might have shown a -dashing disregard for public opinion, but there was -no reason for us to look as if we had heard of their -mutual destruction in a railway accident. If we -had been waiting for their mutilated remains we -couldn’t have appeared more melancholy. Miss -Bliss heaved a sigh and observed:</p> - -<p>“It’s a great thing to have some one fond of you.”</p> - -<p>Lizzie and I didn’t answer, but we gave ear as if -the Delphic oracle had spoken and we were trying -to extract balm from its words.</p> - -<p>“And it’s a great thing to be fond of some one -yourself.”</p> - -<p>Our silence gave assent, but the oracle’s wisdom -did not seem to cheer us. We sat sunk in our chairs, -eying her morosely. Her imagination roused, she -ranged over the advantages of the married state:</p> - -<p>“Just think how lovely it would be to know there -was some one who cared whether you were sick or -well, or happy or blue. Wouldn’t it be great to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>have some one come home in the evening who was -going to be awfully glad to see you and who you -were just crazy to have come? And when work -was slack and you were losing your sleep about -money, wouldn’t it be grand to know there was a -feller who could chip in and pay the bills? Oh, -gee—” she dropped her eyelids with the ecstatic -expression of one who glimpses ineffable radiances. -“Well, I guess yes.”</p> - -<p>An answering “yes” came faintly from me. The -ecstatic expression flashed away, and she turned, all -brusk negation:</p> - -<p class="p2b">“Oh, Mrs. Drake, <i>you</i> don’t know what it is. -<i>You’re</i> well fixed with money of your own. But -girls like us”—she pointed to Lizzie, then brought -her finger back to her own knee upon which she -tapped in bitter emphasis—“<i>we’ve</i> got only ourselves. -We’ve <i>got</i> to make good or go under. And -it’s fight, fight, fight. I’ve had to do something I -hated since I was sixteen and now she”—with a -nod at Lizzie, “has got to do something she hates.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<a id="i_270"><img src="images/i_270.jpg" width="350" alt="“How lovely it would be to know there was some one who cared!”" -title="" /></a></div></div> - -<p class="caption">“How lovely it would be to know there was some one who cared!”</p> - -<p class="p2">Lizzie, sunk in the chair, eyed her like a brooding -sphinx. She met the gaze with the boldness -of the meek roused to passion:</p> - -<p>“You do hate it, Miss Harris. You’ve done as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span>good as say so. And it’s new now, you’re only beginning. -Wait till you come home every evening, -disgusted with it all and everything and everybody; -when it’s bad weather and you feel sick and nobody -cares. Wait till you have to stand anything they -hand out to you, and not say a word back or you’ll -lose your job. I know. I’ve tried it and it’s tough. -It’s too much. Any man that ’ud come along and -offer to take you out of it would look all right to -you.” Her boldness began to weaken before that -formidable gaze. She became hurriedly apologetic. -“I’m not saying there <i>is</i> any man. I’m only supposing. -And I don’t mean now. I mean after -you’ve been up against it for years and years and -the grind’s crushed the heart out of you.”</p> - -<p>There was no answer, and the oracle, now openly -scared at her temerity, scrambled to her feet. In -the momentary silence I heard the distant bang of -the street door. She heard it too and forgot her -fear, wheeling to the mirror for a quick touching -up of her hair ribbon and frill. When she turned -back her color had risen to match her reddened lips -and her manner showed a flurried haste.</p> - -<p>“I got to go—several things to attend to—my supper -and some sewing to finish.” She didn’t bother to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>be careful of excuses. The man who hoped to acquire -the legal right to pay her bills was waiting -below. She went, trailing the Navajo blanket from -a hanging hand.</p> - -<p>Lizzie drew a deep breath and said:</p> - -<p>“She’s right.”</p> - -<p>“About what?”</p> - -<p>“About me.”</p> - -<p>“You mean the teaching?”</p> - -<p>“I do. It’s a dog’s work.”</p> - -<p>She rose and faced me, sullen as a thunder-cloud.</p> - -<p>“But you’ve hardly tried it.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve tried it enough. There are plenty of women -who can scratch along that way and be thankful -to Providence and pleasant to the pupils. Let them -do it. It’s their work, not mine.”</p> - -<p>She turned from me and went to the window, -but not this time to drum on the pane. Leaning -against the frame she looked out on the tin roof. -The angry contempt of her face suggested that the -millionaires Betty was collecting were gathered -there, unable to escape, and forced to hear how low -they stood in the opinion of their hireling.</p> - -<p>“I am an artist. Those people,” she made a -grandiose gesture to the tin roof, “don’t know what -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span>an artist is. They think they’re condescending, doing -a kindness. <i>I’m</i> the one that’s condescending—I -do them not a kindness but an honor, when I enter -their houses and listen to the squawking of their -barbarous children.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t expect them to think that.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t, they haven’t got sense enough. That -woman, the mother, came in while I was there. I’ve -no doubt she thought she was being very agreeable. -She asked me questions about my method.” She -gave me a sidelong cast of her eye full of derision. -“I sat and listened, and when she was done I said -I didn’t discuss my method with people who knew -nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lizzie,” I groaned. “You didn’t say that?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I did. Only that. I was polite and patient. -If I hadn’t felt so disgusted and out of -spirits I’d have spoken to her freely and fully. But -it wasn’t worth while.”</p> - -<p>“But they won’t stand that sort of thing. They -won’t have you again.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t intend to go again. I couldn’t endure -it for five minutes. I’d rather sweep a crossing on -Lexington Avenue.”</p> - -<p>“There aren’t any crossings on Lexington Avenue, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span>and if there were, you don’t know how to sweep. -What will you say to Mrs. Ferguson and Mrs. Ashworth?”</p> - -<p>She shrugged with an almost insolent indifference.</p> - -<p>“I’ll say I don’t like it. That’s enough, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Lizzie, I beg of you to be reasonable. They -won’t go on helping you if you disappoint them like -this.”</p> - -<p>“Then they can stop helping me—I’m not so immensely -charmed and interested in them. They try -and force me into things I don’t want to do. They -take it out of my hands and then come smiling at -me and say it’s all arranged. So it is—to their -liking but not to mine.”</p> - -<p>“It’s your profession, the only thing you know. -What else could they do?”</p> - -<p>“Let me alone.”</p> - -<p>It was like beating yourself on a brick wall. I -felt frantic.</p> - -<p>“But <i>what’s</i> going to become of you? You’ve got -no means of livelihood.”</p> - -<p>She shrugged again.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. But one thing I do know and that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>is that I won’t do slave’s work for you, or Mrs. -Ferguson, or any one else in the world.”</p> - -<p>I didn’t know what to say. I might go on talking -all night and not make a dent on her. Demosthenes -would have turned away baffled before her -impossible unreasonableness.</p> - -<p>It was getting dark and I could see her as a tall -black silhouette against the blue dusk of the window. -There was only one suggestion left.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to take Dolly Bliss’s advice and -marry?” My voice sounded unnatural, like somebody else’s.</p> - -<p>“Marry?” she echoed absently. “I suppose I -<i>could</i> do that.”</p> - -<p>“Is it that you can’t make up your mind, Lizzie?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” she murmured again, this time -as if she wasn’t thinking of what she said.</p> - -<p>I rose with shaking knees. It was the critical -moment of her fate and mine.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want to?” I almost whispered, drawing near her.</p> - -<p>Her answer made me stop short. It came with a -tremor of fierce inner feeling, revolt, rage and desperation, -seething into expression:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh God, how I hate it all!”</p> - -<p>“Hate what—marriage?”</p> - -<p>“No, everything that’s around me. Those women, -this damnable work—no money—no hope! I’m -crazy with the misery of it. It’s like being bound -down and smothered. I want to get out. I want to -be free. I want to do what I like and be myself. -You’re trying to make me into some one else. You’re -crushing me and killing me. I’d rather be dead in -my grave than go on this way.”</p> - -<p>She burst into frantic tears, savage, racking, -snatching the curtain about her and sobbing and -strangling behind it. The room was nearly dark and -I could see the long piece of drapery swaying as she -clutched it to her. I tried to pluck it away, and -through its folds, felt her body shaken and bent like -a tree in a tempest. I had never heard such weeping, -moans and wails, with words coming in inarticulate -bursts. I was frightened, caught her -hand and drew her out of the curtain which hung -askew from torn fastenings. She pushed me away -and threw herself on the sofa, where, under the vast -circumference of her hat, she lay prone, abandoned -to the storm.</p> - -<p>I stood helplessly regarding her, then as broken -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span>sentences came from under her hat, took out the pins -and held it before me like a shield, while she gasped -in choked reiteration that we were killing her, that -she hated us all, that she’d rather die than give another -lesson. If her paroxysm hadn’t been so -devastating I would have lost my temper at the outrageous -injustice of such sentences as I could catch. -I tried to say something of this in a tempered form, -but she shut me off with an extended hand, beating -it at me, calling out strangled execrations at Betty -and Mrs. Ashworth and the mother of her pupil. -If any one who did not know the situation had heard -her, they would have thought those worthy and disinterested -women had been plotting her ruin.</p> - -<p>There was nothing for me to do but wait till her -passion spent itself, which it began to do in sighs -and quivering breaths that shook her from head to -foot. When I saw it was moderating I told her I -would get her some wine and went to the kitchenette, -leaving her with drenched face and tangled hair, a -piteous spectacle. In a few moments I was back -with the wine-glass. The room was empty—she had -gone leaving the black hat.