Ah, the vanity of Dawn! Like a Venus she rises from her bath of
opalescent mists and dons a gown of pearl. But this does not please
the coquette. Her fancy turns from pearl to green, to amber, to pink,
to blue and gold and rose, an inexhaustible wardrobe. She blushes, she
frowns, she hesitates; she is like a woman in love. She casts abroad
her dewy jewels on the leaves, the blades of grass, the tangled laces
of the spiders, the drab cold stones. She ruffles the clouds on the
face of the sleeping waters; she sweeps through the forests with a low
whispering sound, taking a tithe of the resinous perfumes. Always and
always she decks herself for the coming of Phoebus, but, woman-like,
at first sight of him turns and flies.
Dawn is the most beautiful of all the atmospheric changes, but the
vision is a rarity to the majority of us.
Warrington was up and away on his hunter before Phoebus sent his
warning flashing over the hills. He took the now familiar road, and
urged his animal vigorously. Fine! Not a bit of dust rose from the
road, dew-wet and brown. The rime of the slight frost shone from the
fences and grasses and stacked corn, like old age that strikes in a
single night. Here and there a farmer could be seen pottering about
the yards, or there was a pale curl of smoke rising from the chimney.
The horse, loving these chill, exhilarating October mornings, went
drumming along the road. Occasionally Warrington would rise in the
stirrups and gaze forward over this elevation or that, and sometimes
behind him. No. For three mornings he had ridden out this old familiar
way, but alone. The hunger in his eyes remained unsatisfied.
For the first time in years he turned into a certain familiar fork in
the road, and all his youth came back to him as vividly as though it
had been but yesterday. Half a mile up this fork was the rambling old
farm-house. It was unchanged. The clapboards were still stained with
rust, the barns were still a dingy red, the stone and rail fences
needed the same repairs. Nothing had changed there but the masters.
And under that roof he had made his first feeble protest against life;
he had dreamed those valiant dreams of youth that never come true, no
matter how successful one may become in after life. Every waking means
an illusion gone, another twig pruned from the tree of ardent fancy;
and when one is old there is neither shade nor shelter.
Warrington stopped his horse. He had no desire to ride closer; he
could see everything well enough from where he sat. Rosy apples
twinkled in the orchard on the hill, and golden pumpkins glistened
afield, for by now Phoebus had come to his own. How many dawns had he
seen from yonder windows, in summer and winter, in autumn and spring?
How many times had he gone dreaming to the markets over this road? It
was beyond counting. Had any of those particular dreams come true? Not
that he could recollect, for he had never dreamed of being a
successful dramatist; that good fortune had been thrust upon him. He
tried to picture his father walking toward the fields; it was too
remote. His mother? Of her he could recollect positively nothing. But
the aunt, he saw her everywhere,--in the garden, in the doorway, in
the window, by the old well. Now she was culling hollyhocks along the
stone wall, now she was coming down the hill with an apron filled with
apples, now she was canning preserves and chili sauce in the hot
kitchen, or the steel-rimmed spectacles were shining over the worn
pages of the New Testament at night.
What was the use? To-day is alien to yesterday; an hour separates as
definitely as eternity. There was nothing there for him; so he wheeled
and rode back toward the city, conning over a speech he was to make
that night. Since Patty had not ridden this way, the zest of the
morning's ride was gone. Which road did she take now? To the west, to
the south, to the north round the lake? Twice the night before he had
started for the telephone to inquire, but had not taken down the
receiver. Was he afraid? He could not say. And afraid of what? Still
less could he tell. Three months ago he had called her Patty, had
jested and laughed with her; and now he hesitated to call her up by
telephone. No, he was not afraid of Patty; he was simply afraid of
himself. For he realized this--that in the moment he spoke to her
alone his love would spring from his lips like a torrent; nothing
could stop it; and he was not of that supreme courage at present that
spurs the lover to put it to the touch to win or lose it all.
So, then, he rode back to the city, hugging his doubt and his love,
with frequent lucid intervals that were devoted to his forthcoming
speech. When the battle was over, when he had won or lost, then he
would go to her and drink the cup, bitter or sweet.
Patty had not spent the night in comfort; her head had rolled from one
pillow to another, and the cases were not always dry. Indeed, it had
been some time since she had pressed her cheek tranquilly upon a
pillow. Night is either sweetest or most wretched; one spends it
recounting one's joys or one's sorrows. Patty was unhappy; and leave
it to youth to gain the full meed of misery. Youth has not the
philosophy of matured age to cast into the balance. Satisfaction in
this workaday world is only momentary. One is never wholly satisfied;
there is always some hidden barb. The child wears the mother's skirts
enviously while the mother mourns her youth. Expectation leads us to
the dividing line of life, and from there retrospection carries us to
the end. Experience teaches us that fire burns and that water
quenches; beyond this we have learned but little.
