Nora frequently wondered in after years how that Sunday afternoon had
worked itself away; how, through the tumult of amazement and grief,
decision, illumination, action, had finally come. She had
disembarrassed herself of a vague attempt of Mrs. Keith’s towards
some compensatory caress, and making her way half blindly to her own
room, had sat down face to face with her trouble. Here, if ever, was
thunder from a clear sky. Her friend’s disclosure took time to swell
to its full magnitude; for an hour she sat, half stunned, seeming to
see it climb heaven-high and glare upon her like some monstrous
blighting sun. Then at last she broke into a cry and wept. Her
immense pain gushed and filtered through her heart, and passed out in
shuddering sobs. The whole face of things was hideously altered; a
sudden horror had sprung up in her innocent past, and it seemed to
fling forward a shadow which made the future a blank darkness. She
felt cruelly deluded and injured; the sense of suffered wrong
absorbed for the time the thought of wrong inflicted. She was too
weak for indignation, but she overflowed with delicate resentment.
That Roger, whom all these years she had fancied as simple as
charity, should have been as double as interest, should have played a
part and laid a train, that she had been living in darkness, on
illusion and lies, all this was an intolerable thing. And the worst
was that she had been cheated of the chance to be really loyal. Why
had he never told her that she wore a chain? Why, when he took her,
had he not drawn up his terms and made his bargain? She would have
kept the bargain to the letter; she would have taught herself to be
his wife. Duty then would have been duty; sentiment would have been
sentiment; her youth would not have been so wretchedly misspent. She
would have given up her heart betimes; doubtless it would have
learned to beat to a decent and satisfied measure; but now it had
throbbed to a finer music, a melody that would ring in her ears
forever. Thinking of what her conscience might have done, however,
brought her to thinking of what it might still do. While she turned
in her pain, angrily questioning it, Mrs. Keith knocked at the door.
Nora repaired to the dressing-glass, to efface the traces of her
tears; and while she stood there, she saw in her open dressing-case
her last letter from her cousin. It gave her the help she was
vaguely groping for. By the time she had crossed the room and opened
the door she had welcomed and blessed this help; and while she
gravely shook her head in response to Mrs. Keith’s softly urgent,
“Nora, dear, won’t you let me come to you?” she had passionately made
it her own. “I would rather be alone,” she said: “I thank you very
much.”
It was past six o’clock; Mrs. Keith was dressed for the evening. It
was her gracious practice on Sundays to dine with her mother-in-law.
Nora knew, therefore, that if her companion accepted this present
dismissal, she would be alone for several hours.
“Can’t I do something for you?” Mrs. Keith inquired, soothingly.
“Nothing at all, thank you. You are very kind.”
Mrs. Keith looked at her, wondering whether this was the irony of
bitter grief; but a certain cold calmness in the young girl’s face,
overlying her agitation, seemed to intimate that she had taken a wise
resolve. And, in fact, Nora was now soaring sublime on the wings of
purpose, and viewed Mrs. Keith’s offence as a diminished fact. Mrs.
Keith took her hands. “Write him a line, my dear,” she gently urged.
Nora nodded. “Yes, I will write him a line.”
“And when I come back, it will be all over?”
“Yes,—all over.”
“God bless you, my dear.” And on this theological amenity the two
women kissed and separated. Nora returned to her dressing-case and
read over her cousin’s letter. Its clear friendliness seemed to ring
out audibly amid this appalling hush of familiar harmony. “I wish
you might know a day’s friendlessness or a day’s freedom,—a poor devil
who is your natural protector.” Here was indeed the voice of nature,
of predestined tenderness; if her cousin had been there Nora would
have flung herself into his arms. She sat down at her writing-table,
with her brow in her hands, light-headed with her passionate purpose,
steadying herself to think. A day’s freedom had come at last; a
lifetime’s freedom confronted her. For, as you will have guessed,
immediate retrocession and departure had imperiously prescribed
themselves. Until this had taken place, there could be nothing but
deeper trouble. On the old terms there could be no clearing up; she
could speak to Roger again only in perfect independence. She must
throw off those suffocating bounties which had been meant to bribe
her to the service in which she had so miserably failed. Her failure
now she felt no impulse to question, her decision no energy to
revise. I shall have told my story ill if these things seem to lack
logic. The fault lay deeper and dated from longer ago than her
morning’s words of denial. Roger and she shared it between them; it
was a heavy burden for both.