</p> - -<p>I picked it up and sat down on the sofa. We certainly -had got to the climax.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p> - -<p>I didn’t count—with my hundred and sixty-five -dollars a month. I could retire into any corner, and -live forgotten and love forlorn like Mariana. But -Lizzie—? She couldn’t sing, she wouldn’t teach, -nobody could help her. Marriage was the only way -out. As I sat on the sofa, absently staring at the -hat, I had a memory of a corral I had seen at a -railway station in a trip I once took to the West. -It was a pen for the cattle that came off the range -and had to be driven into the cars. The entrance -was wide, but the fenced enclosure narrowed and -narrowed until there was only one way of exit left, -up a gangway to the car. The comparison wasn’t -elegant but it struck me as fitting—Lizzie was on -the gangway with the entrance to the car the only -way to go.</p> - -<p>“I wish to heaven she’d hurry and get into it,” -I groaned.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XVIII">XVIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> haven’t</span> seen her for two days. Yesterday -morning I went up-stairs to leave the hat, found -her door open and her rooms empty. Emma says -she has been out most of the time. I waited in all -afternoon, expecting to hear Betty on the telephone -in a state of wrath about the pupil. Also I had my -ear trained for the postman’s light ring. At any -moment I might get a letter now from Roger, announcing -his engagement. Why should not Lizzie’s -absences abroad be spent in walks with him?</p> - -<p>As usual the anticipated didn’t happen. Betty did -telephone but in amiable ignorance of her protégée’s -revolt. She had run to earth a second pupil, who -would be ready the following morning at eleven. -Would I please tell Lizzie and did I know how the -first lesson had gone? I prevaricated—I can do -that at the telephone when Betty’s stern gaze is not -there to disconcert me. I was really afraid to tell -her, and besides, I, too, was getting rebellious. Let -Lizzie manage her own affairs and fight her own -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span>fights. I said cheerfully she would tell Betty about -it, and hung up the receiver wondering what would -happen. Then I wrote a note to Lizzie about the -new pupil, went up-stairs, knocked, and getting no -response, pushed it under the door.</p> - -<p>For the rest of the day I sat waiting like a prisoner -in the death cell.</p> - -<p>This morning, when I leaned out of the back -window and looked down on the damp soil and -bare shrubs of the yard, I felt the first soft air of -spring. The sunlight slanted on the brick walls, the -wet spots on the walk around the sun-dial shrunk as -I watched them. On the top of a fence a scarred -and seasoned old cat, at which Mr. Hamilton was -wont to throw beer bottles, stretched lazily, blinking -at a warm inviting world. I leaned farther out—tiny -blunt points of green were pushing through -the mold along the walk. Mrs. Phillips, sure in -her ownership of the yard, had planted crocuses. -Winter wasn’t lingering in the lap of spring—he -had jumped off it at a bound.</p> - -<p>I turned from the window and went into the front -room, wondering vaguely why winter should always -be a male and spring a female. The tin roof was -dry, the hot bright sun had licked up the sparrow’s -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>bath. Across the street a line of women from the -tenements were advancing on the park, pushing -baby carriages—buxom broad-hipped mothers with -no hats and wonderful coiffures of false hair. It -was a glorious morning, the air like a thin clear -wine. I put on my things and went out.</p> - -<p>The street showed sunny and clear, fair bright -avenues inviting the wayfarer to wanderings. Children -sped by in groups and scattering throngs. -Smart slim ladies strolled with dogs straining at -leashes. Friends met and stood in talkative knots, -motors flashed by attended by the fluttering of -loosened veils. On the fringe of benches along the -park wall the idle sunned themselves, lax and lazy. -Down-town, where the women shop, men would be -selling arbutus at the street corners. Soon naughty -boys with freckled noses would trail in hopeful -groups along the curb, holding up stolen lilacs to -ladies in upper windows—yes, spring had come.</p> - -<p>I bought a bunch of daffodils at the florist’s and -went into the park. The first hint of green was faint -on the lawns, and points of emerald were breaking -out along the willow boughs. Through the crystal -air the sounds of children at play came musically—little -yaps and squeals and sudden sweet runs of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span>laughter. The glass walls of the casino were -a-dazzle, and revolving wheels caught the sun and -broke it on their flying spokes.</p> - -<p>I was near the lake when I saw Lizzie. She was -walking up a side path that crossed mine, her head -down, her step quick and decided. She didn’t see -me and I stood and waited. Then her eye, deep and -absorbed, shifted, caught me, and she came to an -abrupt halt. For the first startled moment there -was an indecision about her poised body and annoyed -face that suggested flight. If I did not share -her dismay, I did her surprise. This was the hour -set for the second lesson. Of course she might have -told Betty that she would give no more, also she -might have been hastening to the tryst with the new -pupil. You never could tell. In answer to my -smiling hail she approached, not smiling but looking -darkly intent and purposeful.</p> - -<p>“Which way are you going?” she said, by way -of greeting.</p> - -<p>I have been called a tactful person, and acquaintance -with Lizzie has developed what was an untrained -instinct into a ripened art:</p> - -<p>“Nowhere in particular. I’m just strolling about -in the sun.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span></p> - -<p>Obviously relieved, she said:</p> - -<p>“I’m going over there—” pointing to the apartment-houses -across the park. “I have business on -the west side.”</p> - -<p>The new pupil lived on the east side. So she -really had given it up.</p> - -<p>“You’ve told Mrs. Ferguson that you won’t give -that lesson—the one she telephoned about?”</p> - -<p>A sudden blankness fell on her face.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you get the letter I put under your -door?” I cried in alarm. I couldn’t bear just now, -with everything failing me, to have Betty angry.</p> - -<p>She nodded, looking down and scraping on the -ground with her foot. Then slowly raised her eyes, -and glimpsing at me under her lashes, broke into a -broad smile.</p> - -<p>“I forgot all about it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lizzie! How could you? If you’ve made -up your mind to end it the least you could do was -to let her know. That’s really <i>too</i> bad.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose it is.” Her hasty contrition was -far from convincing. “Perfectly awful. I ought to -be punished in some painful way. Look here, Evie, -dearest, I’m in a hurry. Why can’t you just pop -into a taxi and go down and explain it to her?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span></p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you why I can’t, simply and clearly—because -I won’t.”</p> - -<p>“Goodness, how provoking of you.” She didn’t -seem at all provoked. Her only concern was to -get away from me and go to the mysterious business -on the west side. She bent sidewise to catch -her skirt and moved away. “Then I will, this evening, -to-morrow morning—”</p> - -<p>I caught her by the arm.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie, listen. Mrs. Ferguson is my best friend. -I made her do this and I can’t have you treating -her so rudely. I thought, of course, you’d told her.”</p> - -<p>She laid her hand on my detaining fingers, and -as she spoke in her most coaxing manner smoothed -them caressingly, detaching them from their hold.</p> - -<p>“Dear girl, I know all that. Every word you -say is true. And I’ll fix it, I’ll straighten it all out. -There won’t be the slightest trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Will you telephone those people?” I implored.</p> - -<p>My hand was dislodged. She drew away.</p> - -<p>“Indeed I will, the first moment I get.” She -paused, arrested by a thought. “What’s their name? -I’ve forgotten.” Then backing off: “<i>You</i> telephone -them. You see I can’t now and I don’t know when -I’ll be near a booth. Say I’m sick, or have left -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span>town, or anything you like. Just any excuse until -I can attend to it. Good-by. I’ll probably come in -and see you this afternoon.”</p> - -<p>She turned and made off as quickly as she could, -a tall vigorous figure, moving with a free swinging -step. I stood and watched her hastening down the -path between the trunks of the bare trees. There -was not a trace upon her of the tempest of two -nights before. It might never have been. Her -whole bearing suggested coursing blood and high -vitality. She was very like the irresponsible and -endearing creature I had known when I first went -to Mrs. Bushey’s.</p> - -<p>I gave up my walk and went home to send the -telephone. As I hurried along I wondered where -she could be going and why she seemed so light in -spirit. I was in that feverish state of foreboding -when the simplest events assume a sinister aspect. -The thought crossed my mind that she might be -going to elope with Roger. It would be like her to -elope, and though it would be very unlike him -(about the last thing in the world one could conceive -him doing), he might have become clay in the -hands of that self-willed and beguiling potter.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I thought, “so much the better. It’ll -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>be over.” And I decided the best thing for me to -do would be to go back to Europe and join the -spinsters and widows in the pensions.</p> - -<p>I sent the telephone, trying to soothe an angry female -voice that complained of a morning “utterly -ruined.” I sent another one to Betty, who was also -discomposed, having heard from the mother of “the -barbarous child.” Betty wouldn’t believe her, had -evidently championed the teacher with heat. Betty -is a stalwart adherent, a partisan, and I foresaw -battles in high places.