Roger's hand slipped into hers. "No. Because we're going to want to do
the same things."
The future was going to be very wonderful.
"And I'm going to do some of the wanting and you're going to do some of
the meek and mutual obeying?" she teased, and wished they were alone so
that Roger could kiss her. Instead he dropped her hand and looked down
seriously.
"Do you mean, honestly, that you would rather work until we marry?
I never want to try to persuade you to do anything against a real
inclination."
Anne knew that her puckered brows and serious lips were weighing,
to Roger, hesitation between her own preference and the dislike of
going counter to this, his first expressed request. But behind them
the thought clicked away that Roger himself could solve the problem
by accepting the opening of private secretary to Hilary Wainwright,
a millionaire ship owner and philanthropist, who had offered him the
place as soon as he heard that Roger had left John Lowell. But Roger
was not quite sure that he believed in Wainwright or that he wanted the
place. The tick, tick, kept saying: "Take the place for a beginning and
we can marry to-morrow."
"Yes, dear, I think I do," she said at last, and added gayly, "Now,
where is Wilmot & Brown?"
They walked east to Mission Street and stopped before the building.
"I'll wait here twenty minutes. If you don't turn up I'll know you're
taken."
He sought her hands, and linked, they smiled at each other until a
passing man turned to look again, when Anne snatched her hands away,
and with a whispered, "Good-by, dear," hurried into the building.
Roger waited half an hour and then went, disappointed.
* * * * *
Every noon hour Roger was waiting for Anne and they had lunch together
at a nearby cafeteria which Anne insisted was the only kind of place
she liked for lunch. For the rest of the hour they strolled on the
sunny side of the street, or, if it were raw and foggy, sought some
sheltered bench in one of the small plazas and talked. Roger usually
did most of the talking, a running commentary on the people they
passed, which linked the individuals up to society as a whole. Roger
was always seeing people whom he pitied; starved, eager souls, thwarted
longings, stunted minds, drudges in a mill whose working they did not
understand, whose spiritual profits they did not share. When he pointed
out these people and qualities to Anne, she understood, because she
too had felt stifled and thwarted and full of vague, high longing.
But she never quite understood how Roger understood, because he never
seemed to long vaguely, nor to feel suppressed or driven. As the days
slipped into weeks, Anne came to feel that there was a surplus of some
qualities in Roger over and above the sum of those same qualities in
herself. She had ideals and courage and faith, but his ideals were
sharper before him, his courage deeper, his faith firmer.
Roger never doubted the best within himself, nor allowed a nervous
over-conscientiousness to distort a quality into its reverse. If he
had had a family, he long ago would have told them of his engagement,
while Anne could not yet make up her mind what to do. Sometimes she
saw her hesitancy as loyalty to Roger, because neither her father nor
her mother would understand Roger or his standards. At others she felt
that it was her own need for harmony and peace in the life about her,
a need so deepgrown that it was a weakness in its inability to risk
disturbance. And she knew how her father would accept a son-in-law who
had no position, who talked of the world's misery as if it really did
matter to him personally, who dallied with the prospect of a private
secretaryship at fifty dollars a week to begin with because he could
not quite prove to himself Hilary Wainwright's sincerity.
Sometimes, after an irritating day in the office, when old Mr. Wilmot
dictated worse than usual and, on rehearing the letters, declared he
had never used those words at all, Roger's begging to be allowed to
come up in the evening and meet her people annoyed Anne almost to the
point of confessing the main difficulty.
It was at the end of such a day, more than a month after she had
promised to marry Roger, that she came down from the office almost
wishing Roger would not be waiting. It was a June day of clear
sunshine, but with a gusty wind straight from the ocean. The air was
filled with dust that seeped through clothing and got into one's eyes
and mouth and scratched one's nerves to snapping. But Roger was there,
holding his hat on with one hand and making his happy little gesture
of welcome with the other. Anne tried to smile cheerfully, but it was
difficult with dust blowing into her face and a wind whipping her skirt
about her. Roger came up quickly and took her arm.
"You mite of a thing. It always astonishes me to think of you getting
about by yourself."
Anne was glad that a gust forced her to duck at that moment so that
Roger did not see her unsmiling eyes. She was tired, sick of getting
around by herself, of being respectful to that impossible old Mr.
