A sickness which Jimmy could not understand was indeed upon me, and
unsteadily I leaned against the window-frame, looking at, but not
seeing, him, and not until he spoke again did I remember I was not
alone.
"Is it very bad? You look as if it hurts so. Wait a minute--I'll
get you some water."
I caught him as he started to run down the hall, and drew him back.
"I don't want any water. I am not sick." My head went up. "The
smell of paste would make me ill if I stayed, however, and I'm not
going to stay to-day. I'll come some other time. Run on and join
the other boys. Tell your mother"--I seemed groping for words--"tell
your mother I will see her before you start to school. Run on,
Jimmy, and thank Mr. Pritchard for lending you to me. And laugh as
much as you want to, Jimmy. Laugh all you can before--you can't!"
Over the banister the child was leaning anxiously, watching me as I
stumbled down the steps. At their foot I turned and waved my hand
and laughed, an odd, faint, far-away laugh that seemed to come from
some one else; and then I went into the street and found myself
crossing it, impelled by surging impulse to know--
To know what? At the foot of the rickety stairs leading to the high
porch from which I had seen the girl come I stopped. All I had been
repressing, fighting, resisting for days past, had in a moment
yielded to horror, and hurt that seemed past healing, and I was
surrendering to what I should know was impossible. I must be mad!
With a shudder that was half a sob I turned away and walked down the
street and into the one which would lead to Scarborough Square. As I
walked my shoulders straightened. What was the matter with me? Was
I becoming that which I loathed--a suspicious, spying person? I was
insulting Selwyn. He knew I hated mystery, however, knew the right
of explanation was mine, knew that I expected of any man who was my
friend that his life should be as open as my life. If I had hurt
him, angered him by my question when I last saw him, he had hurt, had
angered me far more. For now I was angry. Did he imagine I was the
sort of woman who accepted reticence with resignation? I was not.
At the corner Mr. Fogg was standing in the door of his little shop,
holding a blue bottle up to the light and examining it with critical
care. He had on his usual clothes of many colors, shabby from much
wearing, but in his round, clean-shaven face, pink with health and
inward cheer, was smiling serenity, and in his eyes a twinkle that
yielded not to time or circumstance. His second-hand bookshelf, his
canary-birds and white rabbits, his fox-terriers and goldfish are
friends that never fail, and in them he has found content. His
eagerness to chat occasionally with some one who cares, as he cares,
for his beloved books, is not at times to be resisted, but I was in
no mood to talk to-day. I wondered if I could hurry by.
"Good morning!" The blue bottle, half filled with water, in which a
tiny bulb was floating, was waved toward me, and a shaggy white head
nodded at me. "It's a fine day, ain't it?--a fine day for snow.
Good and gray. I think we'll have some flakes before night. Kinder
feel like a boy again when it's snowing. I don't know yet which
season I like best. Every one has got its glory. What you been up
to to-day? Seeing some more things?"
I nodded. "I wish I could come in, but I can't." I shivered, though
I was not cold. "I am going up-town." A minute before I had no
intention of going up-town, but to go indoors was suddenly
impossible. Whatever was possessing me must be fought off alone. "I
will bring you my copy of Men and Nations to-morrow. Keep it as long
as you wish."
"Thank you, ma'am. Thank you hearty. I'll take good care of it. I
suppose you haven't heard of the widow Robb? Her name's Patty, you
know, and she's got a beau. He's named Cake. Luck plays tricks with
love, don't it? Don't get caught in a snow-storm. You ain't"--his
voice was anxious--"you ain't thinking of leaving us, are you? The
girls down here are needing of you, needing sore. All of us are
needing of you."
I shook my head. "Of course I'm not thinking of leaving you." I
waved my hand in response to his wave of the bottle, and, not seeing
where I went, I turned the corner and, head bent to keep out of my
face the tiny particles of sleet and snow beginning to fall, walked
for some distance before noticing where I was.
Much of my city, unknown to me a short while ago, was now familiar,
but to much I was still a stranger, and presently I was wondering
concerning the occupants of the houses I was passing. The shabby
gentility and dull respectability of the latter was depressing, and
to escape the radiation of their dreariness I turned into first one
street and then another, and as I walked the girl with the boyish
face walked with me, the face with its hunted fear. She had held the
baby as if frightened, and when she turned the corner she was
running. She was so young. Could the baby be hers? It must be
hers. Nothing but a mother-face could have in it what hers had. Why
was she afraid, and of what?
The streets were becoming rough and unpaved before I noticed I was
nearing the city limits, and, cutting across afield, I got into the
Avenue, toward the end of which was Selwyn's house. As I neared it
my steps slowed. For years the Thorne property had been on the
outskirts of the city, but progress had taken it in, and already
houses, flagrantly modern and architecturally shameless, offered
strong contrast to its perfect lines, its conscious dignity, its calm
aloofness, and its stone walls which shielded it from gaping gaze and
gave it privacy. The iron gates were closed, the shutters drawn, and
from the place stillness that was oppressive radiated, a stillness
that was ominous.
Pride was undoubtedly Selwyn's dominating characteristic. Pride in
his name, in its unstained honor, in the heritage of his fathers; and
in the presence of his house it seemed an ugly dream--the picture
ever in my mind, the picture of Selwyn walking slowly with a young
girl in the dark of a winter afternoon in a section of the city as
removed from his as sunlight is removed from shadow. In his nature
was nothing that could make such association imaginable. If no
higher deterrent prevented, pride would protect him from doubtful
situations. He was sensitive to higher deterrents, however, as
sensitive as I.
