_In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
Pages of a Book._
_In the Tower Rooms, Midnight----_
It is best to write it. What I might have said to you in the garden
would have been halting at best. How could I speak it all with your
clear eyes upon me--all the sordid history of those years which are
best buried, but whose ghosts to-night have risen again?
If in these months--this year that I have lived in these rooms, I have
seemed to hide that which you will now know, it was not because I
wanted to set myself before you as something more than I am. Not that
I wished to deceive. It was simply that the thought of the old life
brought a surging sense of helplessness, of hopelessness, of rebellion
against fate, Having put it behind me, I have not wished to talk about
it--to think about it--to have it, in all its tarnished tragedy, held
up before your earnest, shining eyes.
For you have never known such things as I have to tell you, Mary
Ballard. There has been sorrow in your life, and, I have seen of late,
suffering for those you love. But, as yet, you have not doffed an
ideal. You have not bowed that brave young head of yours. You have
never yet turned your back upon the things which might have been.
As I have turned mine. I wish sometimes that you might have known me
before the happening of these things which I am to tell you. But I
wish more than all, that I might have known you. Until I came here, I
did not dream that there was such a woman in the world as you. I had
thought of women first, as a chivalrous boy thinks, later, as a
disillusioned man. But of a woman like a young and ardent soldier, on
fire to fight the winning battles of the world--of such a woman I had
never dreamed.
But this year has taught me. I have seen you pushing away from you the
things which would have charmed most women I have seen you pushing
away wealth, and love for the mere sake of loving. I have seen you
willing to work that you might hold undimmed the ideal which you had
set for your womanhood. Loving and love-worthy, you have not been
willing to receive unless you could give, give from the fulness of that
generous nature of yours. And out of that generosity, you have given
me your friendship.
And now; as I write the things which your clear eyes are to read, I am
wondering whether that friendship will be withdrawn. Will you when you
have heard of my losing battle, find anything in me that is
worthy--will there be anything saved out of the wreck of your thought
of me?
Well, here it is, and you shall judge:
I will skip the first years, except to say that my father was one of
the New York Pooles who moved South after the Civil War. My mother was
from Richmond. We were prosperous folk, with an unassailable social
position. My mother, gracious and charming, is little more than a
memory; she died when I was a child. My father married again, and died
when I was in college. There were three children by this second
marriage, and when the estate was settled, only a modest sum fell to my
share.
I had been a lonely little boy--at college I was a dreamy, idealistic
chap, with the saving grace of a love of athletics. Your
brother-in-law will tell you something of my successes on our school
team. That was my life--the day in the open, the nights among my books.
As time went on, I took prizes in oratory--there was a certain
commencement, when the school went wild about me, and I was carried on
the shoulders of my comrades.
There seemed open to me the Church and the law. Had I lived in a
different environment, there would have been also the stage. But I saw
only two outlets for my talents, the Church, toward which my tastes
inclined, and the law, which had been my father's profession.
At last I chose the Church. I liked the thought of my scholarly
future--of the power which my voice might have to sway audiences and to
move them.
I am putting it all down, all of my boyish optimism, conceit--whatever
you may choose to call it.
Yet I am convinced of this, and my success of a few years proved it,
that had nothing interfered with my future, I should have made an
impression on ever-widening circles.
But something came to interfere.
In my last years at the Seminary, I boarded at a house where I met
daily the daughter of the landlady. She was a little thing, with
yellow hair and a childish manner. As I look back, I can't say that I
was ever greatly attracted to her. But she was a part of my life for
so long that gradually there grew up between us a sort of good
fellowship. Not friendship in the sense that I have understood it with
you; there was about it nothing of spiritual or of mental congeniality.
But I played the big brother. I took her to little dances; and to
other college affairs. I gave both to herself and to her widowed
mother such little pleasures as it is possible for a man to give to two
rather lonely women. There were other students in the house, and I was
not conscious that I was doing anything more than the rest of them.
Then there came a day when the yellow-haired child---shall I call her
Kathy?--wanted to go to a pageant in a neighboring town. It was to
last two days, and there was to be a night parade, and floats and a
carnival. Many of the students were going, and it was planned that
Kathy and I should take a morning train on the first day, so that we
might miss nothing. Kathy's mother would come on an afternoon train,
and they would spend the night at a certain quiet hotel, while I was to
go with a lot of fellows to another.
Well, when that afternoon train arrived, the mother was not on it. Nor
did she come. Without one thought of unconventionality, I procured a
room for Kathy at the place where she and her mother would have
stopped. Then I left her and went to the other hotel to join my
classmates. But carnival-mad; they did not come in at all, and went
back on an express which passed through the town in the early morning.
When Kathy and I reached home at noon, we found her mother white and
hysterical. She would listen to no explanations. She told me that I
should have brought Kathy back the night before--that she had missed
her train and thus her appointment with us. And she told me that I was
in honor bound to marry Kathy.
