LENA HARPSTER
The bell in the cupola of the First Church had just rung out the hour
of midnight, and the slow, deep notes, which seemed to derive a certain
solemnity from the graveyard below, were carried in broken echoes to
the very suburbs of the city on the wings of a moist, intermittent
wind. The storm of the previous night, which had lifted during the
day, now seemed about to begin anew, and the air was full of a sense of
unshed rain. Down in the street, where bits of waste paper and other
small refuse spun around under the swaying electric lights, the huge
cleaner, called "the devil waggon," was just beginning its nocturnal
task. In front of the City Hall, lately such a scene of busy life, a
solitary car stood ready to start upon its homeward trip, its two
violet lamps winking in the wind like a pair of sleepy eyes. Only the
all-night drug-store on the opposite corner kept up an appearance of
wakefulness by means of a corona of milk-white lights that made a
brilliant spot in the comparative obscurity of the long thoroughfare.
Whatever poetical or imaginative suggestions might lie in this scene
for others, it made no such appeal to Tom Emmet as he strode along,
passing belated pedestrians in his course. He had just come from a
protracted consultation with his political lieutenants, and deep in the
maze of his own plans the twelve beats of the bell now reminded him
that Lena Harpster must have been waiting for his coming a full hour by
the gate where they had planned to meet. Even this thought could
scarcely soften his mood as yet. Sure of the experience that awaited
him, he was content to postpone it till the actual moment. Politics
was a fact, and his love was a fact, and each was assigned its
appropriate time. This eye for the actualities of the moment was
characteristic of the man. A street to him was only a thoroughfare, in
which there were certain things that concerned him personally, or
through which he must pass to reach a definite destination. To Leigh,
on the contrary, it was sometimes a comparative unreality, a vista
suggesting thoughts of Thebes and Babylon and Rome, a symbol of life's
pilgrimage, a path where multitudinous sounds blended into a universal
chant of the voyager. It was perhaps this difference that constituted
an element of attraction between the two men. The star-gazer admired
the practical qualities that made for success in the world below his
tower, and the politician paid an involuntary tribute to a spirituality
above his own.
Lena Harpster also heard the midnight bell, as she stood in the shadow
of a row of tall brick mansions and gazed patiently down the alley,
listening for her lover's step. She was undoubtedly as pretty a girl
as could be found in Warwick; so pretty, in fact, that when she applied
for a position as maid, experienced housekeepers were wont to balance
her attractions against the probity of their men-folk. Not
infrequently they decided that the former might weigh heavier in the
scale, and reserved the place for one less favoured. She was tall and
slender, with a light step and a winning grace of movement. When she
spoke, her voice was pitched in a key that was pleasantly low and
musical, whether from lack of physical force, or because of timidity,
or in unconscious imitation of those she served. But more likely this
characteristic was merely an expression of innate refinement; for Lena
was of native American stock, educated in a country school of some
merit; and she regarded herself as a lady, compared with the Irish
maids and coloured cooks among whom her lot was cast.
Her throat was long, with a skin of peculiar whiteness. When her
sleeves were rolled back while she washed the most valuable of her
mistress's glasses, her arms were seen to be of such a satin smoothness
as to invite instinctively a caressing touch. And one felt assured,
without trying the experiment, that her resentment at such a liberty
would be expressed only by a gentle and deprecatory withdrawal. This
same whiteness of her complexion was enhanced rather than marred by the
presence of a few faint freckles, that suggested sunny fields and the
wholesome associations of country life. When excited, her grey eyes
shone with a luminous brightness, as if all her vitality were gathered
there, while an unexpected colour came and went beneath the delicate
texture of her skin.
But of all Lena's attractions, none was more marked than her smile. It
was frequent and unaffected, almost maternal in its good nature and
indulgence, and disclosed two rows of little teeth, pure and fragile in
appearance as porcelain. Yet this smile, so inviting to those who
wished to be invited, was disillusioning to cooler and more
discriminating observers, for in it her ordinary quality was disclosed,
her redundancy of sweetness, her lack of that intellect which enables a
woman to triumph over the ravages of time.