This morning Patty was up with the dawn. She did not trouble to wake
the groom, but saddled and bridled the horse herself. She mounted and
rode quietly into the street. She did not glance at Warrington's house
while approaching or passing it, but once she had left it in the rear
she turned quickly, flushing as if she had caught herself in some
weakness. She directed the horse toward the west, crossing the city
before she reached the open country. Here the west wind, young and
crisp, blew away the last vestige of heaviness from her eyes. She
urged the horse into a canter and maintained this gait for a mile or
more. Then she reined in to a walk.
Three weeks! And all this time she had not even breathed a word of it,
but had hugged the viper to her heart in silence. She dropped the
reins on the neck of the horse and took a letter from the pocket of
her riding-coat. How many times had she read it? How many times had
fury and rage and despair flashed from her eyes as she read it? She
hated him; she hated her. There was neither honesty nor goodness in
the world; those who preached it lied. Yes, yes! There was one. John,
dear, noble John, he at any rate was honest. But it was all acting on
her part, acting, acting. She had married John as a convenience; she
had made use of his honest love as a cloak. The despicable creature!
And yet, when in her presence, so great was her charm and magnetism,
Patty doubted. After all, it was an anonymous letter, and nothing is
more vile. But who can say to this viper Doubt--"Vanish!" It goes, it
goes again and again; which is to say it always returns. Long ago she
would have confronted her brother's wife with this letter, had not
John been in the heart of his battle at the shops. For the present he
had enough trouble. And yet, to see that woman with John, an angel
might be deceived. To see her weep and laugh over him, to see her
touch him with her hands, to caress him with her eyes, to be tender
and strong at his side. ... Could anybody be so wicked? True, her
transgression had been made, according to this letter, before John had
married her; but this lessened the enormity of it none in Patty's
eyes.
"Oh, I was so happy, and now I am so miserable!" murmured the girl,
pressing her hand to her throat, which seemed to stifle her.
She read the letter again, through blurred vision. It was horrible.
One who takes a deep interest in your future welfare finds it a duty
to warn you against Richard Warrington, for whom it is being said you
have developed a strong sentiment. It is well known that he drank
deeply at one time and lived the life of a debauchee. Beware of the
woman, also, whom you call sister. The writer does not offer anything
detrimental to her married life, but it is known that she was
practically Warrington's mistress before she married your splendid
brother. She was seen frequently to enter his apartments at night, and
the writer can furnish abundant proof that she was seen to leave his
apartments one morning. This is not penned with malice. It is simply
that the writer knows and admires you and can not stand passively by
and see you humiliated by the attentions of a man who is unworthy to
lace your shoes. As for your sister-in-law, I have no desire to
meddle. Confront both her and Warrington, if the truth of the above
statement is doubted by you.
Upon these last words depended Patty's attitude. It must be true.
Whoever had written this abominable letter could write plain English,
despite the disguised hand. Patty recognized that it was disguised.
The capitals differed, so did the tails of the y's and f's; the
backhand slant was not always slanting, but frequently leaned toward
the opposite angle. She had but to confront them! It seemed simple;
but to bring herself to act upon it! She reviewed all the meetings
between Kate and Warrington. Never had her eyes discerned evidence of
anything other than frank good fellowship. She searched painfully;
there was not a single glance, a single smile upon which she could
build a guilty alliance. And yet this writer affirmed ... Oh, it was
monstrous! Those rumors she had heard months ago! The telephone call
from McQuade! Ah, that telephone call! Had Kate been guilty would she
have confided to her, Patty? She seemed to be pulled, now forward, now
backward. McQuade knew something, the wretch! but what? This letter
had never been written by him. A man would have used a pronoun, third
person, masculine; he would have shown some venom back of the
duplicity that affirmed an interest in her welfare.
The tears dried quickly; the heat of her renewed rage burned them up.
She set about to do something she had not thought of doing
before--investigating. She held the note-paper to the sun. The
water-mark of a fashionable paper manufacturer was easily observable.