Passing the gates, on the stone columns of which the quaint,
old-fashioned lamps of former days were still nightly lighted, I
glanced through them at the snow-covered lawn and the square-built,
lonely house, occupied now only by Selwyn and his younger brother
Harrie, then again hurried on. The Avenue with its great width and
unbroken length, its crystal-coated trees and handsome houses, was
now deserted save for hurrying limousines and an occasional
pedestrian; and safe in the fierceness of the snow, from encounter
with old friends, I decided to walk home through the section of the
city which was the only part I once knew well, and just as I decided
I knocked into some one turning a corner as I approached it.
"Oh, Miss Heath!" The woman drew back. "The snow was so thick I
didn't see you. Did I hurt you?"
"Not a bit." I wiped my face, damp with melted flakes which had
brushed it. "What are you doing up here? You look as frozen as I
feel. Have you got on overshoes?"
The woman shook her head. "I haven't got any. I wouldn't have come
out, but I had to bring some work back to Mrs. Le Moyne. If she'd
paid me I'd have bought a pair of rubbers. But she didn't pay me.
She said she'd let me have the money next week."
"Next week! You need it this minute. How much does she owe you?"
"Four seventy-five for these last things, and four twenty-five for
those I made last week. I don't know what I'm going to do." The
woman's hands, cold and stiff, twisted nervously. "I don't reckon
she's ever had to think about rent, or food, or fuel, or overshoes.
People like that don't have to. I wish they did, sometimes."
"So do I. Come on; it's too cold to stop. We'll go down to Benson's
and get something hot to warm us up. I forgot about lunch. Turn
your coat-collar up--the snow is getting down your neck--and take my
muff. I've got pockets and you haven't."
As we started off a large limousine with violets in the glass vases
of its interior, upholstered in fawn-colored cloth, stopped just
ahead of us, and a woman I did not know got out of it, followed by
one I knew well. Fur coats entirely covered their dresses, and
quickly the chauffeur opened an umbrella to protect their hats. As
we passed I started to speak to Alice Herbert, but, turning her head,
she gave me not even a blink of recognition. At first I did not
understand; then I laughed.
"Who is that?" Mrs. Beck's voice was awed. "Ain't they grand? Do
you know them?"
"No." I put my hands in the pockets of my long coat. "I used to
know one of them, the feeble-minded one. We'd better go over to High
Street and take a car to Benson's. The storm's getting worse. We'll
have to hurry."
The street lamps were being lighted as we reached Scarborough Square,
and at sight of the house, in the doorway of which Mrs. Mundy was
standing, I hurried, impelled by impulse beyond defining. Mrs. Beck
had left me at the corner, and as Mrs. Mundy closed the door behind
me she followed me up the steps.
"I've been that worried about you I couldn't set still long at a
time, and Bettina's been up three times to see that your fire was
burning all right. I knew you didn't have your umbrella or
overshoes. It's a wonder you ain't froze stiff. I'll bring your tea
right up."
"I've had tea, thank you." I held out first one foot and then the
other to the blazing coals, and from the soles of my shoes came
curling steam. "It's a wonderful storm. I'd like to walk ten miles
in it. I don't know why you were worried. I'm all right."
"I know you are, but"--she poked the fire--"but I wish you wouldn't
go so hard. For near two weeks you haven't stopped a minute. You
can't stand going like that. I wish I'd known where to find you.
Mr. Thorne was here this afternoon. He was very anxious to see you."
"Mr. who?" I turned sharply, then put my hands behind me to hide
their sudden twisting. I was cold and tired, and the only human
being in all the world I wanted to see was Selwyn. It was
intolerable, this tormenting something that was separating us. "When
was he here?" I asked, and leaned against the mantel.
"He came about three, but he waited half an hour. He didn't say
much, but he was powerful put out about your not being home. He
couldn't wait any longer, as he had to catch a train--the
four-thirty, I think."
"Where was he going?" I sat down in the big wing-chair and the
fingers of my hands interlaced. "Did he say where he was going?"
"He didn't mention the place, just said he had to go away and might
be gone some time. He'll write, I reckon. He was awful disappointed
at not seeing you. He asked me--" Mrs. Mundy, on her knees,
unbuttoned my shoes and drew them off. "Your feet are near 'bout
frozen, and no wonder. Your stockings are wet clean through, and I'm
letting you sit here in them when I promised him I'd see you didn't
kill yourself doing these very things. You just put your feet on the
fender while I get some dry clothes. He says to me, says he: 'Mrs.
Mundy, the one human being she gives no thought to is herself, and
will you please take care of her? She don't understand'"--
"Oh, I do understand!" My voice was wearily protesting. "The one
thing men don't want women to do is to understand. They want us to
be sweet and pretty--and not understand. Selwyn talks as if I were a
child. I am perfectly able to take care of myself."
"Maybe you are, but you don't do it--least-ways, not always. I
promised him I wouldn't let you wear yourself out, and I promised
him--"
"What?"
"That I wouldn't let you go too far. He says you've lost your
patience with people, specially women, who think it's not their
business to bother with things that--that aren't nice, and you're apt
to go to the other extreme and forget how people talk."
"About some things they don't talk enough. Did--did he leave any
message for me?"
Again Mrs. Mundy shook her head. "I think he wanted to talk to you
about something he couldn't send messages about."