Kitty came to see me yesterday. Her mortification at my living in
Scarborough Square is poignant. Not since she learned of my doing so
has her amazement, her incredulity, her indignation and resentment,
lessened in the least, but her curiosity is great and her affection
sincere, and yesterday she yielded to both.
She was on her wedding journey when I left the house in which for
many years we had lived together, and, knowing it would spoil her
trip did I tell of what I had done, I did not tell. Two days ago she
got back, and over the telephone I gave her my new address.
"But I can't understand--" During most of her visit Kitty was
crying. She cries easily and well. "I can't take it in, can't even
glimpse why you want to live in such a horrid old place. It's awful!"
"Oh no, it isn't. It's a very nice place. Look how the sun comes
through those little panes of glass in those deep windows and chirps
all over the floor. I never knew before how much company sunshine
could be; how many different things it could do, until I came to
Scarborough Square. This is a very interesting place, Kitty."
"It's fearful!" Kitty shuddered. "The sun shines much better on the
Avenue, and you might as well be dead as live in this part of the
town. When people ask me where you are I'm--"
"Ashamed to tell them?" I laughed. "Don't tell them, if the telling
mortifies you. Those who object to visiting me in my new home will
soon forget I'm living. Those to whom it does not matter where I
live will find where I am without asking you. I wouldn't bother."
"But what must I say when people ask me why you've come down here?
why you've made this awful change from living among the best people
to living among these--I don't know what they are. Nobody knows."
"They are perfectly good people." I took a pin out of Kitty's hat
and tried the latter at a different angle. "The man on the corner is
named Crimm. He's a policeman. The girl next door makes cigarettes,
and her friend around the corner works at the Nottingham Overall
factory. The cigarette-girl has a beau who walks home with her every
evening. He's delicate and can't take a job indoors. Just at
present he's an assistant to the keeper of Cherry Hill Park."
Kitty stared at me as if not sure she heard aright. The tears in her
big blue eyes disappeared and into them came incredulity. "Do you
know them--the cigarette-girl, and the overall-girl, and the
policeman?" Her voice was thin with dismay and unbelief. "Do you
really know people like that?"
"I do." I laughed in the puzzled and protesting face, kissed it.
"To every sort of people other people not of their sort are 'people
like that.' Our customs and characteristics and habits of thought
and manner of life separate us into our particular groups, but in
many ways all people are dreadfully alike, Kitty. To the little
cigarette-girl you're a 'person like that.' Did you ever wonder what
she thought of you?"
"Why should I wonder? It doesn't matter what she thinks. I don't
know her, never will know her. I can't understand why you want to
know her, to know people who--"
"I want to know all sorts of people." Again I tilted Kitty's hat,
held her off so as to get a better effect. "You see, I've wondered
sometimes what they thought of us--these people who haven't had our
chance. Points of view always interest me."
"What difference does it make what they think? You're the queerest
person I've ever known! You aren't very religious. You never did go
to church as much as I did. Are you going in for slums?"
"I am not. I wouldn't be a success at slumming. I'm not going in
for anything except--"
"Except what?"
"My dear Kitty," I picked up the handkerchief she had dropped and put
it on the table, "I wouldn't try to understand, if I were you, why
people do things. Usually it's because they have to, or because they
want to, and occasionally there are other reasons. I used to wonder,
for instance, why certain people married each other. Often now, as I
watch husbands and wives together, I still wonder if, unmarried, they
would select each other again. I suppose you went to the Bertrands'
dinner-dance last night?"
"I went, but I wish I hadn't. Billy didn't want to go, and we came
away as soon as we could. Everybody asked about you. I haven't seen
any one yet who doesn't think it very strange that you won't live
with me. That beautiful little Marie Antoinette suite on the third
floor is all fixed for you, and you could use the automobiles as much
as you choose. It's wicked and cruel in you to do like this and not
live with me. It looks so--"
"Peculiar." I nodded in the eyes as blue as a baby's. "But a person
who isn't peculiar isn't much of a person. You see, I don't care for
things which are already fixed for me. I like to do my own fixing.
And I don't want to live in anybody else's home, not even yours,
though you are dear to want me. I am grateful, but I prefer to live
here. My present income would make an undignified affair of life
among the friends of other days. I'd feel continually as if I were
overboard and holding on to a slippery plank. Down here I'm
independent. I have enough for my needs and something to give--.
That's a good-looking hat you have on. Did you get it in Paris?"
Kitty shook her head. "New York." Otherwise she ignored my
question. Hats usually interested her. She talked well concerning
them, but to-day she would not be diverted from more insistent
subjects.
"It must have cost a good deal to fix up this old house. Anywhere
else it would look very well." Her eyes were missing no detail.
"You'd make a pig-sty pretty, but it takes money--"
"Everything takes money. I sold two or three pieces of Aunt
Matilda's jewelry for enough to put the house in order. She expected
me to sell what I did not wish to keep. In her will was a note to
that effect."
"She had more jewelry than any human being I ever saw." Into Kitty's
face came dawning understanding. "It was the only way she could
leave you any of--"
"Your father's money," I nodded. "Not until after her death did I
understand why she used to take all of your father's gifts in
jewelry. I know now."
"It was a good investment. I wish she'd bought twice as much. She
had so little else to leave you," Kitty was looking at me
speculatively. "How on earth are you going to live on a thousand
dollars a year? Our servants cost us twice that. Billy says it's
awful, but--"
"It is if you can't afford it. You can. I believe all people ought
to spend every dollar they can afford, and not a cent they can't.
That's what I do. Aunt Matilda thought I was impractical, but I'm
fearfully prudent. I live within my income and I've deposited with a
trust company, so I can't spend it, a sum of money quite large enough
to care for me through a spell of illness in the greediest of
hospitals, if I should be ill. And if I should die I'm prepared for
all expenses. It's a mistake to think I don't look ahead. I thought
once of having a stone put up in the cemetery so as to be sure I had
not forgotten anything, but I guess that can wait."
Kitty, still staring at me, got up. "I never expect to understand
you. Neither does father. He's mortified to death about your coming
down here to live. He knows people are talking; so do I; and we
don't know what to say."
"Oh, people always talk! And don't say anything. No one escapes
criticism. It's human pastime to indulge in it. To prefer
Scarborough Square to the Avenue may be queer, but at present I do
prefer it. That's why I'm here. You can say that if you choose."
"You've got no business preferring it." Kitty snapped the buttons of
her glove with tearful emphasis. "Mrs. Jamieson said last night that
a person with eyes and eyelashes like yours had no right to live as
you are living, with just an old woman to do things for you. She
came down to see why you were here, but you wouldn't tell her. She
can't understand any more than I can."
I kissed Kitty good-by, but I did not try to make her understand. I
no longer try to make people understand things. Many of them can't.
Kitty is a dear child, adorably blue-eyed and pink-cheeked, and
possessed of an amount of worldly wisdom that is always amazing and
at times distressing, but much that interests me has, so far, never
interested her. Refusing to study, she has little education, but she
has traveled a good deal, speaks excellent French, dances perfectly,
dresses admirably, and has charming manners when she wishes. I love
her very much, but I no longer feel it is my duty to live with her.
I am not living in Scarborough Square because I feel it is my duty to
live here. Thank Heaven, I don't have to tell any one why I am here!