A barrier formed by his own imagination kept McGinity and Pat apart for
some time following the solution and wind-up of the Martian mystery;
the barrier of riches, which so often prevents the "poor but honest"
young man from popping the question to a girl he considers far beyond
his reach by reason of her social rank and money. He felt, as I
learned afterwards, that the honorable thing to do, as far as Pat was
concerned, was to fade out of the picture.
It was an open secret in the family by this time that he and Pat were
desperately in love. After all they had gone through together, things
were bound to end like this. As soon as we learned that McGinity was
suffering from a severe attack of conscientious scruples, we held
several family councils; whispering together, we decided that nothing
would suit us better than to have the young reporter as our nephew.
Jane was coldly enthusiastic, at first. But one could not blame her.
Family pride is a mighty powerful instinct. All her life she had been
a stout-hearted defender of the social impregnability of the Royces,
regarding her world, or their world, as divided into Royces on the one
hand, and the near relatives and close friends of the Royces on the
other.
McGinity of course had no social credentials, but his father had been a
college chum of Pat's father, and undoubtedly he had saved Pat's life
when the late Mr. Zzyx, alias Peter, went on his rampage of death and
destruction. "We owe him something," I argued; and so did Henry, who
couldn't say enough now in praise of the reporter.
Besides, he came from a family of great antiquity. When I finally
proved to Jane, through "Barker's Peerage," that one of his ancient,
Scottish forebears had played a leading part in the crusade of taking
Robert Bruce's heart to Jerusalem, the ice suddenly broke, and she
began to express herself as charmed in having found him so charming.
And so we decided to take the high hand, so far as we dared; and
we were about to summon Pat to a family conference, and tell her
that she would hear something now that would surprise her, and so
forth ... when, luckily for us, Pat took matters in her own hand. As
she described her feelings to me afterwards, she realized that unless a
miracle intervened the being who meant more to her than all the world
would be lost; and the knowledge seemed suddenly to clarify her mind,
and her course of duty to save an endangered love became quite clear.
I wish I had space in which to tell, in full, the story of Pat's curing
McGinity's attack of conscientious scruples against marrying a rich
girl, and how she finally challenged him on common ground, for it was
very romantic business; this alone would fill a large volume.
With fine courage, Pat set about to do a little newspaper writing on
her own, with a definite purpose in view. A close study of McGinity's
clever articles, and his remarkable technique of condensation and
brevity, so necessary in newspaper reporting, provided exactly the sort
of inspiration that she needed. She had the background of a splendid
education, she was an inveterate reader of action stories, and was also
very observing. Reading the early specimens of her work, neatly but
laboriously typed, I was amazed to find that she showed real talent in
dramatizing the commonplace things in life.
Her first serious article was founded on several visits she had made
at the wretched homes of the very poor, calling on expectant mothers,
in company with a nurse from the Rivington Street Settlement, on the
governing board of which Henry had become an important factor. Under
the pseudonym of Nora Nolan, and using the house address of a girl
friend, she submitted the sketch to the City Editor of the New York
Daily Recorder.
To her great surprise and joy, the article was accepted, and she
received a check for fifteen dollars, the first money she had ever
earned in her life. Realizing that she had been lucky, she made a quick
follow-up with an account of conditions in the House of Detention for
Women, of which I happened to be a member of the visiting board. This
brought another and larger check, and a polite note from the City
Editor, asking her to call on him at the Recorder office.
Then the incredible thing happened. As Nora Nolan, she got a job on the
Recorder, and was assigned to write daily signed articles, at space
rates; brief word pictures of the inside workings of the various city
institutions. Her earnings now, at the least, would amount to forty
dollars a week. She was given part-time use of a desk and typewriter,
which she shared with an oldish, pleasant-mannered woman, who conducted
a column for housewives.
What happened after this had all the accessories of fiction. The first
day on her job, late in the afternoon, she was seated at her desk, in a
far corner of the general news-room, nervously picking at the keys of a
dilapidated typewriter, and trying to bring order out of the chaos of
notes, taken at random during an inspection of the Children's Clearing
Bureau. Conscious of the curious, covert glances of a dozen or so men
and women reporters working in the room, she began to feel terribly
embarrassed and nervous; she couldn't concentrate on her notes. But she
kept picking away. Then suddenly she became conscious of another and
closer gaze. She looked up, and met McGinity's amazed and inquiring
eyes. Something seemed to fill her throat; she tried to swallow but the
lump would not go down.
Then suddenly her courage returned, for she had caught in his glance
something contemptuous. She held out a small hand, and he took it for
an instant and released it.