</p> - -<p>The afternoon drew to a golden mellow close and -I lay on the sofa waiting for Lizzie. I hadn’t relinquished -the idea of the elopement but it did not -seem so probable as it had in the morning. Anyway, -if she hadn’t eloped—if she did come in to -see me—I had made up my mind I would ask her -pointblank what she intended to do about Roger. -It was one word for Lizzie and two for myself. I -really thought if things went on the way they were, -I should go mad. Not that it would matter if -I went mad, for nobody depends on me, nor am I -necessary to the progress or welfare of the state. -But I don’t want to be an expense to my friends. -And I don’t know whether one hundred and sixty-five<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> -dollars a month is enough for maintenance in -an exclusive lunatic asylum and I know they would -never send me to any but the best.</p> - -<p>When a knock came I started and called a husky -“Come in.” The door opened—there had been no -elopement. Roger stood on the threshold, smiling -and calm, which I knew he wouldn’t have been if -he was a bridegroom. Marriage would always be -a portentous event with a conscientious Clements.</p> - -<p>Whatever I might be with Lizzie I couldn’t be -pointblank with Roger, though I had known him -for fifteen years and her for six months. I explained -my trepidation by a headache and settled -back on the sofa. He was properly grieved and -wanted me to follow Mrs. Ashworth to the south. -I saw myself in a white dress on a hotel piazza being -charming to men in flannels and Panama hats, -and the mere thought of it made me querulous. He -persisted with an amiable urgence. If my opinion -of him hadn’t been crystallized into an unchangeable -form, I should have thought him maddeningly -stupid. I began to wonder, if the present state of -affairs lasted much longer, if I wouldn’t end by -hating him. I was thinking this when Lizzie came in.</p> - -<p>I had never seen her, not even in the gladdest days -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span>before her illness, look as she did. The old Lizzie -was back, but enriched and glorified. She entered -with a breathless inrush, shutting the door with a -blind blow, her glance leaping at me and drawing -me up from the cushions like the clutch of a powerful -hand. It seemed as if some deadening blight -had been lifted from her and she had burst into -life, enhanced and intensified by the long period of -hibernation. Her lips were parted in a slight, almost -rigid smile, her eyes, widely opened, had lost -their listless softness and shone with a deep brilliance.</p> - -<p>Roger gave a suppressed exclamation and rose to -his feet. I think she would have astonished any -man, that Saint Anthony would have paused to look, -not tempted so much as held in a staring stillness -of admiration. She was less the alluring woman -than the burning exultant spirit, cased in a woman’s -body and shining through it like a light through a -transparent shell.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie!” I exclaimed on a rising note of question. -I had a sense of momentous things, of a -climax suddenly come upon us all.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been to Vignorol,” she said, and came to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span>a halt in front of me, her gaze unwavering, her -breast rising to hurried breaths.</p> - -<p>“How do you do, Miss Harris,” said Roger, -coming smilingly forward. He had the air of the -favored friend who shows a playful pique at being -overlooked.</p> - -<p>The conventional words, uttered in an urbane -tone, fell between us like an ax on a stretched -thread. It can be said for him that he knew Lizzie -too little to realize what her manner portended. He -evidently saw nothing except that she was joyously -exhilarated and looked unusually handsome.</p> - -<p>She gave him a glance, bruskly quelling and containing -no recognition of him. It was her famous -piece-of-furniture glance, to which I had been so -often treated. It was the first time Roger had ever -experienced its terrors and it staggered him. In -bewilderment he looked at me for an explanation. -But she was not going to let any outside influence -come between us. I was important just then—a -thing of value appropriated to her uses.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been two days fighting it out, trying to -make up my mind to do it. And this morning, -when you met me, I was going there.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span></p> - -<p>“Well?” I was aware of that demanding look -of Roger’s, which, getting nothing from me, turned -to her. That was useless, but how was he to know?</p> - -<p>“I sang for him,” she said, the brilliant eyes -holding mine as if to grasp and focus upon herself -every sense I had.</p> - -<p>“Lizzie!”</p> - -<p>The premonition of momentous things grew -stronger. Underneath it, in lower layers of consciousness, -submerged habits of politeness made -themselves felt. I ought to get Roger into the conversation.</p> - -<p>“I sang better than I ever did before. And Vignorol, -who used to scold and be so discouraged, told -me I’d got it!”</p> - -<p>“Lizzie!”</p> - -<p>For a moment we stared at each other, speechless, -she giving the useful pair of ears time to carry -to the brain, the great news.</p> - -<p>Then the subconscious promptings grew too strong -to be denied and I said:</p> - -<p>“Mr. Clements will be as glad as we are to know -that.”</p> - -<p>Thus encouraged, Roger emerged from his astonishment. -He was not as debonair as at the beginning,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> -also he evidently wasn’t sure just what it -was all about, but he seized upon the most prominent -fact, and said, without enthusiasm, rather with -apprehension:</p> - -<p>“This doesn’t mean, Miss Harris, that you’re -thinking of returning to your old profession?”</p> - -<p>Her look at him was flaming, as silencing as a -blow. I don’t know why she didn’t tell him to hold -his tongue, except that she was too preoccupied to -waste a word. He flinched before it, drew himself -up and backed away, dazed, as he might have been -if she really had struck him.</p> - -<p>Having brushed him aside she went on to me. -The main fact imparted, her exultation burst forth -in a crowding rush of words:</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t my voice—but that’s better, he says it’s -the long rest—it was the other thing—the temperament, -the soul. It’s got into me. I knew it -myself as soon as I began to sing. I felt as if something -that bound me was gone—ropes and chains -broken and thrown away. It was so much easier. -Before I was always making efforts, listening to -what they told me, trying to work it out with my -head. And to-day! Oh, Evie, I knew it, I felt it—something -outside myself that poured into me and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>carried me along. I could just let myself go and -be wonderful—wonderful—wonderful!”</p> - -<p>She threw out her arms as if to illustrate the extent -of her wonderfulness, wide as she could stretch, -then brought her hands together on her bosom, and, -with half-shut eyes, stood rapt in ravished memory.</p> - -<p>We gazed mutely at her as if she were some remarkable -spectacle upon which we had unexpectedly -chanced.</p> - -<p>“I sang and sang,” she said softly, “and each -time it was better. Vignorol wouldn’t let me go.”</p> - -<p>“What did he say?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“He kissed me,” she murmured dreamily.</p> - -<p>Roger in his corner moved and then was still.</p> - -<p>“But what did he suggest about you? What did -he want you to do?”</p> - -<p>My mouth was dry. Sitting on the edge of the -sofa I clutched the sides of it as if it was a frail -bark and I was floating in it over perilous seas.</p> - -<p>“Go back to where I belong,” she said, and then -came out of her ecstasy and began to pace up and -down, flinging sentences at me.</p> - -<p class="p2b">“Try it again and do it this time. He says I can, -and I know I can. Oh, Evie, to get away from all -this—those hateful pupils, those hideous lessons—those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> -women! To go back to my work, be among -my own people.” She brushed by Roger, her glance, -imbued with its inward vision, passing over him as -if he was invisible. “It’s like coming out of prison. -It’s like coming to life again after you were dead.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> -<a id="i_293"><img src="images/i_293.jpg" width="350" alt="“I could just let myself go and be wonderful!”" -title="" /></a></div></div> - -<p class="caption">“I could just let myself go and be wonderful!”</p> - -<p class="p2">She had expressed it exactly. She <i>had</i> been dead. -The mild and wistful woman of the last two months -was a wraith. <i>This</i> was Lizzie Harris born again, -renewed and revitalized, now almost terrible in her -naked and ruthless egotism.</p> - -<p>“What will you do?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I haven’t thought yet. Vignorol -wants me to study with him for nothing, pay it -back when I make good. But that doesn’t -matter now. I can’t think of anything but that I’m -home, in my place, and that I can do it. They -were all disappointed in me, said I’d never get there. -I can. I will. Wait!—Watch me. You’ll see me -on top yet, and it won’t be so far off, either. I’ll -show you all it’s in me. I’ll wake up every clod in -those boxes, I’ll make their dull fat faces shine, -I’ll hear them clap and stamp and shout, ‘Brava, -Bonaventura!’”</p> - -<p>She cried out the two last words, staring before -her with flashing eyes that looked from the heights -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span>of achievement upon an applauding multitude. In -the moment of silence I had a queer clairvoyant -feeling that it was true, that it would happen, and -I saw her as the queen of song with her foot upon -the public’s neck. Then the seeing passion left her -face and her lip curled in superb disdain.</p> - -<p>“And you wanted to make a <i>singing teacher</i> out -of me!”</p> - -<p>She swept us both with a contemptuous glance, -as if we were the chief offenders in a conspiracy for -her undoing. I was used to it, but Roger, the galled -jade whose withers were yet unwrung, winced under -her scorn.</p> - -<p>“But Miss Harris,” he protested, “we only—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m not talking to you,” she said brutally. -“You don’t know anything about it.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, if you say so,” he replied.</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s pause. I did not like to -look at him. You can bear being insulted if no one -else sees it, but one old friend mustn’t witness another’s -humiliation, especially when that other is -unable by temperament and training to hit back.</p> - -<p>Lizzie, having crushed him like an annoying and -persistent fly, wheeled toward the door.</p> - -<p>“I must go. I can’t stay any longer.” Then in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span>answer to a question from me, “Oh, I don’t know -where—out to breathe. I can’t stay still. I want -to walk and feel I’m free again, that I’m not -cramped up in a dark hole with no sunshine. I want -to feel that I’m myself and say it over and over.”