Brown, of keeping exact hours, every one a tiny bit snatched from the
happy future of which Roger was so sure. It was one thing to refuse to
work with John Lowell, or in the law at all because it was corrupt and
unjust, but it was--to-night anyhow--just a bit overstrained to dally
about over the possible insincerity of Hilary Wainwright. Whatever the
man might be, at least he was doing real things for civic betterment,
the kind of thing Roger seemed to believe in. If Hilary Wainwright's
methods were not exactly Roger's, still it was an attempt. And she and
Roger could marry.
They had crossed the street and now, in the temporary protection of a
high building, were safe for a few moments from the wind. Anne could
not go on with her head bent. She looked up into Roger's smiling eyes
and succeeded in smiling back. His fingers closed over hers and drew
her closer to him.
"You mite," he whispered, "you little, silvery-gold princess. When
we're married I'm afraid I'll worry every time you're out of my sight."
"That'll be nice," Anne said a little sharply, but she was very tired.
Roger looked down quickly.
"Anne, when are you going to tell your people? It makes me feel as if
you weren't sure yourself. You said at first that you wanted to 'gloat'
all by yourself; that's very flattering and I believe it when we're
together, but, sometimes after I've left you, I feel--Anne, you are
sure, aren't you?"
"Of course I am."
"Don't they expect you ever to marry?"
"Why, I suppose so. We never talked about it."
"Is it me, 'specially, they would object to?"
For a moment Anne hesitated. At last he was giving her the chance.
Should she take it? But before she could quite make up her mind Roger
was pleading again, and suddenly Anne felt her strength exhausted. She
would not evade or pretend any more. It might as well come now as later.
"All right, dear, if you feel that way. Come up to-night."
Roger gave her fingers a quick grip, and they stepped from the
protection of the buildings into a side crossing. The wind tore at
them. Bent against it, they reached the opposite curb. In that interval
Anne felt the matter had been settled beyond change.
"I think I'll take the car here. It's useless trying to walk in this
wind."
Just then Anne's car came into sight. They hurried out into the street
and Roger helped her through the crush about the steps. It was nice
to have Roger making a way for her, to feel the strong, sure lift
of his hand under her arm, to feel herself swung up by such a small
expenditure of his strength. Now that the decision was made, Anne was
glad. After all, no matter what the conditions, her people would have
found some objection. Clinging to the hand-strap almost beyond her
reach, Anne went over the best ways of opening the subject to them.
But in the end Anne did not open it. She was catapulted from an
unusually pleasant meal, straight into it, by a chance remark of her
father's.
"I see there's likely to be another street railway strike," he
remarked. "They were running provisions into the carbarn as I passed."
"Well, now, that will be a nuisance." Hilda beamed round the table. Any
general conversations at dinner always made her feel that they were,
after all, a closely knit family. "Thank goodness, I don't have to
go on a car to do any shopping, although those Saturday sales at the
Sunset Market are quite a save."
"Didn't the company promise the men not to push that matter of open
shop until the year was up?" Anne, like her mother, was glad of any
general conversation, and had no intention of bringing down the wrath
of her father. But he peered at her suddenly over the top of his
steel-rimmed glasses.
"What if they did? How long do you think the men would have kept their
agreement not to agitate a strike if they had been in a position to
call one?"
Anne felt herself chill; a thin surface of frost seemed to cover her as
it always did when her father talked like this. But she did not want to
anger him and so she said quietly:
"I don't know. But I would like to think that there was a little
decency and honesty in the world. There must be."
"Well, it's not among labor agitators, let me tell you that. A greedy,
selfish lot, out for what they can get. They won't take a job and stick
to it themselves and so they try to stir up others to quit."
"But they couldn't stir the others up all the time, if the others
didn't really want to be stirred. Something is wrong and people feel
it."
When James Mitchell delivered an opinion he did not expect to be
answered, much less argued with. He turned swiftly upon Anne.
"What's that? Who feels things are wrong?"
"A lot of people feel things are unjust and wrong and that something
has to be done. They may not be clear as to exactly what it is or how
they're going to do it, but they know there's trouble somewhere." The
icy veneer deepened, but Anne held her ground.
"Who? A lot of Jews and foreigners who never had enough to eat in their
own country. The trouble with this country is that the natives are too
good-natured. They won't realize the harm these fools are doing until
it's done. They ought to be deported now, every last one of them."
Anne nibbled at her lip and did not trust herself to speak. But she saw
Roger, his eyes deep and sad, watching some weary soul in a city park.
"I think papa's right, Anne. It is mostly foreigners that do the
kicking. Not the blonde kind. Danes and Swedes are hard workers, but
Jews and Dagos are always fussing. Don't you remember that Greek,
Kapoulos, who lived over Martini's after The Fire, always haranguing
about justice and fair play, and the first chance he got he ran off
with the firm's funds and went to Greece?"