As I write it, it seems such melodrama. But it was very serious then.
I have never dared analyze the mother's motives. But to my boyish eyes
her anxiety for her daughter's reputation was sincere, and I accepted
the responsibility she laid upon me.
Well, I married her. And she put her slender arms about my neck and
cried and thanked me.
She was very sweet and she was my--wife--and when I was given a parish
and had introduced her to my people, they loved her for the white
gentleness which seemed purity, and for acquiescent amiability which
seemed--goodness.
I have myself much to blame in this--that I did not love her. All
these years I have known it. But that I was utterly unawakened I did
not know. Only in the last few months have I learned it.
Perhaps she missed what I should have given her. God knows. And He
only knows whether, if I had adored her, worshiped her, things would
have been different.
I was very busy. She was not strong. She was left much to herself.
The people did not expect any great efforts on her part--it was enough
that she should look like a saint--that she should lend herself so
perfectly to the ecclesiastical atmosphere.
And now comes the strange, the almost unbelievable part. One morning
when we had been married two years, I left the house to go to the
office of one of my most intimate friends in the parish--a doctor who
lived near us, who was unmarried, and who had prescribed now and then
for my wife. As I went out, Kathy asked me to return to him a magazine
which she handed me. It was wrapped and tied with a string. I had to
wait in the doctor's office, and I unwrapped the magazine and untied
the string, and between the leaves I found a note to--my friend.
Why do people do things like that? She might have telephoned what she
had to say; she might have written it, and have sent it through the
mails. But she chose this way, and let me carry to another man the
message of her love for him.
For that was what the note told. There was no doubt, and I walked out
of the office and went home. In other times with other manners, I
might have killed him. If I had loved her, I might; I cannot tell.
But I went home.
She seemed glad that I knew. And she begged that I would divorce her
and let her marry him.
Dear Clear Eyes, who read this, what do you think of me? Of this story?
And what did I think? I who had dreamed, and studied and preached, and
had never--lived? I who had hated the sordid? I who had thought
myself so high?
As I married her, so I gave her a divorce. And as I would not have her
name and mine smirched, I separated myself from her, and she won her
plea on the ground of desertion.
Do you know what that meant in my life? It meant that I must give up
my church. It meant that I must be willing to bear the things which
might be said of me. Even if the truth had been known, there would
have been little difference, except in the sympathy which would have
been vouchsafed me as the injured party. And I wanted no man's pity.
And so I went forth, deprived of the right to lift up my voice and
preach--deprived of the right to speak to the thousands who had packed
my church. And now--what meaning for me had the candles on the altar,
what meaning the voices in the choir? I had sung too, in the light of
the holy candles, but it was ordained that my voice must be forever
still.
I fought my battle out one night in the darkness of my church. I
prayed for light and I saw none. Oh, Clear Eyes, why is light given to
a man whose way is hid? I went forth from that church convinced that
it was all a sham. That the lights meant nothing; that the music meant
less, and that what I had preached had been a poetic fallacy.
Some of the people of my church still believe in me. Others, if you
should meet them, would say that she was a saint, and that I was the
sinner. Well, if my sin was weakness, I confess it. I should,
perhaps, never have married her; but having married her, could I have
held her mine against her will?
She married him. And a year after, she died. She was a frail little
thing, and I have nothing harsh to say of her. In a sense she was a
victim, first of her mother's ambition, next of my lack of love, and
last of all, of his pursuit.
Perhaps I should not have told you this. Except my Bishop, who asked
for the truth, and to whom I gave it, and whose gentleness and kindness
are never-to-be-forgotten things--except for him, you are the only one
I have ever told; the only one I shall ever tell.
But I shall tell you this, and glory in the telling. That if I had a
life to offer of honor and of achievement, I should offer it now to
you. That if I had met you as a dreaming boy, I would have tried to
match my dreams to yours.
You may say that with the death of my wife things have changed. That I
might yet find a place to preach, to teach--to speak to audiences and
to sway them.
But any reentrance into the world means the bringing up of the old
story--the question--the whispered comment. I do not think that I am a
coward. For the sake of a cause, I could face death with courage. But
I cannot face questioning eyes and whispering lips.
So I am dedicated for all my future to mediocrity. And what has
mediocrity to do with you, who have "never turned your back, but
marched face forward"?
And so I am going away. Not so quickly that there will be comment.
But quickly enough to relieve you of future embarrassment in my behalf.
I do not know that you will answer this. But I know that whatever your
verdict, whether I am still to have the grace of your friendship or to
lose it forever, I am glad to have lived this one year in the Tower
Rooms. I am glad to have known the one woman who has given me back--my
boyish dreams of all women.
And now a last line. If ever in all the years to come you should have
need of me, I am at your service. I shall count nothing too hard that
you may ask. I am whimsically aware that in the midst of all this
darkness and tragedy my offer is that of the Mouse to the Lion. But
there came a day when the Mouse paid its debt. Ask me to pay mine, and
I will come--from the ends of the earth.
