It was by this absolutely unexpected action of Maisie’s that Mrs. Tracy
was defeated. Two detectives, who believed--because they had been so
informed--that they were employed by Mr. Lester Tracy to collect
evidence against his wife, arrived precisely at the time when they had
been told to arrive, and entered the flat. They found Maisie there, with
a man who brazenly insisted that he was Mr. Lester Tracy. He didn’t look
it. He was disheveled, his coat was torn, he had a bad bruise on his
cheek bone and a cut over one eyebrow, and he was incoherent with rage.
The detectives had reason to believe that the fellow was a Mr. Ainsworth
Denbigh, and they said so. He told them that they would very likely find
Mr. Denbigh in a hospital, although jail was where he belonged. He
showed a marked inclination to make a row, which was not what they had
been led to expect. In fact, he was so vigorous in his methods that the
detectives were at a loss.
“Telephone to Mrs. Tracy,” said he. “She’ll come and identify me. Then
you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing who it is that kicks you out!”
They agreed to this, and sat down to wait. It was an odd enough
group--the two detectives, both burly and severe, their hats on their
knees, while up and down the room walked the disordered and vehement
young man. All three were somehow overshadowed by the quiet and downcast
Maisie, sitting with her feet crossed, her hands clasped, in that
patient, meek attitude of hers. The light of a shaded lamp fell upon her
shining dark hair, untidy as always. Just once she raised her clear,
honest eyes to the young man’s face, and he stopped short.
“Don’t worry, Maisie!” he said. “I’ll--I’ll look after you!”
Mrs. Tracy had had to be fetched from a bridge party, and she was in no
good humor. She was astounded, too, by the maladroitness of that man
Denbigh in thus dragging her into an affair which she had strongly
desired to avoid.
“I suppose something went wrong,” she thought, “and he wants me to prove
that he’s not Lester. It’s incredibly clumsy of him. Oh, I’ll be so
thankful when the wretched anxiety of this thing is over, and I have the
poor little baby again! If it wasn’t for the baby, I couldn’t go through
with it, but I’d do anything in the world to save the child from that
outrageous girl!”
She rang the bell of the apartment, and one of the detectives let her
in. He was impressed by her frigid magnificence, her crown of white
hair, her penetrating eye.
“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am,” he said. “Won’t take you a minute to
clear this thing up. This fellow here claims he’s Mr. Tracy, and--”
She smiled scornfully. The detective stood aside, and she preceded him
down the hall to the living room.
“Where is this--” she began, but stopped short.
Her face blanched. She flung out her hand in a curiously helpless
gesture, and it rested upon the detective’s shoulder. She needed his
support.
“Lester!” she said faintly. “Oh, Lester! It can’t be--”
He had been filled with a terrible anger against his mother for this
brutal and shameful ruse. He had thought he could never bear to see her
face again, could never speak to her with common humanity; but when he
did see her, in the anguish of her defeat, all that passed.
“Tell these men who I am,” he said, “and send them away.”
Her dry lips could scarcely frame the words.
“It’s my son. Please go!”
With the resignation acquired in their profession, they went off, and
the door closed behind them. Lester brought forward a chair, but Mrs.
Tracy would not sit down. She had recovered something of her poise, and
looked at him steadily.
“What does this mean?” she asked.
He did not find it easy to answer without reproaching her too cruelly.
“I’m glad it has happened,” he said aloud. “I needed something like this
to show me where I was drifting. If I hadn’t known--if I hadn’t come
here--this--this crime would have been done, and very likely I’d have
taken it all for granted. I’ve let this thing go on, I’ve let little
Maisie be tormented and persecuted, and I’ve never lifted a finger to
help her. It has been no one’s fault but mine, because she’s my
responsibility. It’s no use saying I didn’t realize; it was my business
to realize. But it’s ended now. She’s going to keep her baby!”
“Lester! My son! You don’t know what you’re saying! Simply because
you’ve seen this girl again, and perhaps felt a little of your old,
tragic infatuation--”
“I don’t know whether it’s that,” he said slowly; “but whatever it was I
felt for Maisie, there’s never been anything else half so fine in all my
life. I always knew that, but I hadn’t the sense--or the manliness--to
understand what it meant. I thought I’d get over it. I should have, in
the course of time, and I should have been getting over the only thing
in me that’s good!”
He turned to Maisie.
“You’re free, you know, Maisie,” he said. “You can do exactly as you
please. I give you my word you won’t be disturbed again. You’re to have
the baby, and I’ll see that there’s a proper provision made.”
“Lester!” cried his mother. “You cannot put me aside entirely--”
“I do put you aside,” he said sternly. “It’s Maisie’s child, and she’s
going to have it. I wish to Heaven she’d take me, too!”
Maisie had not stirred or spoken a word. She got up now and went out of
the room.
They looked after her with amazement. Mrs. Tracy came close to her son.
“Oh, try to realize!” she whispered. “It’s your child, too. It’s a
Tracy. You can’t abandon your own child to that ignorant, common girl!”
“Common!” said he. “I’ve never seen one like her!”
“She’s--” Mrs. Tracy began.
Maisie reëntered with the baby in her arms. It was asleep, lying limp
and flushed against her frail shoulder. Over its dark, rough head, her
eyes, misty with tears, met Mrs. Tracy’s.
“I know it’s my baby,” she said in an unsteady voice. “My very own! It’s
wrong of any one to take her away from me, for one minute; but I know
you love her. I wanted to say--” Maisie’s voice broke entirely. “I
couldn’t be--cruel,” she sobbed; “not now when I have her safe. I’ll go
to-morrow--I will indeed--to sign a paper--”
“What paper?” Lester demanded.
He came up beside her and put his arm about her. She looked up into his
face with her old trust and candor.
“You don’t need to sign any papers, Maisie, darling!”
“But I want to,” she said. “I mean a paper to say that Mrs. Tracy is to
have--” She paused for a moment, struggling with her tears. “I remember
just how it goes. I want it to say that Mrs. Tracy is to have free
access to the aforementioned infant at any reasonable hour. And _any_
hour’ll be reasonable--really it will. Even if the baby’s in her bath,
she’ll be welcome to come in.”
“Don’t, Maisie!” cried Mrs. Tracy sharply.
“I mean it! I mean it with all my heart!” cried Maisie. “I know you love
the baby. I know what it is to long to see her, and not be able to. I
thought you’d like to hold her for a minute, now before you go home. It
just makes the whole night different, when you’ve done that!”
* * * * *
On the way home in her car, Mrs. Tracy reflected upon the incredible
thing that had happened. Of all wildly improbable things, the most
improbable was that she should ever beseech and entreat Maisie to come
home with her to live; yet she had done that.
Lester sat on one side of her, very silent, but she was not troubled by
his silence. The sleeping baby lay against her heart, and one of her
hands held Maisie’s in a firm clasp.
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
APRIL, 1923
Vol. LXXVIII NUMBER 3