Men did not write on that brand. So much gained. Then she recalled a
French play in which a perfume had convicted a person of theft. She
held the envelope to her nose; nothing, not even tobacco. She tried
the letter itself. Ah, here was something tangible: heliotrope, vague,
but perceptible. Who among her friends used heliotrope on her
kerchief? She could not remember; in fact, any or all of them might
have worn it, so far as she could recall. She would go over her
invitations and visitors' cards; she would play detective; she would
ferret out as a spy who took this amiable interest in her future. This
determination brightened her considerably. And woe to the meddler if
Patty found her! If it was a baseless lie (and she hoped against hope
in her loyal little heart!) she would make a pariah of the writer of
this particular anonymous letter. True or not, what was it to her?
What right had she to interfere? She was cowardly; of that Patty was
certain. True friends are the last in the world to inflict sorrow upon
us. Kith and kin may stab us, but never the loyal friend. Now that she
thought it all over, she was glad that she had repeatedly fought the
impulse to lay the matter before her sister. She would trace this
letter home first; she would find out upon what authority it was
written; there would be time enough after that to confront Kate, or
Warrington, or John. Ah, if she had stepped forward in the dark, to
wreck her brother's life needlessly. ... Heliotrope! She would never
forget that particular odor, never. She had a good idea of justice,
and she recognized the fact that any act on her part, against either
Kate or Warrington, before she found the writer of the letter, would
be rank injustice. Persons can not defend themselves against anonymous
letters; they can only ignore them.
She touched her horse again. She was now in feverish haste to get
home. She took the turn of the road which presently brought her in the
vicinity of the shops. It was practically in ruins. The courtyard
walls were all down, the building itself was totally empty of ore or
machinery. Bennington had disposed of these to Pennsylvanian concerns.
Patty rode up in time to see half a dozen urchins throwing stones at
the few window-panes that were still unbroken. She dispersed them
angrily, and they gathered at the side of the road, open-mouthed and
wide-eyed at the picture of this avenging angel.
"How dare you throw stones at those windows? How dare you?" she cried
passionately.
After a while one of the lads found his voice.
"Why, nobody's in it. The man what owns it tored the insides outen it.
'Tain't no harm what we're doin'. Hey, fellers?"
"Naw. The cops don't say nothin'. An' my old man used to work there."
She saw that they were no more than ordinary boys to whom the panes of
glass in a deserted building were legitimate prey.
"So your father was one of the strikers?" said Patty, her lips
thinning. "Why did he strike?"
"I don't know; 'cause the others struck, I guess. They was an English
lobster workin' without bein' in my old man's union. Mebbe that was
it. Anyhow, we don't care; the old man's got another job."
With this the boys climbed the fence and moved across the field,
mutely rebellious, like puppies baffled in their pursuit of a cat.
Patty's eyes, moist and shining of a sudden, roved over the grim
ruins. Sparrows were chattering on the window ledges and swallows were
diving into the black mouths of the towering chimneys. The memory of
her father swelled her heart near to bursting. She could see his
iron-grey head bending over the desk; she could hear his rough but
kindly voice. Why, whenever he entered the house his splendid physical
energy seemed to radiate health and cheerfulness, infecting all those
about him. She could see the men, too, moving in the glow of ruddy
light; she could see again the brilliant sparks flying from under the
thundering trip-hammers, the cyclopean eyes that glared up at heaven
at night, the great rumbling drays, the freight moving to and from the
spur. Now there was no sound; nothing but silence, with the suggestion
of a tomb.
The end of the strike had been a nine days' wonder, for it proved that
there had actually been no strike at all, since the owner had simply
closed down the shops, torn down a few walls, sold the machinery and
ore, and canceled all his business obligations. No sensation, however
vital, lasts very long these days; and after these nine days it turned
its attention to other things, this mutable public. Employers,
however, and union leaders, all over the continent, went about their
affairs thoughtfully. If one man could do this unheard-of thing, so
might others, now that an example had been set before them. The
dispersed men harbored no ill feeling toward Morrissy; he, as they
supposed, had acted in good faith for the welfare of the union. But
for the man who had had the courage to make good his threats, for him
they had nothing but bitterness and hate.
Patty would always remember that final night of the strike when John
had come in early in the morning, his clothes torn, his hands bloody,
his hair matted to his forehead, and hatless. He had been last to
leave the shops, and he had, unarmed, run the gantlet of the maddened
strikers who had been held at bay for six long hours. Only his great
strength and physical endurance had pulled him out of the arms of
violent death. There had been no shot fired from the shops. The
strikers saw the utter futility of forcing armed men, so they had hung
about with gibe and ribald jeer, waiting for some one careless enough
to pass them alone. This Bennington did. His men had forgotten him.