She wrote her “line,” as she had promised Mrs. Keith, rapidly,
without erasure; then wrote another to Mrs. Keith, folded and
directed them and laid them on her dressing-table. She remembered
now, distinctly, that she had heard of a Sunday-evening train to New
York. She hastened down stairs, found in a newspaper the railway
advertisement, and learned that the train started at eight; satisfied
herself, too, that the coast was clear of servants, and that she
might depart unquestioned. She bade a gleeful farewell to her
borrowed possessions,—unearned wages, ineffective lures. She
exchanged the dress she had worn to church for an old black silk one,
put a few articles of the first necessity into a small
travelling-bag, and emptied her purse of all save a few dollars.
Then bonneted, shawled, veiled, with her bag in her hand, she went
forth into the street. She would begin as she would have to proceed;
she started for the station, savingly, on foot. Happily it was not
far off; she reached it through the wintry darkness, out of breath,
but in safety. She seemed to feel about her, as she went, the old
Bohemianism of her childhood; she was once more her father’s
daughter. She bought her ticket and found a seat in the train
without adventure; with a sort of shame, in fact, that this great
deed of hers should be so easy to do. But as the train rattled
hideously through the long wakeful hours of the night, difficulties
came thickly; in the mere oppression of her conscious purpose, in the
keener vision at moments of Roger’s distress, in a vague dread of the
great unknown into which she was rushing. But she could do no
other,—no other; with this refrain she lulled her doubts. It was
strange how, as the night elapsed and her heart-beats seemed to keep
time to the crashing swing of the train, her pity for Roger
increased. It would have been an immense relief to be able to hate
him. Her undiminished affection, forced back upon her heart, swelled
and rankled there tormentingly. But if she was unable to hate Roger,
she could at least abuse herself. Every circumstance of the last six
years, in this new light, seemed to have taken on a vivid meaning,—a
meaning that made a sort of crime of her own want of foreknowledge.
She kept thinking of expiation, and determined she would write to
Miss Murray, her former schoolmistress, and beg that she might come
and teach little girls their scales. She kept her cousin’s letter
clinched in her hand; but even when she was not thinking of Roger she
was not always thinking of Fenton. She could tell Hubert Lawrence
now that she was as poor and friendless as he had ever wished he
could see her.
Toward morning she fell asleep for weariness. She was roused by a
great tumult and the stopping of the train, which had arrived. She
found with dismay that, as it was but seven o’clock, she had two or
three hours on her hands. George would hardly be at his place of
business before ten, and the interval seemed formidable. The dusk of
a winter’s morning lingered still, and increased her trouble. But
she followed her companions and stood in the street. Half a dozen
hackmen attacked her; a facetious gentleman, lighting a cigar, asked
her if she wouldn’t take a carriage with him.
She made her escape from the bustle and hurried along the street,
praying to be unnoticed. She told herself sternly that now her
difficulties had begun and must be bravely faced; but as she stood at
the street-corner, beneath an unextinguished lamp, listening to the
nascent hum of the town, she felt a most unreasoned sinking of the
heart. A Dutch grocer, behind her, was beginning to open his shop;
an ash-barrel stood beside her, and while she lingered an old woman
with a filthy bag on her back came and poked in it with a stick; a
policeman, muffled in a comforter, came lounging squarely along the
pavement and took her slender measure with his hard official eye.