As she waited there by the gate, she marked the lapse of time by the
cars that passed the end of the alley at intervals of fifteen minutes,
occupied not so much with thoughts as with sensations, both those of
the moment and those of anticipation. The air was delightfully soft,
like that of springtime, and she responded to its caress much as a
flower responds, lifting her face placidly to the sky. The atmosphere
had now reached the point of saturation, and her fine hair was
moistened as by a heavy dew. From time to time she gave an
affectionate touch to some small creature which she held warmly in the
bend of her arm beneath her cape, or turned her head to listen to the
stamping of the horses in a near-by stable. Directly across the alley,
a large, half-finished building lifted its walls in the dim light, like
a ruin, exhaling from its yawning windows a mingled odour of fresh pine
boards and plaster; and toward these squares of blackness she sometimes
turned a look almost childish in its suggestion of vague timidity.
At last, when she had lingered long past the time agreed upon, she
sighed, but without resentment, and resigned herself to disappointment.
She wished to see him this night in particular, for she had something
of importance to tell. He had forbidden her to write, and she accepted
this tyranny as she accepted the man. Without reflecting deeply upon
this elaborate caution of his, the secrecy of their courtship made an
appeal to a certain demand of her own nature for concealment and
mystery. Where a spirited girl would have questioned and resented, she
merely acquiesced.
She had almost abandoned hope when she caught sight of him in the
circle of electric light at the far end of the alley. He gave a quick
look to left and right before turning in her direction. She would have
known that alert turn of the head in any crowd, and now, as his
footsteps sounded nearer and nearer, along the narrow board walk that
skirted the fences, she unlatched the gate and came out to meet him.
When almost upon her, his eyes caught first the white strip of apron
beneath her dark cape, and then the dim little face above bending
forward for a greeting.
"Well," he said, in a low tone, "did you think I was never coming,
girlie?"
She leaned against him with a contented sigh. "You have come, Tom, and
that's all I care about."
As he pressed her to him, the kitten, which had lain concealed till now
in purring contentment beneath her cape, leaped to the ground and
disappeared in the darkness.
"How I hate a cat!" he exclaimed, startled. "I 'd like to set my dog
on the beast." His irritation merely elicited a little ripple of
amusement, for though she was submissive to his will, she was never
afraid of his censure. "Come," he continued; "this is no place to
stand. We will go into that new building across the way."
He took her hand and guided her between scattered blocks of stone, over
a shaking plank, and into the darkness she never would have ventured to
enter alone. The large room in which they found themselves was already
floored. The smell of fresh plaster, which was perceptible even from
without, was here intensified, and he sniffed it with relish, for such
works of construction always appealed to his nature. An open window,
facing the street, admitted a misty illumination from the electric
light beyond, and disclosed in one corner a heap of boards.
"Now," he said eagerly, taking her almost roughly by the shoulders and
turning her about, "give me a kiss."
All the graciousness and charm were with her, all the strength with
him. He was an abrupt and dictatorial lover, but she was a born
sweetheart. At the moment when her arms were twined about him she most
perfectly expressed herself. He drank in her kisses thirstily; then
grasped her wrists firmly and removed them from his neck, as if he
realised a peculiar responsibility.
"There, Lena," he protested, "that will do." But he still continued to
hold her wrists. "Just like a couple of pipestems," he remarked. "How
easily I could break them!"
She accepted the comment as a tribute to her delicacy, a proof of his
strength. It was this strength that drew her, so that she swayed
toward him involuntarily; but even though it contained an element of
possible cruelty, it was not purely physical. Perhaps a realisation of
this fact allowed her to shelve upon him entirely the responsibility of
her impulsiveness.
"Come over here, Tom," she pleaded, drawing him into the corner, "and
sit down. I want to tell you something. Besides, I 'm half dead with
standing."
The hint of pathos in her last words was lost upon him, for he was
almost incapable of appreciating physical weariness. He knew her ready
forgiveness also so well that he took it for granted, without even
offering an explanation of his lateness. It was characteristic of
their relationship that he felt no desire to tell, nor she to hear, the
details of the political struggle now drawing to a close. She was too
purely his sweetheart to share his cares; her loving embrace sufficed
for their lightening. Even in the shadow of their retreat they could
see each other's faces distinctly, hers moonlike, with hair like an
halo of the moon, and his of more swarthy hue. If she was beautiful in
his eyes, he fulfilled no less her ideal of manhood; and certainly an
impartial witness could not have said that either judgment was
unfounded.
"Well," he began, after surveying her a few moments with appreciation,
"out with it. Some new man is chasing after you. Who is he?"