Bennington's injuries had been rather trivial; it had been his
personal appearance that had terrified the women. He had fallen asleep
half an hour after reaching home, and he had slept till nine that
evening. Upon awakening he had begun at once to plan a trip to Europe,
to wander from capital to capital for a year or so. No one had
interrupted him; not even the mother, grown old in the past month, had
demurred at his plans. He would have none near him but Kate, and she
had hovered about him, ministering to his wants as a mother over a
sick child. ... Kate! It all came back with a rush. Kate! Oh, what was
she, Patty, to believe? That night she had loved Kate almost to
idolatry. She shuddered, turned away from the ruins, and set off at a
gallop till she came upon brick pavement. She rarely trotted upon
pavement, but this morning she had no thought for the horse; she
burned to be at work. She trotted rapidly into town, across the
principal thoroughfares, this way being the short cut. By this time
men were on the way to work. Many of them turned their heads to stare
at her. There was only one woman in town who sat a horse like this
one, and it could be no less a person than Patty Bennington. All the
men recognized her instantly. She had their good wishes, for all that
her brother had taken away the bread and butter of some of them. Many
touched their hats from mere force of habit.
There was one man, however, who glared evilly at her from the curb.
She recognized him in spite of his discolored face, the result of a
long, uninterrupted debauch. It was Bolles. As he caught her eye he
smiled evilly and leered at her.
"Wait, my beauty; wait. I'll kill that brother of yours one of these
fine days, damn him!" Bolles gave one more look at the swiftly-moving
figure on the horse, and shuffled away toward McQuade's office, to
await the arrival of that gentleman. Bolles needed money, and he knew
where to get it.
As she reached the foot of Williams Street Patty glanced up the hill.
A horseman had just entered Warrington's. She recognized both man and
horse. It was Warrington. She knew at once that he had ridden out her
favorite route, perhaps in the hope of seeing her. Her heart tightened
strangely as she walked her horse up the hill, and she would have
passed home but for the intelligence of her animal, which turned in
toward the house quite naturally. Her mother was on the side veranda.
"Patty, you have worried us all. The stableman, when he found your
horse gone, came in with the cry of thieves. I was frightened, too,
till I went to your room and found you gone. You mustn't go without
notifying the stableman or the groom."
"It was an impulse of the moment, mother. I couldn't sleep, and I saw
no need of waking up the boys in the stables."
Patty ran up stairs for a bath and a change of clothes for breakfast.
She ate little, however; the ride had not put the usual edge on her
appetite.
"Mr. Warrington made a fine speech last night," said the mother,
handing the morning paper to Patty.
Patty accepted it mechanically. She had determined not to read the
paper. But she knew now, if she unfolded it, she would turn
immediately to the local pages and search for Warrington's speech. She
read it, and she hated herself for admiring it. The self-lie was not
among Patty's failings. There was no denying that Warrington's speech
was a good oratorical effort; every line of it rang sound and true;
but that might be a trick of the trade. He could make thieves and
villains on the stage speak glibly and plausibly; certainly he could
do as much for himself. One thing she could not deny him, and that was
frankness. He had confessed to her last summer that he was not, or had
not been, a good man in the strict sense of the word. She laid down
the paper and finished her coffee. She was glad that she did not have
to face Kate at each meal. She felt that she couldn't have trusted
herself; there were times when she spoke the first thought, and always
regretted it. Poor John, poor John!
From the table she went directly to the Indian basket that held all
the cards and invitations. The mother, concerned with her household
duties, left her to herself. Patty would have found some difficulty at
that moment in answering any curious questions. One by one she drew
out the envelopes and cards. There was a permanent scent of sweet
grass. She discovered nothing; she realized that her discovering
anything depended solely upon hazard. Excitement ebbed, leaving
nothing but hopelessness. She threw the cards and invitations into the
basket. She might have known that visiting-cards and printed
invitations are generally odorless. She sought the garden. The Angora
was prowling around, watching the bees and butterflies hovering over
wind-fallen fruit. Patty called to her, but the cat ignored the call.
From the garden Patty went to the stables, from the stables she
returned to the house. She was at peace nowhere. Later her mother
found her dreaming in the window-seat.
"Patty, Mrs. Haldene left her shopping-bag here yesterday afternoon. I
had forgotten it. Would you mind taking it over to her, or shall I
have the maid do it?"
"I have nothing to do, mother. I can take it over just as well as
not," said Patty listlessly.
She slipped her arm through the handles of the bag and proceeded into
the hall for a hat. As she lifted the hat to her head the bag slipped
along her arm close to her nose. Instantly her figure became tense and
rigid, her face grim and colorless.
Heliotrope!