</p> - -<p>She went out, seeming to draw after her all the -stir and color that she had brought in. It was as -if a comet with a bright and glittering tail had -crowded itself into the room, and then, after trying -to squeeze into the contracted area, swishing and -lashing about and flattening us against the walls, -had burst forth to continue on its flaming way.</p> - -<p>I fell back on the sofa feeling that every nerve -in me had snapped and I was filled with torn and -quivering ends. Stupidly, with open mouth, I -looked at Roger, and he, also stupidly but with his -mouth shut, looked at me. I don’t know how long -we looked. It probably was a few seconds but it -seemed an age—one of those artificially elongated -moments when, as some sage says, the measure of -time becomes spiritual, not mechanical. I saw Roger -afar as if I was eying him through the big end of -an opera glass—a tiny familiar figure at the end -of a great vista. The space between us was filled -with a whirling vortex of thoughts, formless and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span>immensely exciting. They surged and churned -about trying to find a definite expression, trying to -force their way to my brain and tell me thrilling -and important news. Then the familiar figure advanced, -pressed them out of the way, and taking a -chair by the sofa sat down and demanded explanations.</p> - -<p>I couldn’t give them. I couldn’t explain Lizzie -to him any more than I could to Betty or Mrs. Ashworth. -I remembered him, before he had met her, -telling me in the restaurant that I was seeing her -through my own personality, and now <i>he</i> was doing -it, and he’d never get anywhere that way. I wanted -desperately to make him understand. There was -something so pitiful in his dismay, his reiterated -“But why should she be offended with me. What -have <i>I</i> done?” And then hanging on my words -as if I was some kind of a magician who could wave -a wand and make it all clear. Nothing would have -pleased me more than to be able to advance some -“first cause” from which he could have worked up -to a logical conclusion. But how could I? The -lost traveler in the Australian bush was faced by a -task, simple and easy, compared to Roger Clements’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span>trying to grasp the intricacies of Lizzie Harris’ -temperament.</p> - -<p>I was sorry for him. I was sorry (the way you’re -sorry for some one inadequately equipped to meet -an unexpected crisis) to see how helpless he was. -I tried to be kind and also truthful—a difficult combination -under the circumstances—and make plain -to him some of the less complex aspects of the -sphinx, only to leave him in dazed distress.</p> - -<p>He was alarmed at her evident intention to go -back to the stage, couldn’t believe it, wanted me to -tell him why an abandoned resolution should come -back like a curse to roost. He couldn’t get away -from his original conception of her, had learned -her one way and couldn’t relearn her another. It -was at once a pathetic sight and an illuminating experience—the -man of ability, the student, the -scholar, out of his depths and floundering foolishly. -The mind trained to the recognition of the obvious -and established, accustomed to fit its own standards -to any and all forms of the human animal, coming -up with a dizzying impact against the mind that -had no guide, no standard, no code, but floats in the -flux of its own emotions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p> - -<p>I repeat I was sorry, immensely sorry. Such is -the inconsistency of human nature that I was filled -up and overflowing with sympathy at the spectacle -of my own man, once my exclusive property, hurt, -flouted and outraged by the vagaries of my successful -rival.</p> - -<p>A eight o’clock that evening I was in my sitting-room -when I heard her come in. She did not stop -at my door but went up-stairs, a quick rustling -progress through the silence of the house. It was -very still, not a sound from any of the rooms, -when I heard the notes of her piano, and then her -voice—“<i>Mon cœur s’ouvre à ta voix.</i>” The register -was shut, and I stole to the door and opening it -stood at the stair-head listening. Before the aria -was over I knew that what she had said was true. -Lizzie had found herself.</p> - -<p>After a pause she began again—<i>O Patria Mia</i> -from <i>Aïda</i>. I tiptoed forward and let myself noiselessly -down on the top step, breath held to listen. -As the song swelled, the cry of a bleeding and distracted -heart, the doors along the passages were -softly opened. Up and down the wall came the -click of turned latches and stealthy footsteps. Mrs. -Bushey’s lodgers were not abroad, as I had thought. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span>The stairs creaked gently as they dropped upon -them. When <i>Patria Mia</i> was over we were all -there. I could see the legs of Mr. Hamilton and -the count dangling over the banisters above me. On -the bottom of the flight Mr. Weatherby sat, and -Miss Bliss and Mr. Hazard leaned against the wall, -looking up with the gaslight gilding their faces.</p> - -<p>In the silence that fell on the last note no one -spoke. There was no rising chorus of praise as -there once had been. I don’t think we were aware -of one another, each rapt in the memory of an -ecstatic sadness. The cautious foot of Mrs. Phillips -stealing along the lower hall made me look down -and I saw her stationing herself beside young -Hazard, and that Dolly Bliss’ face shone with tears.</p> - -<p>She went on—<i>Vissi d’Arte, Vissi d’Amore</i>, Musetta’s -song; the habanera from <i>Carmen</i>, Brahm’s -<i>Sapphische Ode</i>, sounding the depths and heights. -Between each piece we were dumb, only the creaking -of the banisters as Mr. Hamilton shifted, or -the sniffing of Miss Bliss when the song was sad, -fell on our silence. We never saw her. She was -at last the diva, remote, august, a woman mysterious -and unknown, singing to us across an impassable -gulf.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span></p> - -<p>As long as I live I shall never forget it—the narrow -half-lit passages, the long oval of the stair-well, -on the bottom step of my flight Mr. Weatherby’s -back, broad and bent, as he rested his elbows on his -knees. Against the whitewashed wall below Mr. -Hazard with his eyes fixed in a trance of listening; -Mrs. Phillips, her head pressed back against the -wall, her lids closed, and Dolly Bliss’ little face -bright with slow dropping tears.</p> - -<p>We were Liza Bonaventura’s first audience.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIX">XIX</h2></div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he</span> next morning, while I yet slept, she came -knocking and rattling at my door. When I -let her in she upbraided me for having it locked, unmindful -of my sleepy excuses that as the street door -was generally open all night it was wisdom to keep -one’s apartment firmly closed.</p> - -<p>She was in the blue kimono over her nightgown, -and when I got back into bed—for it was too early -for breakfast—sat down on the edge of the couch -and told me that she had decided to accept Mrs. -Ferguson’s offer to send her to Europe.</p> - -<p>I had expected some move but hadn’t dared to -hope for this. It was impossible to hide my agitation, -to wipe the expression of startled excitement -off my face. She paid no attention to me, would -not have noticed if I had fallen flat in a dead faint, -so engrossed was she in her plans. Staring out of -the window with narrowed far-seeing eyes, she developed -her program, oblivious of the fact that I -was not answering, more like a person thinking -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span>aloud than one consulting another. When she finally -paused, I said hoarsely, afraid to believe it:</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Ferguson may have changed her mind. -You wouldn’t hear of the offer when she made it.”</p> - -<p>She treated the suggestion as preposterous.</p> - -<p>“What an idea! Who ever heard of any woman -changing her mind on such a subject.”</p> - -<p>“You’ve changed yours,” I answered faintly.</p> - -<p>“I’m different, and besides I’ve changed it for the -better. She’ll be only too glad to send me. Why -think of what it means to her! She’ll be known as -the patron of one of the greatest living prima -donnas. That’s a thing that doesn’t happen to everybody. -Is the morning paper down-stairs? I want -to see what steamers are leaving this week. I’ll -go as soon as I can get off. Oh, I won’t meet anybody, -and it doesn’t matter if I do.”</p> - -<p>The door closed on her and I fell back on the pillows -like a marionette whose wire has broken. -Limp as a rag I lay looking up at the ceiling, and -out of my mouth issued a sigh that was almost a -groan. It was all I had power for. The tension -snapped, I suddenly felt myself invaded by a lassitude -so deep, so vast that it went to the edges of -the world and lapped over. I would like to have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>been removed to a far distance and lain under a -tree and watched the leaves without moving or -thinking or speaking. I would like to have stayed -in bed and looked at the dusty circle of cement -flowers from which the chandelier hung, for years -and years.</p> - -<p>She came hastening back with the paper, tore it -apart, and spreading it on the table read the shipping -advertisements. Several steamers were due -to sail within the week. She decided on the best and -throwing the paper on the floor, said briskly:</p> - -<p>“I’ll see her about it this morning before she goes -out. There’s no need to bother about it before breakfast. -I’ll just take a cup of coffee down here with -you and then go up and dress. Let’s get it now.”</p> - -<p>I rose, telling her to set the table while I dressed. -She put on two cups, each trip to the table impeded -by the paper, over which she trampled with loud -cracklings, then she gave it up and followed me, -talking. My toilet, performed with mutilated rites -owing to its publicity, took me from room to room, -with Lizzie at my heels. When I shut the door on -my bath, she leaned against it and through the crack -gave me her opinion on the rival merits of Paris -and Berlin as centers of musical study.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span></p> - -<p>While I was making the breakfast she stood in the -entrance of the kitchenette, then, squeezing by her -with the coffee pot in one hand and a plate of toast -in the other, she did not give me enough room and -the toast slid off the plate and was strewed afar. She -picked up a piece and sat down eating it, her elbows -on the table, while I gathered up the rest. Hot and -disheveled I took my place opposite while she -watched me, biting delicately at her toast, benignly -beautiful and fresh as a summer’s morn.