She leaned her face against his shoulder, then sat up and shook her
head prettily, pleased with the thought of his jealousy.
"I can't help it, Tom. That impudent little Hollister Pyle won't give
me a moment's peace."
"What does he do?" Emmet catechised grimly.
"He makes a grab for me every time I pass him on the stairs; that is,
when his mother is n't looking."
"Why don't you turn around and break his face?" he demanded angrily,
lapsing into graphic vernacular. The suggestion was obviously too
absurd to need reply. "I 'd like to get my hands on the young whelp,"
he went on, squaring his shoulders. "I would n't leave a whole bone in
his body."
"You can't do that, Tom, dear," she expostulated, in gentle alarm.
"No, I can't," he admitted reluctantly. "It would n't do to be pinched
for assault and battery only a fortnight before election. I won't
write him a threatening anonymous letter, either. That is n't my way
of doing business. I tell you, Lena, you 've got to get rid of him,
yourself."
"I will," she declared, with what was, for her, a tone of decision. "I
'm going to leave to-morrow."
"That is n't getting rid of him; that's running away," he fumed,
profoundly dissatisfied. "You 'll meet the same sort of thing in the
next place. Why don't you stay and fight it out?"
"I don't like the girls, either," she explained. "They 're all against
me."
"A lot of cats," he muttered. "But where are you going?"
"To Bishop Wycliffe's."
"No!" he cried.
"Why not?" she questioned. "It 's an easier place than this one.
There are no young men there, Tom. That ought to satisfy you. I saw
Miss Wycliffe to-day."
"I don't like the bishop," he said, with some hesitation, as if aware
of the lameness of the objection, "and he does n't like me. There 's
no man in this town more opposed to me than he is. I don't want you to
go there."
"You never let me do what I want to, Tom," she complained despairingly.
He caught her in his arms and gave her an exasperated kiss. The logic
of the argument was with her, and he could meet it only by an
unreasonable prohibition. "I don't want you to go, anyhow," he
reiterated.
"But I 've got to go somewhere," she insisted, placing her two hands
upon his shoulders. She attempted to give him a little shake, with the
result that she shook only herself. His physical immobility was so
suggestive of his mental attitude that she desisted, with sudden
meekness, and the point was apparently settled as he wished. He
possessed himself of her hand, and began to stroke the inside of her
arm, as if he had discovered a new charm in her.
"If you did n't give him what he deserved, what did you do, Lena?" he
demanded, going back to the incident that had aroused his jealousy.
"I drew away, Tom."
"As gentle as a kitten, and without a word, too, I 'll be bound. You
're altogether too pretty--that's the trouble with you. I ought to put
you in a cage, to keep you safe."
"Tom, dear," she said suddenly, "I hear the Pyles talking about
politics when I wait on the table. They say that you have n't the
ghost of a chance to be elected. Now that you 've thrown up your job,
what will you do if you are defeated?"
He emitted a short laugh, expressive of confidence and scorn. "You
were n't such a little fool as to suppose I intended to stand on the
back of a street-car all my life, were you? Five years of that sort of
thing is about enough for me, and I 've worked it for all it was
worth." A desire to impress her overcame his innate secretiveness.
"There 's more in that job than the measly salary the company pays; and
a man 's entitled to take something of what would be his by rights if
things were as they should be in this world. There 's a higher law
than the law made by the privileged few for their own enriching, and
sometimes a man has to take the matter into his own hands and decide
what's due him." This was rather an elaborate way of telling her that,
like most of his fellows, he was accustomed to "knock down" fares on
crowded trips, when it could be done undetected. Perhaps he took some
satisfaction in going over again the arguments by which he justified
the practice. Perhaps he was curious to see whether she would make a
condemnatory comment, but nothing was further from her thoughts, and he
went on. "I have n't spent a cent of my baseball salary for years.
Where do you suppose it is?"
"In the savings bank?" she suggested.
He chuckled at her simplicity. "Better than that--salted
down--invested. I could live on the interest of it, after a fashion,
if I wanted to." He was flattered by her wide-eyed admiration and
wonder, and moved to disclose himself to her still more. "Why, look
here, Lena, there 's more than politics in this game. They say I have
n't the ghost of a show. We 'll see about that; but whichever way it
turns out, I shan't be a beggar. Only, if I am elected, I 'll take
every cent I 've got and put it into the bonds the city is going to
issue to build the new bridge. There's nothing better in the country
than the bonds of this town. None of your Central America rubber bonds
or Colorado mining stock for me. I want something I know about and can
keep my eye on."