James shrugged Hilda's efforts aside and leaned across to Anne.
"Let me tell you one thing, Annie; these theories won't hold water,
socialism and I. W. W.-ism and all the other fire-eating babble. And
they'll never be put into practice, because, at bottom, the working
man is too smart and he knows he'd lose his job if he tried them, and
then where'd he be?"
James whisked the tail of this inverted logic in Anne's face and waited
triumphantly. But Anne did not see the narrow, tired face, the small
work-weakened eyes of her father. She saw Roger, hunching toward John
Lowell.
"But men do give up their jobs for their beliefs; not unskilled
laborers, but professional men who have spent years getting their
preparation."
"Bunk! You talk like a romantic school girl. Show me one professional
man, likely to succeed in his line, and show me him quitting."
"I will," Anne spoke with difficulty, "to-night. Roger Barton is coming
up this evening."
"Now, I am glad of that," Hilda breathed a sigh of relief. "I wish
you would have more company, Anne. It's not my fault the place is not
filled with young folks."
"Who's he?" James demanded.
"The man I'm engaged to." It was scarcely more than a whisper.
At last Anne looked up, from one to the other. Her mother sat, the look
of pleasure at the prospect of young company frozen in her eyes. Her
father peered forward, still amused at her childishness, triumphant at
his own logic.
"What say?" He too whispered. "You're engaged!"
Anne rose. Sitting, she felt the coming struggle closing down upon her.
"Yes. I am engaged to Roger Barton and we'll be married as soon as he
gets a job."
"You're engaged to a man without a job! A fool, that throws up a
profession--fine profession it must have been--and then asks a girl
from a decent home to marry him!"
There was a silence, filled by small, clicking noises from Hilda.
Then James Mitchell rose too, and with the evening paper screwed to a
ferule, banged his ultimatum upon the table.
"No damned skunk like that comes into this house, not if I know it. Do
you hear? What you do outside the house I can't help, and I'm not fool
enough to suppose I can. I never did have any say in this house, nor
about you girls. But I'll have my say about this thing and now. If this
fellow thinks he's going to sneak into this house and have me support
him, he's going to get left. Go ahead. Marry him; a man that asks a
girl to wait till he gets a job! Have half a dozen kids and then sneer
at the state of the world and a steady job." His rising voice reached a
thin scream. "Do you hear? That blackguard never enters this door."
Anne looked at him, gray, thin, raging, and a sudden pity mingled with
her anger. He was so tightly locked within his fear of life, his terror
of all strange ways and wide roads, all experience that had not been
his. In that moment, Anne's feeling for her father parted in clearer
strands than she had ever seen it. She scorned and pitied and disliked
him.
Without another word, Anne went into the hall, took the receiver from
the hook, and called Roger's number. In the momentary silence until
she got it, she felt the two gray-headed people peering at her, like
animals from a hole.
"Yes, it's Anne. I don't think you can come up to-night, dear. I
twisted my foot getting off the car and it's swelling. I'm going
straight to bed."
Not even Roger's genuine concern, nor his loving good-night penetrated
the icy calm that encased her. She hung up, and, without looking toward
the dining-room, went down the hall to her own room and locked the
door. Dressed, she lay upon the bed, staring up through the window to
the stars.
She did not know what time it was when her mother came tapping gently
at the door. But she did not open, and, after a moment, heard her
tiptoe away.
Out on the back porch, Hilda Mitchell stood for a long time looking
out over the city lights and trying to straighten her world so
suddenly upheaved by Anne. But the fact of the engagement loomed like
a blank wall before her and finally she gave up. With a sigh she went
in, locked the back door and, without turning on the bedroom light,
undressed and got into bed. Beside her the small gray man huddled under
the clothes, but, by his stillness Hilda knew that he was not asleep.
"Papa, I wish you wouldn't be so harsh with Anne. Young folks can't be
expected to think ahead like old folks. Anne's not flighty or silly
like most girls. She won't do anything foolish."
"She can't--after this. My God, what a mess you've made of bringing
up those girls! Belle was always an obstinate, headlong piece
but--little--Annie----"
"Now, papa. Have patience."
"Oh, shut up. It's no good talking to you." James Mitchell turned on
his side and drew the clothes high about his shoulders.
For a long time, Hilda lay beside him, thinking. Then, she, too, sighed
and turned over.
Life would have been a simple thing to Hilda Mitchell if it had not
been for her family.