</p> - -<p>She was stretching her hand for her cup when a -disturbing thought made her pause. She dropped -the hand and looked at me in consternation:—her -big trunk was no good, it had been broken three -years ago coming from California.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well”—a happy solution occurred to her -and she held out her hand for the cup—“I can borrow -one of yours. That large one with the Bagdad -portière over it. I’ll return it as soon as I get there. -You don’t mind loaning it to me, do you, dearest?”</p> - -<p>I gave it, warmly, generously, effusively. It -wasn’t like giving Mrs. Bushey the lamp. There -was no necessity for diplomatic pressure. I would -have given her my jewels, my miniatures, my last -cent in the bank, my teeth like Fantine, each and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>all of my treasures, to have her go. Nobody knows -how I wanted her to go. It was not that I had -ceased to love her—I will do that till I die. It -was not that I had hopes Roger would forget her—he -may be as faithful as Penelope for all I know. -I was unable to stand any more. I was down, done, -ended. I wanted to creep into my little hole, curl -up and lie still. I wanted to look at the wreath of -cement flowers for years. I wanted immunity from -the solving of unsolvable questions, respite from -trying to straighten out what persisted in staying -tangled, freedom to regain my poise, reinstate my -conscience, patch up the broken pieces of my heart. -An immovable body had encountered an irresistible -force, and though the immovable body was still in -its old place, it had been so scarred and torn and -tattered by the irresistible force that only rest would -restore it.</p> - -<p>That was two days ago. In the interim there has -been no rest—I have spent most of the forty-eight -hours in taxicabs and at telephones—but relief is -in sight.</p> - -<p>Lizzie is going.</p> - -<p>It is all arranged. Betty has dispersed the pupils -and renewed her European offer. Between taxicabs -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span>she caught me here yesterday and told me that few -women have the privilege of being the patron of -one of the greatest living prima donnas. The privilege -sat soberly upon her and she was going to -make herself worthy of it by giving one of the -greatest living prima donnas every advantage that -Europe offers.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon Lizzie and I went down to the -steamship office and bought her ticket, and then -to the banker’s to draw the first instalment on her -letter of credit. It was a royally generous letter -and I said so. Lizzie didn’t think it was too much -and went over a list of expenses to prove it. She -is to go to Berlin—Vignorol wanted Paris but as -a dramatic singer she preferred Berlin. I gathered -from a casual remark that Vignorol was hurt at her -desertion of him and his country. But this didn’t -trouble her.</p> - -<p>“Vignorol! I don’t see that it was so kind of him -to want to take me for nothing. It would have -made him. He’s only known here in New York -now and as my teacher he would have been known -all over the world.”</p> - -<p>The steamer sails the day after to-morrow and -this afternoon I sent up the trunk. I had offered -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>to come in the evening and help her pack and then -backed out. In an offhand manner, as she was -sorting piles of sheet music, she said Roger was -coming in after dinner to say good-by. She seemed -engrossed by the music, gave an absent-minded assent -when I said I couldn’t help that night. I could -not tell whether she had at last guessed and was -exhibiting unusual tact or whether she was still unconscious. -I knew that every minute of the next -day was filled and it would be Roger’s only chance -to see her alone. It was difficult to imagine him -proposing in a room littered with his lady’s wardrobe. -But love is said to find out a way and if a -man’s in earnest he can put the question just as -well in a fourth-floor parlor full of clothes, as he -can by moonlight in a bower.</p> - -<p>I had been waiting for this interview, braced and -steeled for the announcement. It was the final trial -and I was going to go through with it proudly and -stoically if I died the day after. I did not feel -quite as if I should die. Hope springs eternal in -the human breast, that’s why we don’t all, sometime -or other, commit suicide. Hope upheld me now: -with a career beckoning she might refuse him. It -was but a sickly gleam. No woman, comprehensible -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span>to me, would ever put the greatest career the world -offers before Roger Clements. The hope lay in the -fact that Lizzie was not a comprehensible woman.</p> - -<p>With great inward struggle I preserved my pride -and stoicism through the rest of the afternoon. They -were still with me when, in the evening I lay down -on the divan bed, whence I can hear all ascending -footsteps. The wreath of cement flowers gradually -faded, and the daylight sounds of the house were -absorbed in the evening quiet. Night had possession -of the city for what seemed an endless time when I -heard him going up: from the street, past my floor, -up the next flight, and the next, then the far faint -closing of Lizzie’s door. Rigid in the dark I pictured -the meeting—the room with its high blaze -of gas, the open trunks and scattered garments, and -Lizzie with her smile and the enveloping beam of -her glance.</p> - -<p>It was profoundly still in the back room, only the -tiny ticking of my watch on the table. The old -tomcat, who at this hour was wont to lift up his -voice in a nuptial hymn, had gone afield for his -wooing. The parlors and bedrooms in the extensions -were quiet, their lighted windows throwing a -soft yellow light into my darkened lair. Our little -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span>bit of the city held its breath in sympathy with me, -prone with fixed eyes, seeing those two in the parlor.</p> - -<p>Would he work up to it in gentle gradations, -gracefully and poetically as men did in novels, or -blurt it out in one great question which (for me -at least) would have made life blossom as the wood -did when Siegmund sung? They would probably -stand—people didn’t sit when such matters were -afoot—and if she said yes would he take her in his -arms then and there? Under the same roof, just -two floors above me, they might be standing now, -enfolded, cheek to cheek. Pride and stoicism fell -from me and I pressed my face into the pillow and -moaned like a wounded animal.</p> - -<p>The watch ticked on. It was evidently not going -to be short and tempestuous. Roger was an unhurried -person and he would probably proffer his suit -with dignified deliberation. I was certain, if he was -successful, he’d come in and tell me on the way -down. I couldn’t see him passing my door and not -remembering. The place was dark, he might think -I was asleep and go by. I got up and lit the lights, -thinking as I stretched up with the match, that they -were signals telling him I was here, waiting, ready -to wish him joy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span></p> - -<p>Then I looked at the watch—only just nine. He -might be hours longer. I could spend the time -in preparation, be ready to meet him with a frank -unforced smile.</p> - -<p>I went to the back window and looked up at the -stars for courage. The sky was sprinkled with -them—big ones and bright pin points. For centuries -they had been gazing down at the puny -agonies of discarded lovers, unmoved and cynically -curious, winking at them in derision. The thought -had a tonic effect. Under its stimulus I straightened -my ancestors, askew after a morning’s dusting, and -touched up the bunch of daffodils on the table. Then -the effect began to wear off. I reached for the -watch—twenty minutes past nine.</p> - -<p>If she had refused him it would have been done -by now. Lizzie wasn’t one to spare or mince her -words. I’d better get ready for him. I went to -the mirror and saw a ghost, and the stars’ stern -message was forgotten. That I should some day be -dust was not a sustaining thought now when I was -so much a suffering sentient thing, sunk down in -the midmost of the moment. I brushed some rouge -on my cheeks and smiled at the reflection to see -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span>if I could do it naturally. It was ghastly, like the -grimace of a corpse that had expired in torment.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly I dropped my rouge and gave a -smothered cry—I heard Lizzie calling my name. -For a moment power of movement seemed stricken -from me. I had not thought that she would be the -one to tell me. She called again and I opened -the door and went into the hall. Her head was -visible over the banisters.</p> - -<p>“Have you got the key of that trunk?” she said. -“It’s packed and I want to lock it.”</p> - -<p>It was a ruse to get me up there. Even Lizzie -wouldn’t announce an engagement at the top of her -voice down two flights of stairs. I found the key -and mounted, holding to the hand-rail. It seemed -a long climb. When I got to the top I had no -breath, though I had gone slowly, and I trembled -so that I was afraid she would notice it, and laid the -key on the table.</p> - -<p>The trunk was packed, its lid down, and another, -open, with garments trailing over its sides, stood in -the middle of the floor. Round it lay the unpacked -remains of Lizzie’s wardrobe, in mounds, in broken -scatterings, in confused interminglings. If a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span>cyclone had descended on neat closets and bureau -drawers, scooped out their contents, carried it with -a whirling centripetal motion into the center of the -room, took a final churning rush through it and -dashed out again, the place could not have presented -a more wildly disheveled appearance.</p> - -<p>In an unencumbered corner, an eddy untouched -by the cyclone’s wrath, Roger stood putting on his -coat. We looked across the chaos, bowed and -smiled. I knew my smile by heart. Roger’s was -something new, rose no higher than his lips, leaving -his eyes somber, I might say sullen. Lizzie, without -words, had snatched up the key and knelt by the -trunk. She looked untidy, hot and rather cross. -They certainly had not the appearance of lovers.</p> - -<p>I fell weakly into a chair and awaited revelations. -None came. Roger buttoned his coat, Lizzie made -scratching noises with the key. There was something -strained and sultry in the silence. Could she -have refused him? One of the disappointing things -about people in real life is their failure to rise to the -dramatic expression fitting to great moments. Had -I been in a play I would have used words vibrating -with the thud of my own heart-beats. What I did -say was:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span></p> - -<p>“Have you had a nice evening?”</p> - -<p>“Very,” said Roger with a dry note.