What a hideous, sordid world! She was afraid to do anything but walk
and walk. Fortunately, in New York, in the upper region, it is
impossible to lose one’s way; and she knew that by keeping downward
and to the right she should reach her appointed refuge. The streets
looked shabby and of ill-repute; the houses seemed mean and sinister.
When, to fill her time, she stopped before the window of some small
shop, the objects within seemed, in their ugliness, to mock at her
unnatural refinement. She must give that up. At last she began to
feel faint and hungry, for she had fasted since the previous morning.
She ventured into an establishment which had _Ladies’ Café_ inscribed
in gilt letters on a blue tablet in the window, and justified its
title by an exhibition of stale pies and fly-blown festoons of
tissue-paper. On her request, humbly preferred, for a cup of tea,
she was served staringly and condescendingly by a half-dressed young
woman, with frowzy hair and tumid eyes. The tea was bad, yet Nora
swallowed it, not to complicate the situation. The young woman had
come and sat down at her table, handled her travelling-bag, and asked
a number of plain questions; among others, if she wouldn’t like to go
up and lie down. “I guess it’s a dollar,” said this person, to
conclude her achievements, alluding to the cup of tea. Nora came
afterwards to a square, in which was an enclosure containing trees, a
frozen fountain, thawing fast, and benches. She went in and sat down
on one of the benches. Several of the others were occupied by shabby
men, sullen with fasting, with their hands thrust deep into their
pockets, swinging their feet for warmth. She felt a faint fellowship
in their grim idleness; but the fact that they were all men and she
the only woman, seemed to open out deeper depths in her loneliness.
At last, when it was nine o’clock, she made her way to Tenth Avenue
and to George’s address. It was a neighborhood of storehouses and
lumber-yards, of wholesale traffic in articles she had never heard
of, and of multitudinous carts, drawn up along the pavement. She
found a large cheap-looking sign in black and white,—_Franks and
Fenton_. Beneath it was an alley, and at the end of this alley a
small office which seemed to communicate with an extension of the
precinct in the rear. The office was open; a small ragged boy was
sweeping it with a broom. From him she learned that neither Franks
nor Fenton had arrived, but that if she wanted, she might come in and
wait. She sat down in a corner, tremulous with conjecture, and
scanned the room, trying to bridge over this dull interval with some
palpable memento of her cousin. But the desk, the stove, the iron
safe, the chairs, the sordid ink-spotted walls, were as blank and
impersonal as so many columns of figures. When at last the door
opened and a man appeared, it was not Fenton, but, presumably,
Franks. Mr. Franks was a small meagre man, with a whitish coloring,
weak blue eyes and thin yellow whiskers, suffering apparently from
some nervous malady. He nodded, he stumbled, he jerked his arms and
legs about with pitiful comicality. He had a huge protuberant
forehead, such a forehead as would have done honor to a Goethe or a
Newton; but poor Mr. Franks must have been at best a man of latent
genius. Superficially he was a very witless person. He informed
Nora, on learning her errand, that his partner (“pardner,” he called
it) was gone to Williamsburg on business, and would not return till
noon; meanwhile, was it anything _he_ could do? Nora’s heart sank at
this vision of comfort still deferred; but she thanked Mr. Franks,
and begged leave to sit in her corner and wait. Her presence seemed
to redouble his agitation; she remained for an hour gazing in painful
fascination at his unnatural shrugs and spasms, as he busied himself
at his desk. The Muse of accounts, for poor Mr. Franks, was, in
fact, not habitually a young woman, thrice beautiful with trouble,
sitting so sensibly at his elbow. Nora wondered how George had come
to choose so foolish an associate; then she guessed that it was his
want of capital that had discovered a secret affinity with Mr.