"I hope you're well, Bob," she said. "I haven't seen you for several
weeks. At least, you might say you're glad to see me."
"I congratulate you," he said, a little sternly.
"Oh, that's nice," she rejoined. "I feel that I have you to thank for
what I'm doing now."
"I have done nothing," he said.
"Oh, but you have, Bob!" she replied. "You've been my inspiration.
Otherwise, how could I have turned to newspaper writing practically
over-night? I never knew it was in me, really, to do reporting. I've
only written a few insignificant things, but your City Editor liked
them, and he's given me regular employment. Isn't it wonderful that--"
"That what?" he interrupted, sourly.
"That I'm not so useless, after all," she answered.
"A bit rough on the girl reporter that has to work for her living," he
said, with quiet bitterness, "There's lots of 'em, right now, looking
for work. But just a lark for the girl with money, who can use her
social position to land a job."
"Most undignified and unnecessary," said Pat, with a disdainful note in
her voice. "But it just doesn't happen to apply in my case."
McGinity, with a little twinge of remorse, coughed awkwardly, and was
about to mutter something, when he saw the City Editor moving towards
them.
"Sorry, Miss Nolan," said the City Editor, eyeing McGinity a little
suspiciously, "but I want to remind you that all copy must be turned in
by seven o'clock. Tomorrow we go to press an hour earlier, so please
have your copy in, on the Domestic Relations Court, promptly at six."
Then he turned to McGinity. "Miss Nolan--Nora Nolan--is our latest
recruit, Mac, if you haven't been properly introduced. No doubt you've
read her two recent signed articles? Pretty good, don't you think?"
McGinity smiled bitterly. Before he could speak, Pat smiled up at the
City Editor, and said: "Mr. McGinity and I have met before, but he
doesn't know me by my pen name, Nora Nolan. He's a bit surprised, and I
don't wonder at it."
The City Editor grinned. "I quite expected to find that it wasn't your
real name," he said. "But it was your descriptive talent, Miss Nolan,
that attracted me, and your nose for finding news in the most ordinary
things. That's why I gave you the chance."
"Thanks," Pat murmured, smiling, and the City Editor walked away. Then
she looked at McGinity, and said: "Awful sorry, Bob, and all that, but
I must get on with my story."
McGinity went red and felt a fool. He seated himself at a vacant desk,
opposite to hers, lit a cigarette, and watched her work.
Her notes a blur, Pat thought: "Bob's terribly angry with me. He's
making me awfully unhappy." Then her mind went off on a new tack.
"Suppose he doesn't really love me? Perhaps I've made a terrible
mistake. Oh, dear! But I shall always love him--dear Bob! I shall go on
loving him with the gift of love ungiven, always in my heart, always
beautiful, like a shrine of dreams...."
She sprang up suddenly, and said, aloud: "Oh, I can't bear this room!
It's so stuffy and noisy!"
Instantly McGinity was up, and looking at her across the desk. He
looked into her eyes steadily, where he fancied he caught a glimpse of
tears.
"Pat," he said, gently, and a little inarticulately, as though he was
ashamed of himself, "may I ask you a bold question?"
"If you like, certainly," sighed Pat.
"Will you go to dinner with me?"
"Thank you, Bob," she replied; and sat down, and finished her article.
I learned of all this afterwards, of course, but where they dined, and
what was said there, I have no personal knowledge. I can only guess.
Afterwards they went to a popular cinema, where the lights are so
conveniently dim.
About ten, Pat called up, and announced she would be home around
eleven, which quieted our growing apprehension and anxiety. In the same
breath, rather tremulous, she said: "Bob's bringing me home."
I had Jane turn off the bright lights in the lower part of the house.
She lit the candles in the drawing room and hall, while I poked up the
fire, and pulled up our softest and deepest chair, which was quite
big enough for two. Henry, to my amazement, brought in some autumnal
flowers he had gathered the day before from his garden at the castle,
and arranged them in a vase on the mantelpiece.
We were of course much intrigued, and indulged in much speculation
until they arrived. Schweizer admitted them, and then discreetly
disappeared. Leaning over the railing at the head of the stairs, I
contrived to remain so absolutely still that not a creak betrayed that
I was looking on, and listening in, in spite of a twinge of conscience.
But it was a moment so fateful and momentous in Pat's life that I felt
I had the right to share it with her.
I could hardly believe my eyes and ears. In the dim candlelight, in the
hall, McGinity's first act was to wrap her tenderly about with his warm
young arms, and press her lips to his.