</p> - -<p>“Have we,” murmured Lizzie, busy with the key. -“I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve not had time to say -a word to Mr. Clements.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I’ve been rather in the way,” he remarked, -the dry note a trifle more astringent.</p> - -<p>“Well, the truth is you have,” she answered. “Are -you sure this is the right key, Evie?”</p> - -<p>The gleam of hope brightened into a ray. I sat -forward on the edge of the chair looking from -Lizzie’s bent back to Roger’s face, which had reddened -slightly and had a tight look about the mouth. -I am, by nature, a shy and modest person, and under -normal conditions the last thing I would do -would be to force another’s confidence. But I <i>had</i> -to know. I had to drag the truth out of them if it -came with a shriek like the roots of the fabled -mandrake.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t you talked <i>at all</i>?” I exclaimed, with an -agonized emphasis that might have betrayed me to -a child of twelve.</p> - -<p>They did not appear to notice it. Roger moved -from his corner, picking his way round a clump of -boots that had been whirled near the sofa.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span></p> - -<p>“Talk?” said Lizzie, still engaged with the key. -“How can people talk when they’re packing to go -to Europe? There! It’s in and it turns. Thank -goodness the lock’s all right.”</p> - -<p>She rose and surveyed the room with an intent -frowning glance.</p> - -<p>“That,” pointing to the other trunk, “I’ll begin -on now and finish to-morrow. This,” turning to -the full one, “is done. I’d better lock it at once and -get it out of the way.”</p> - -<p>She turned back to it and gave a series of tentative -pushes at the lid which rose rebelliously over -bulging contents.</p> - -<p>Nothing had happened! She hadn’t let him speak—he -hadn’t dared—no opportunity had offered? -What did it matter how or why? The sickening -thudding of my heart began to grow less. I leaned -my elbow on my knees and my forehead on my -hands, feeling at last as if I was going to be Early -Victorian and swoon.</p> - -<p>Under the shadow of my fingers I could see -Roger’s feet stepping carefully among the boots. -Skirting tangled heaps of millinery, they arrived -at the trunk. I dropped my hands and watched -while he addressed himself to Lizzie’s back.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span></p> - -<p>“Good night.” He stretched out his hand. “Good-by.”</p> - -<p>She turned, saw the hand and put hers into it; -then, for the first time smiled, but not with her -habitual rich glow.</p> - -<p>“Good-by. I’d ask you to stay but there’s really -too much to do. I’ve got to have to-morrow free -to finish up in.”</p> - -<p>The hands separated and dropped. His back was -toward me and I was glad of it.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps we’ll meet again some day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, surely.” The abstraction of her look vanished, -her smile flashed out brilliant and dazzling. -“But not here, not this way. You’ll see me soon -in my right place—behind the footlights.”</p> - -<p>He murmured a response and moved toward the -door. She turned back to the trunk, pressing on it -and then drawing back and pressing again. He -passed me with a low “Good night, Evie,” and I -answered in the same tone.</p> - -<p>He was at the door when she ceased her efforts, -and drawing herself up with a deep breath, called -peremptorily:</p> - -<p>“Come here, Mr. Clements.”</p> - -<p>He stopped, the door-knob in his hand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span></p> - -<p>“What is it, Miss Harris?”</p> - -<p>She stood back from the trunk, flushed and irritated.</p> - -<p>“Just sit on this trunk, please. It must be locked -to-night.”</p> - -<p>Her eye on him was as the eye of a general or a -subaltern, impersonal, commanding, imperious.</p> - -<p>He met it and stood immovable. In the fifteen -years I have known him I had never seen him look -so angry.</p> - -<p>“Hurry up,” she said sharply. “I’d ask Evie but -she’s not heavy enough.”</p> - -<p>He answered with icy politeness:</p> - -<p>“Miss Harris, I am very sorry, but I’ve already -stayed too long. There are other men in the house, -who will surely only be too happy to sit on your -trunk whenever you choose to command them,” and -he opened the door.</p> - -<p>“Oh, very well, if you’re going to be so disobliging,” -she answered, angry now in her turn. -Then to me: “Come over here, Evie, and help. If -we both press as hard as we can I think we can do -it. I don’t care to wait till the morning. I want -this locked now.”</p> - -<p>I rose obediently and began to steer my way -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span>through the cyclone’s track. Roger came in, shutting -the door with a bang.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Drake’s in no condition to make such exertions. -She’s been ill and oughtn’t to be asked to do -such things. Evie, don’t touch that trunk.”</p> - -<p>“That’s perfect rubbish. I’m not asking her to -<i>lift</i> it. Come on, Evie.”</p> - -<p>I stopped, looking helplessly from one to the -other. They glared at each other, his face pale, -hers red. They seemed on the verge of battle and I -knew what Lizzie was like when her temper was up.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t fight about a trunk,” I implored.</p> - -<p>“I’ve not the slightest intention of fighting about -anything,” said Roger, looking as if, had a suitable -adversary been present, he would have felled him -to the ground. “But I won’t have you making efforts -that are unnecessary and that you’re unable to -make.”</p> - -<p>“You talk like a perfect fool,” said Lizzie, with -the flashing eye of combat I knew so well.</p> - -<p>He bowed.</p> - -<p>“I’m quite ready to admit it. But as a perfect -fool I absolutely refuse to let you make Mrs. Drake -help shut that trunk.”</p> - -<p>“Then do it yourself.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span></p> - -<p>As usual she had the best of it. Roger knew it -and bore upon his face the look of the bear in the -pit at whom small boys hurl gibes. When she saw -the symptoms of defeat she began to melt.</p> - -<p>“It’ll not take five minutes—just one good pressure -on this corner. There’s a hat box that sticks -up and has to be squeezed down.”</p> - -<p>With a white face of wrath Roger strode over the -clothes and sat on the trunk. I have never believed -that he could be ridiculous, my Roger hedged -round with the dignity that is the Clements’ heritage, -but he was then, boiling with rage, perched uncomfortably -on the sloping lid. A hysterical desire -to laugh seized me and I backed off to my chair, -biting my under lip, afraid to speak for fear of exploding -into a screaming giggle.</p> - -<p>They were unconscious of anything funny in the -situation, one too angry, the other too engrossed. -With a concentrated glance she surveyed the trunk, -directing the bestowal of his weight. When she had -finally got him in the right place, she knelt, key in -hand, and in answer to a curt demand he rose and -flopped furiously down. To the protesting crunching -of the hat box, the lid settled and the click of -the lock sounded.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span></p> - -<p>“Done,” she cried triumphantly, falling back in -a sitting posture on the floor.</p> - -<p>Roger got up.</p> - -<p>“Have I your permission to go?” he asked with -elaborate deference.</p> - -<p>“You have,” said his hostess, and from the floor -looked up with a bright and beaming face from -which every vestige of bad temper had fled. “Good-by—good -luck. And remember, the first performance -I give in New York I expect to see you applauding -in the bald-headed row.”</p> - -<p>As the door shut on him my laughter came like -the burst of a geyser. Lizzie, still on the floor, looking -at me with annoyed surprise, made it worse. -When she asked me in a hostile voice kindly to tell -her what the joke was, it got beyond my control -and I became hysterical. It wasn’t very bad—I always -do things in a meek subdued way—but I -laughed and cried when I tried to explain and -laughed again.</p> - -<p>When she saw there was no use ordering me not -to be an idiot, she got up, grumbling to herself and -began on the second trunk. She kept stepping -round me carrying armfuls of clothes, trailing -skirts over my knees, leaning forward from a kneeling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span> -posture to jerk blouses, cloaks and petticoats -from the back of my chair. I tried to retreat into -corners, but she worked in wide comprehensive -sweeps, wherever I went coming after me to find -something that was under my chair or upon which -I was sitting. Finally she used me as a sort of -stand, throwing things on me and plucking them off, -muttering abstractedly as she worked.</p> - -<p>I was recovering and she was inspecting a skirt -outheld at arm’s length when she said musingly:</p> - -<p>“I hadn’t the least idea Roger Clements was so -bad-tempered. He’s just a self-sufficient cross-grained -prig. Gets into a rage when I ask him to -sit on a trunk. I can’t stand that kind of man.”</p> - -<p>I bade her good night and went down-stairs.</p> - -<p>The lights were burning high. I put them out -and laid down on the bed. My laughter and tears -were over. Fatigue, anger and pain were sensations -that existed somewhere outside me, in a world -I had left. I seemed to have no body, to be a spirit -loosened from fleshly trammels, floating blissfully -in prismatic clouds.</p> - -<p>I floated in them, motionless in ecstatic relief, -savoring my joy, knowing the perfection of peace, -till the windows paled with the dawn.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="XX">XX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> write</span> to-night in a hushed house—a house -that holds the emptiness that follows the withdrawal -of a dynamic presence.</p> - -<p>Lizzie is gone.</p> - -<p>As her ship bears her away to future glory, we, -the hewers of wood and drawers of water, sit here -recuperating from the labors of getting her off. In -its hour of departure the magnet gave forth the -full measure of its power and we bent our backs -and lent our hands in a last energy of service. No -votaries bowed before the shrine of a deity ever -celebrated their worship with more selfless acts of -devotion than Mrs. Bushey’s lodgers in speeding -Lizzie on her way.</p> - -<p>What did Mr. Hazard’s unfinished order matter -when Lizzie, having forgotten to order the expressman, -one had to be sought up and down the reaches -of Lexington Avenue? Of what consequence to -Miss Bliss were broken sittings, on the proceeds of -which she could have lived for a week, when Lizzie’s -traveling dress was found to be in rags and had to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span>be mended by some one who knew how? When the -count rendered his tribute in fruit and flowers, did -he stop to consider that the money was part of the -fund reserved for his passage home, and now he -would have to travel second cabin? No one thought -of anything but the departing goddess. They were -proud and glad to deny themselves that she might -go, grandly serene, amid clouds of ascending incense.