"Then you are n't poor!" she cried gladly. "You're rich!"
He squared his jaw determinedly, and his eyes glowed. "Not rich yet,
but I will be--I will be yet!"
She did not doubt that he could be anything he wished, but from this
very confidence in his power a great fear was born. She put her lips
close to his ear, and whispered tremulously: "Tom, dear, I know you
think I 'in pretty, and all that, but do you love me, Tom? When you
get to be mayor, or when you 're rich, will you love me just the same?
You won't be too proud to think of marrying me then? Tell me you
won't!"
She withdrew herself and placed her hands on his shoulders as before,
an attitude pathetically suggestive of her effort to fix his attention
upon her words. The poise of her little head was extremely winning in
her desire for his admiration. "Do you think I would make a pretty
wife, even for a mayor?" she faltered.
He caught her once more in his arms, as if the word wife had awakened
within him a curious intensity of feeling, but for once she was not
satisfied. Gradually her slender form became shaken by a storm of
convulsive sobs. He waited in silence, with all a primitive man's
uncomprehending distress at a woman's tears.
"Don't borrow trouble, Lena," he said simply. The tone, more than the
words, showed that his mood had become stern, almost resentful. In
fact, it was the first time she had given him anything but pleasure,
and pleasure was all he desired from her.
His answer was not what she had hoped for, but her woman's wisdom
forbade her to press the matter then. Of his love she felt no doubt;
the intensity of his look, the well-nigh fierce impulsiveness of his
caresses, showed her that the appeal she made to him was almost
irresistible. Almost, but not quite. She could never be in his
company long without a consciousness of the warring elements within
him--on this side love, on that side ambition, fighting foot to foot
and point to point, neither strong enough to win the victory.
Sometimes he would gaze at her in silence, with his warm, speculative
eyes, until, drawn like a fascinated bird, she fluttered to his arms in
the hope of the great decision, but her hope was never realised. Now
she divined that tears and prayers would not help her cause; he must be
allured by her charm, not driven by her claims upon his compassion.
At this thought she recovered her composure and dried her eyes, and
strove with success to make him forget her importunity. Disarmed and
soothed, he sunk down to a lower seat beside her and rested his head
boyishly upon her lap. He pushed back her short sleeve, nestled his
face in the bend of her arm, and kissed it hungrily. The action, their
relative positions, introduced a new element into their relationship,
to which her deep maternal instinct made quick response. With a new
tenderness she threw the fold of her cape about his head and shoulders,
and held him close. Thus they sat for some time in silence. Beyond
the warm shelter of her cape he heard the faint soughing of the wind,
which had brought the rain at last, a drowsy and monotonous rain that
lulled his senses. Instinctively he rested heavily upon her in weary
abandonment. Finally his form relaxed, and she saw that he was fast
asleep.
The strain of the position upon her back and arms grew greater each
moment, till it was almost more than she could endure; but still she
held out bravely, fearing to move lest she should wake him from the
sleep he seemed so much to need. She knew also that his waking would
mean separation, and she could not bear that thought as yet, before she
had discovered the secret of success. What could she do more than she
had done to make herself indispensable to him? That was the question
which she turned over in her mind with such intensity that she almost
lost her sense of growing distress. Indeed, the distress of body and
mind seemed strangely one, the physical tension but an expression of
the mental.
It was idle, she reflected, to think of studying politics to keep pace
with his widening interests. She had only a vague conception of the
extent to which his mind had been enlarged by contact with the world,
but she was shrewd enough to know that companionship in such interests
was not what he desired in her. In her he sought only rest and charm
and love. Nor was it dress in which she lacked, unless, indeed, he
desired her to deck herself like the rich women of the society he
scorned. Just as a nurse's habit possesses a fascination for some men,
so she had seen that her little cap, her very apron, though badges of
servitude, made a peculiar appeal to his tenderness. Other men, too,
had thought them becoming. It was a dress to reveal her beauty. Her
curves were the softer for its severity, her colour the more radiant
against that black and white. On the street also she knew he could
find no fault with her. Like many a pretty woman of her class, she
possessed a skill in dressing like a lady, and ability in making small
means cover great needs, that amounted to genius. No--there was only
one thing to do, and that was to love him more and more, until a
consciousness of her love so pervaded him, even when absent, that he
must finally come back to her to stay.