This was the letter which Mary found the next morning on her desk in
the little office room into which Roger had been shown on the night of
the wedding. She recognized his firm script and found herself
trembling as she touched the square white envelope.
But she laid the letter aside until she had given Susan her orders,
until she had given other orders over the telephone, until she had
interviewed the furnace man and the butcher's boy, and had written and
mailed certain checks.
Then she took the letter with her to her own room, locked the door and
read it.
Constance, knocking a little later, was let in, and found her sister
dressed and ready for the street.
"I've a dozen engagements," Mary said. She was drawing on her gloves
and smiling. She was, perhaps, a little pale, but that the Mary of
to-day was different from the Mary if yesterday was not visible from
outward signs.
"I am going first to the dressmaker, to see about having that lovely
frock you bought me fitted for Delilah's tea dance; then I'll meet you
at Mrs. Carey's luncheon. And after that will be our drive with
Porter, and the private view at the Corcoran, then two teas, and later
the dinner at Mrs. Bigelow's. I'm afraid it will be pretty strenuous
for you, Constance."
"I sha'n't try to take in the teas. I'll come home and lie down before
I have to dress for dinner."
As she followed out her programme for the day, Mary was conscious that
she was doing it well. She made conscientious plans with her
dressmaker, she gave herself gayly to the light chatter of the
luncheon; during the drive she matched Porter's exuberant mood with her
own, she viewed the pictures and made intelligent comments.
After the view, Constance went home in Porter's car, and Mary was left
at a house on Dupont Circle. Porter's eyes had begged that she would
let him come with her, but she had refused to meet his eyes, and had
sent him off.
As she passed through the glimmer of the golden rooms, she bowed and
smiled to the people that she knew, she joked with Jerry Tuckerman, who
insisted on looking after her and getting her an ice. And then, as
soon as she decently could, she got away, and came out into the open
air, drawing a long breath, as one who has been caged and who makes a
break for freedom.
She did not go to the other tea. All day she had lived in a dream,
doing that which was required of her and doing it well. But from now
until the time that she must go home and dress for dinner, she would
give herself up to thoughts of Roger Poole.
She turned down Connecticut Avenue, and walking lightly and quickly
came at last to the old church, where all her life she had worshiped.
At this hour there was no service, and she knelt for a moment, then sat
back in her pew, glad of the sense of absolute immunity from
interruption.
And as she sat there in the stillness, one sentence from his letter
stood out.
"And now what meaning for me had the candles on the altar, what meaning
the voices in the choir? I had sung, too, in the light of the candles,
but it was ordained that my voice must be forever still."
This to Mary was the great tragedy--his loss of courage, his loss of
faith--his acceptance of a passive future. Resolutely she had
conquered all the shivering agony which had swept over her as she had
read of that sordid marriage and its sequence. Resolutely she had
risen above the faintness which threatened to submerge her as the whole
of that unexpected history was presented to her; resolutely she had
fought against a pity which threatened to overwhelm her.
Resolutely she had made herself face with clear eyes the conclusion;
life had been too much for him and he had surrendered to fate.
To say that his letter in its personal relation to herself had not
thrilled her would be to underestimate the warmth of her friendship for
him; if there was more than friendship, she would not admit it. There
had been a moment when, shaken and stirred by his throbbing words, she
had laid down his letter and had asked herself, palpitating, "has love
come to me--at last?" But she had not answered it. She knew that she
would never answer it until Roger Poole found a meaning in life which
was, as yet, hidden from him.
But how could she best help him to find that meaning? Dimly she felt
that it was to be through her that he would find it. And he was going
away. And before he went, she must light for him some little beacon of
hope.
It was dark in the church now except for the candle on the altar.
She knelt once more and hid her face in her hands. She had the simple
faith of a child, and as a child she had knelt in this same pew and had
asked confidently for the things she desired, and she had believed that
her prayers would be answered.
It was late when she left the church. And she was late in getting
home. All the lower part of the house was lighted, but there was no
light in the Tower Rooms. Roger, who dined down-town, would not come
until they were on their way to Mrs. Bigelow's.
As she passed through the garden, she saw that on a bush near the
fountain bloomed a late rose. She stooped and picked it, and flitting
in the dusk down the path, she entered the door which led to the Tower
stairway.
And when, an hour later, Roger Poole came into the quiet house, weary
and worn from the strain of a day in which he had tried to read his
letter with Mary's eyes, he found his room dark, except for the flicker
of the fire.
Feeling his way through the dimness, he pulled at last the little chain
of the electric lamp on his table. The light at once drew a circle of
gold on the dark dull oak. And within that circle he saw the answer to
his letter.
Wide open and illumined, lay John Ballard's old Bible. And across the
pages, fresh and fragrant as the friendship which she had given him,
was the late rose which Mary had picked in the garden.