</p> - -<p>As for me, after that night of respite, I became a -body again, a body whose mission was the preparing -of another for the great adventure. She drew -me after her as the fisherman draws the glittering -bit of tin that revolves from the end of his line. The -simile is not entirely satisfactory because I did not -glitter, but I revolved, round and round, as the -fisherman’s hand pulled or eased on the line. I -sewed, I packed, I unpacked, searching for forgotten -necessities. I was down-town, executing -overlooked errands, I was up-town, cooking hurried -meals in the kitchenette. My voice in the -morning called her to breakfast, my good night was -the last sound on the stairs as I left her room, -grown bare and bleak, losing its character, as one -by one the signs of her occupancy vanished. I had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span>no time to feel, to be glad or sorry. Even the -passion to have her go was overridden by the ruling -instinct that while she was there I must serve. And -though the poet tells us there are those who can do -this while standing and waiting, I evidently was -not one of them.</p> - -<p>As we demonstrated her power by the zeal of -our devotion, her arrogant exactions increased in -a corresponding ratio. She was never more aloof, -more regally indifferent, more imperiously demanding. -The call of her destiny had come to her and -she heard nothing else.</p> - -<p>Her stay with us had been only the bivouac of -a night, and we the passers-by she had encountered -in the moment of halt. With the goal in sight we -lost what small significance we had and assumed -the aspect of strangers, by whose fire she had rested, -in whose tent she had slept. Already, before she -had gone, we had faded into the limbo of the useless -and outworn. Henceforward, from our humble -corner, we would watch her mounting on others as -she had mounted on us—climbing higher and higher -with never a backward glance or a wave of her hand -to the little group who strained their eyes for a sign -of remembrance.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span></p> - -<p>Some day the others would find her out and be -angry, cite to their friends proofs of her ingratitude, -grow bitter at the memory of their unappreciated -efforts, add her to the list of forgetful great -ones who took all and rendered nothing back. From -a deeper knowledge of her I would never know their -disillusion. The thought that she felt no love for -any of us had for me no sting. I even went farther, -agreed that it was not her place to feel it. Arrived -at last at the heart of her mystery, I could keep my -memory of her fair and untarnished, untouched by -efforts to fit her into a frame where she didn’t belong.</p> - -<p>She was not, as they would think, a heartless and -cruel fellow of ours, but the creature of another -species, thinking in a different language, seeing life -from a different angle. What we were trained to -accept as right and just, she had no power to recognize. -Custom and tradition had formed a groove in -which we walked unquestionably onward. She wandered -at will in a world expressly created for her, -peopled by shades who had no meaning apart from -their usefulness. Environment that had molded -and put its stamp upon us made no impression upon -her invulnerable self-concentration. We held a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span>point of view in common, responded automatically -to established ideas and inherited impulses. She -saw no claims but her own and moved upon what -she wanted with the directness of an animal. The -bogies with which we were frightened into good -behavior—public opinion, social position, loss of -respect—she snapped her fingers at. Her only law -was the law of her own being, her standard, a fierce -and defiant determination to be true to herself. Restraints -and reticences, subtleties of breeding, delicacies -of conduct, imposed on us by the needs of -communal life, were not for her, selected and set -apart to be that lonely figure in the crowded companionable -world—the people’s servant.</p> - -<p>That was what I at last knew her to be—an instrument -for the joy, the recreation, the enthrallment -of that great, sluggish, full-fed Minotaur, the -public. For this purpose nature had fashioned her, -eliminating every characteristic that might render -her unfit, pruning away virtues that would hamper, -uprooting instincts that would interfere. As Wordsworth -saw the All-Mother saying of a worthy specimen, -“I will make a lady of my own,” so, seeing -Lizzie, she had said, “I will make an artist of my -own,” and had set about doing it with thoroughness.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span></p> - -<p>From the beautiful outer case to “the hollows -where a heart should be” she was formed to be the -one thing—a cunningly framed and articulated -mechanism for our entertainment. To us—whom -she so lightly regarded—she was foreordained to -carry a message of beauty, call us from our sordid -cares, and base ambitions, catch us up from the -grayness of the every day to the heights where once -more we caught a glimpse of the vision and the -dream. That we should work and sacrifice to help -her to her place, she, unconscious but impelled by -her destiny, felt, and made me feel. And having -gathered up our tribute she had left us, not ungratefully, -not having taken all and given nothing, but -in her own time and in her own way to pay us back -a hundredfold.</p> - -<p>I thought it all out in the cab coming back from -the steamer, and I was content to have it so.</p> - -<p>I had gone down to see her off—she wanted me -and no one else. We had passed up the dock amid -throngs of passengers and presently there were -stewards and cabin-boys running for her luggage, -and officers discreetly staring. When we bought the -ticket I had seen on the list the name of a countess, -and I learned that she was a royal lady traveling -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span>incognita with a maid. Everybody thought Lizzie -was the countess and I the maid. I looked the part, -trotting at her heels, carrying a large bandbox covered -with pink roses that had been overlooked in -the final scramble. She had a triumphal progress, -everything made easy, boys bearing the count’s -flowers going before her up the gangway, and I -following with the bandbox that nobody had offered -to take. Before I left I saw the royal lady leaning -on the railing, a pale person with the curling fringe -and prominent eyes of the typical British princess. -Nobody paid any attention to her, but when we went -exploring about the decks, looks followed us and -whispers buzzed.</p> - -<p>As the big ship churned the water and ponderously -moved off, I stood on the pier’s edge and waved -to her. I was the tiny unit in the crowd—the nameless, -humdrum, earth-bound crowd—for whom she -was to weave the spell, and create the illusion. -Through a glaze of tears I watched her, tall and -splendid beside the dowdy princess—my beautiful -Lizzie, a real princess, going imperially to claim -her crown.</p> - -<p>The windows are open and the spring night comes -in, soft as a caress. In the basement of the apartment-house<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</span> -some one is playing <i>Annie Laurie</i> on -the accordion, and in the back yards the servants are -chatting in the kitchen doors. From Mr. Hazard’s -room, below me, I can hear a low murmur of voices. -The others are in there talking it over, all, I know, -singing the praises of Lizzie, voicing hopes for her -success as deep and sincere as prayers. I can fancy -them, reclining on chairs and sofas, worn out by -their labors and feeling blankly that something has -gone out of their lives. A wild disturbing chord in -the day’s melody is hushed, a red thread in the -tapestry has been withdrawn.</p> - -<p>I feel it, too.</p> - -<p>And so the tale is ended. I don’t think I shall -ever write any more. In the autumn, when I -started this manuscript, I just intended to put down -the happenings of a lonely woman’s life, to read -over on evenings when looking back was pleasanter -than looking forward. Now, without intending to, -I have written a story, which is not my fault, as the -story happened to intrude itself into the lonely -woman’s life, greatly to her surprise, and a good -deal to her sorrow. But this is the finish of it. -There is no more to tell. The heroine has gone, -if to come back not the same heroine. The hero—you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</span> -know as much about him as I do. And the -author—well, the author is just where she was, a -widow of thirty-three, doing light housekeeping in -an eighteen-foot apartment. It can’t be much of a -story because it hasn’t got anywhere; nobody has -died, nobody has married. So to myself—for I am -going to put this away in a trunk and never let a -soul see it—I make my bow as an author.</p> - -<p>Good night, Evelyn Drake. As a sadder and -wiser woman I take my leave of you. Good-by.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE</h2></div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>his</span> has been a day of coincidences. They -began in the afternoon and ended an hour -ago. And now, past midnight, in my sitting-room -looking out on the lights of the Rond Point, like -Bret Harte’s heroine, “I am sitting alone by the fire, -dressed just as I came from the dance”—only it -wasn’t a dance, it was the opera.</p> - -<p>But to get to the coincidences: This afternoon -I was unpacking an old trunk full of odds and ends -that I brought when we came to Paris last autumn, -and at the bottom of it I found the manuscript I -had written four years ago at Mrs. Bushey’s. I -laid it on the top to read over in some idle moment -when Roger wouldn’t catch me. For though we’ve -been married three years and talked over everything -that ever happened to either of us, Roger -doesn’t know the whole story of that winter.</p> - -<p>Of course I <i>have</i> asked him if he wasn’t really in -love with Lizzie, and he always laughs and says -he wasn’t, that he was attracted by her and interested -in her as a type. I don’t contradict him—it’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</span> -best to let men rest peacefully in their innocent -self-delusions. Besides, if I pressed the subject we -might have to go on to Lizzie and Masters, and -that’s the part of the story he doesn’t know. Sometimes -I’ve thought I’d tell him and then I’ve always -stopped. Why should I? It’s all come out right. -Lizzie has traveled along the line of least resistance -in one direction and reached success, and Roger has -done the same thing in another and reached me. She -<i>must</i> be happy if fulfilled ambitions can do it, and -we <i>are</i>, with each other and last year—to crown it -all—our boy.