The cars had long since ceased to pass, and the silence of the dead of
night settled down over the city. She heard the coloured cook saying
good-bye to her lover at the gate where she herself had waited, their
low, melodious voices and happy gurgles of laughter as soft as the damp
wind that came puffing in through the open window. After what seemed
an interminable lapse of time, an automobile went past, like a
miniature whirlwind, dashing the raindrops right and left from its
gleaming sides, bearing some late revellers through the deserted
streets at a rate of speed forbidden by the traffic of the day. Even
that incident became a distant memory, and now only the occasional howl
of a prowling cat broke the stillness, a strangely ominous and mournful
sound. In the bar of light upon the floor at her feet the shadow of
the tossing branches of a tree moved continually, till she closed her
eyes in dizziness.
Hours passed, hours that seemed a lifetime. The pain extended through
her whole frame, and tears of mute suffering dropped slowly down upon
the flap of the cape that kept her lover warm. From time to time she
shifted her position gently and won a temporary relief, but presently
the sense of strain returned, and yet she would not waken him and let
him go. It was the first time she had ever seen him asleep,--one of
love's tenderest experiences,--and moreover he was sleeping with a
sense of absolute peace and security in her arms. She longed to slip
down beside him, to rest her cheek against his, and to go with him into
that shadowy world of dreams.
Suddenly out of the darkness a soft little form, wet with the rain,
leaped lightly upon her. The discarded kitten had found its mistress
at last. Gentle as the impact was, it sufficed to disturb her balance,
and she sank slowly downward in a faint. Her arm, locked about his
head, saved her from a fall, but the pressure of her body awoke him.
He struggled confusedly, oppressed by a sense of suffocation and by a
vague fear; then, scarcely awake, he caught her in his arms.
"Lena!" he cried, startled by the inexplicable change. "Lena!"
He touched her cheek, he listened in vain to hear her breathe, and then
an icy terror gripped his heart. Scarcely knowing what he did or why,
he raised her carefully in his arms and carried her to the window,
where the fine rain sifted in upon her face. He felt her shiver
slightly, and then her eyes were looking into his.
"Thank God!" he said brokenly. "I thought that you were dead."
She smiled, and moved her face toward him. He took her once more to
their former seat, and continued to hold her in his arms as if she were
a child.
"I feel better now," she murmured. "It was nothing, Tom. You fell
asleep, and I held your head until I toppled over--that was all. Were
you frightened?"
"I thought you were dead," he repeated, deeply awed by the grim spectre
so foreign to his experience.
"And did you care so very much?" she ventured, her heart beginning to
beat high again. For answer he gently raised her cheek to his and held
her close. There was no need of words to tell her how much he was
moved, for he had never held her thus before. Through her lover's
strange moods of fierce tenderness and stern denial she had won her way
at last, as she now believed, to a perfect understanding. He could not
live without her; it was merely a question of time.
His continued tenderness gave her reason to believe that this assurance
was justified. Only at the gate, when he bade her good-night, did he
seem to be seized once more in the grip of contending emotions. He
started to go without a word or kiss, then, turning back, he took her
in his arms with a grip that hurt, calling her his Lena, his little
girl, his wife. The last word broke from him with an intensity that
caused the blood to riot in her heart, a joy that was shot through with
wondering fear of the passion she had aroused.
When his figure had disappeared in the darkness, she left the gate and
entered the kitchen through the low window which the cook had left
unlocked against her coming. She lighted a candle, and looked at
herself curiously in a mirror that hung on the wall. The grain of the
cheap glass distorted her features, but reflected faithfully her
heightened colour and the drops that sparkled like jewels in her light
hair. Apparently she was satisfied with the inspection, for she smiled
happily, and then went slowly upstairs to her narrow room beneath the
roof.
Meanwhile, Emmet was striding along the gleaming street, regardless of
the increasing rain that soaked him to the skin. From time to time he
shot out his arm violently, as if he would push back some invisible
foe, or would extricate himself from the meshes of a net that was
closing in upon him. Again, he swore aloud, as one who curses a malign
and unmerited fate.