</p> - -<p>Well, I won’t go into that—I get too garrulous. -When a woman of thirty-six has a baby she never -gets over the pride and wonder of it.</p> - -<p>We came over to Paris last autumn for Roger to -do some reading in the Bibliothèque Nationale, and -took this charming apartment near the Rond Point. -On bright mornings I can look into the little park -and see Roger Clements IX sitting out there in his -perambulator studying Parisian life. The day suddenly -strikes me as unusually fine and I go out and -sit on the bench beside him and we study Parisian -life together, while his <i>nou-nou</i> knits on a camp-chair -near by.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</span></p> - -<p>Bother—I keep losing sight of the coincidences -which are the only reason I began to write this. -To resume:</p> - -<p>During these four years we have tried to keep -track of Lizzie. It was difficult because, of course, -after the first few months, she stopped writing. If -it hadn’t been for Betty we should have lost her entirely, -but Betty, being the source of supplies, did -know, at least, her whereabouts. I may add, en -passant, that Mrs. Ferguson stood by her contract -to the end and now is enjoying the fruits thereof. -If she isn’t known as the patron of the greatest living -prima donna, she is known as a lady who made a -career possible to one of the rising singers of -Europe.</p> - -<p>It was two years before Liza Bonaventura made -her first hit, as Elizabeth in <i>Tannhäuser</i> at Dresden. -Then we could follow her course in the -papers. I was as proud as if I’d done it myself -when I read of the excitement her Tosca created in -Berlin. After that there was a series of triumphs -in the smaller cities of Germany. She sang Carmen -at a special performance where the royal family -of something or other (I never can remember -those German names, if I did I couldn’t spell them) -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</span>were present, and the kinglet or princeling of the -palace gave her a decoration.</p> - -<p>After that the papers began to print stories about -her, which is the forerunner of fame. Some of them -were very funny, but most of them sounded true. I -don’t think her press-agent had to do much inventing. -All sorts of distinguished and wonderful men -were in love with her, but she would have none of -them. There were some anecdotes of her temper that -I am sure were genuine: how she once slapped a -rival prima donna in the face, and threw her slipper -at the head of a German Serene Highness who must -have lost his serenity for the moment.</p> - -<p>When we came over here we had first-hand accounts -of her, from Americans who had been traveling -in Germany and were bursting with pride and -enthusiasm, and foreigners, who knew more and -were more temperate, but admitted that a new star -had risen on the horizon. “The handsomest woman -on the operatic stage since Malibran,” an old French -marquis, who had heard her as Tosca, told me one -night at dinner. Then some Italians who had seen -her Carmen were quite thrilled—such temperament—such -passion! Only Calve in her prime had -given such a dramatic portrayal of the fiery gipsy. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</span>Opinions were divided about her Brunhilda. A -man Roger and I met at the house of a French -writer, where we sometimes go, told us that in -majesty and nobility she was incomparable, but that -her voice was inadequate. Still, she was young, -hardly in her full vigor, with care and study, aided -by her magnificent physique, she might yet rise to -the vocal requirements and then—he spread out his -hands and rolled up his eyes.</p> - -<p>To-night I have come from the opera after hearing -her in <i>Carmen</i> and the effect is with me still—the -difficulty of shaking off the illusion and getting -back into life.</p> - -<p>When I looked round from my seat in the orchestra -and saw that house, tier upon tier of faces, -hundreds of small pale ovals in ascending ranks, all -looking the same way, all waiting to hear Lizzie, I -couldn’t believe it. The great reverberating shell -of building held them like bees in a hive, buzzing -as they found places whence they could see the -queen bee. Through my own quivering expectancy -I could sense theirs, quieter but keen, and hear, -thrown back from the resonant walls and hollow -dome, the sounds of fluttered programs, rustling -fabrics, seats dropping and the fluctuant hum of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</span>voices—the exhilarating stir and bustle of a great -audience gradually settling into stillness. They -couldn’t have come to see Lizzie—so many people? -I was dreaming, it was somebody else.</p> - -<p>The curtain lifted, the illuminated stage was set -in the gloom like a glowing picture. Figures moved -across it, voices sang, and then Carmen came with -the red flower in her mouth and it <i>was</i> Lizzie.</p> - -<p>She was changed, matured, grown fuller and -handsomer, much handsomer—her beauty in full -flower. Her voice, too, was immensely improved; a -fine voice, full, clear and large, not, as she had once -said to me, one of the world’s great voices, but -enough for her, sufficient for what she has to do with -it. It is she, her personality, her magnetic and compelling -self, that is the potent thing.</p> - -<p>Just as she used to seize upon and subdue us at -Mrs. Bushey’s, she seized upon and subdued those -close-packed silent ranks. From the brilliant picture, -cutting the darkness in front of us, she reached -out, groped for and grasped at every consciousness, -waiting to receive its impression. The other singers -lost their identity, faded into a colorless middle -distance, as we used to fade when Lizzie came -among us. She held the house, not so much -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</span>charmed as subjugated, more as the conqueror than -the enchantress. As the opera progressed I, with -my intimate knowledge of her, could see her gaining -force, could feel her fierce exhilaration, as she -realized her dominance was growing secure. Her -voice grew richer, her performance more boldly confident. -To me she reached her highest point in the -scene over the cards, her face stiffened to a tragic -mask, the cry of “<i>La Mort</i>” imbued with horror. -I can’t get it out of my mind—the Gitana, terrible -with her lust of life, suddenly looking into the eyes -of death.</p> - -<p>I don’t know how to write about music, but it -wasn’t all music. It was the woman, the combination -of her great endowment with her power of -vitalizing an illusion, of putting blood and fire into -an imaginary creation, that made it so remarkable. -Her portrayal had not the vocal beauty or sophisticated -seduction of Calve’s. It was more primitive, -farther from the city and closer to the earth. It -seemed to me more Merimée’s Carmen than Bizet’s. -Of its kind, I, anyway—and Roger agreed with me—thought -it superb.</p> - -<p>When it ended and she came before the curtain -there were bursts upon bursts of applause and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</span>“bravas” dropping from the galleries. I dare say -I will never again see a dream so completely realized. -Then the house began to empty itself down -that splendid stairway, a packed, slow-moving, voluble -crowd, praise, criticism, comment, flung back -and forth in the excited French fashion. I was -silent, holding Roger’s arm. A short fat Frenchman -behind me puffed almost into my ear, “<i>Quelle -femme, mais, quelle femme!</i>” A woman in front in a -Chinese opera cloak, leaned back to say over her -shoulder to a man squeezing past Roger, “<i>La voix -est bonne, mais n’est pas grande chose, mais c’est une -vraie artiste.</i>” And an angular girl at my elbow, -steering an old lady through cracks in the mass, -murmured ecstatically to herself, “<i>Mon Dieu, quelle</i> -temperament!” That was the word I heard oftenest, -temperament.</p> - -<p>So in a solid brilliant throng we descended the -stairs, all engaged with Lizzie, discussing her, lauding her, -wondering at her—Lizzie, whom I had -seen in the making, learning to be the <i>vraie artiste</i>, -wounded, desperate and despairing that this -might be.</p> - -<p>At the stair-foot—this is the last of the coincidences—the -crowd broke into lines and clumps, scattering<span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</span> -for the exits, and through a break I saw a -man standing by a pillar. He was looking up at -the descending people, but not as if he was interested -in them, in fact by the expression of his face I don’t -think he saw them. It was John Masters.</p> - -<p>If he hadn’t been so absorbed he would have seen -me for I was close to him. But his eyes, set in that -fixity of inner vision, never swerved. He looked -much older, more lined, his bald spot grown all over -the top of his head. Though the glimpse I had of -him was fleeting, the crowd closing on him almost -directly, it was long enough for me to see that the -change was deeper than what the years might have -wrought. It was spiritual, diminished will power, -self-reliance grown weak. Shabby, thin, discouraged, -he suggested just one word—failure.</p> - -<p>My hand involuntarily shut on Roger’s arm and -I whispered to him to hurry. I could not bear the -thought of meeting Masters—not for my sake but -for his. I couldn’t bear to look into his face and see -him try to smile.</p> - -<p>It is nearly one. Roger is writing in his study -and Roger Clements IX is sleeping in his crib by -my bed. How strange it all is. Four years ago -not one of us, except Lizzie, the impossible and irresponsible,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</span> -had the least idea that any of us would -be where we are now. It was Lizzie, fighting out -her destiny, who crowded and elbowed us all into -our proper places, Lizzie, rapt in her vision, who -brought us ours.</p> - -<p>This is the real end of my manuscript. It <i>has</i> -got somewhere after all. I can write “finis” with a -sense of its being the fitting word. But before I do -I want to just say that I made up my mind to-night, -while we were driving home in the taxi, that I’ll -never tell Roger now.</p> - -<p class="center no-indent">FINIS</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="transnote"><div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2 nobreak"><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Notes:</span></p></div> - -<p>On page 66, déracincée has been changed to déracinée.</p> - -<p>All other spelling, hyphenation and non-English has been retained as -typeset.</p> - -<p>Some illustrations in this ebook have been moved to avoid occurring -in the middle of a paragraph.</p></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF EVELYN ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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