Franks’s want of brains. The merciless intensity of thought begotten
by her excitement suggested that there was something dishonorable in
this connection. From time to time Mr. Franks wheeled about in his
chair and fixed her solemnly with his pallid glance, as if to offer
her the privilege of telling him her story; and on her failure to
avail herself of it, turned back to his ledger with a little grunt of
injury and a renewal of his grotesque agitation. As the morning wore
away, various gentlemen of the kind designated as “parties” came in
and demanded Fenton, in a tone that made the smallest possible
account of Mr. Franks. Several of them sat awhile on tilted chairs,
chewing their toothpicks, stroking their beards, and listening with a
half-bored grin to what appeared to be an intensely confidential
exposition of Mr. Franks’s wrongs. One of them, as he departed,
gave Nora a wink, as if to imply that the state of affairs between
the two members of the firm was so broad a joke that even a pretty
young woman might enjoy it. At last, when they had been alone again
for half an hour, Mr. Franks closed with a slap the great leathern
flanks of his account-book, and sat a moment burying his head in his
arms. Then he suddenly rose and stood before the young girl. “Mr.
Fenton’s your cousin, Miss, you say, eh? Well, then, let me tell you
that your cousin’s a swindler! I can prove it to you on those books!
Nice books they are! Where is my money, thirty thousand dollars that
I put into this d——d humbug of a business? What is there to show
for it? I have been made a fool of,—as if I wasn’t fool enough
already.” The tears stood in his eyes, he stamped with the
bitterness of his spite; and then, thrusting his hat on his head and
giving Nora’s amazement no time to reply, he darted out of the door
and went up the alley. Nora saw him from the window, looking up and
down the street. Suddenly, while he stood and while she looked,
George came up. Mr. Franks’s fury seemed suddenly to evaporate; he
received his companion’s hand-shake and nodded toward the office, as
if to tell of Nora’s being there; while, to her surprise, George
hereupon, without looking toward the window, turned back into the
street. In a few minutes, however, he reappeared alone, and in
another moment he stood before her. “Well!” he cried: “here you are,
then!”
“George,” she said, “I have taken you at your word.”
“My word? O yes!” cried George, bravely.
She saw that he was changed, and not for the better. He looked
older, he was better dressed and more prosperous; but as Nora looked
at him, she felt that she had asked too much of her imagination. He
eyed her from head to foot, and in a moment he had noted her simple
dress and her pale face. “What on earth has happened?” he asked,
closing the door with a kick.
Nora hesitated, feeling that, with words, tears might come.
“You are sick,” he said, “or you are going to be sick.”
This horrible idea helped her to recall her self-control. “I have
left Mr. Lawrence,” she said.
“So I see!” said George, wavering between relish and disapproval.
When, a few moments before, his partner had told him that a young
lady was in the office, calling herself his cousin, he had
straightway placed himself on his guard. The case was delicate; so
that, instead of immediately advancing, he had retreated behind a
green baize door twenty yards off, had “taken something,” and briskly
meditated. She had taken him at his word; he knew that before she
told him. But confound his word if it came to this! It had been
meant, not as an invitation to put herself under his care, but as a
kind of speculative “feeler.” Fenton, however, had a native sympathy
with positive measures; and he felt, moreover, the instinct to angle
in Nora’s troubled waters. “What’s the matter now?” he asked. “Have
you quarrelled?”
“Don’t call it a quarrel, George! He is as kind, he is kinder than
ever,” Nora cried. “But what do you think? He has asked me to marry
him.”
“Eh, my dear, I told you he would.”
“I didn’t believe you. I ought to have believed you. But it is not
only that. It is that, years ago, he adopted me with that view. He
brought me up for that purpose. He has done everything for me on
that condition. I was to pay my debt and be his wife. I never
dreamed of it. And now at last that I have grown up and he makes his
claim, I can’t, I can’t!”
“You can’t, eh? So you have left him!”
“Of course I have left him. It was the only thing to do. It was
give and take. I cannot give what he wants, and I cannot give back
what I have received. But I can refuse to take more.”
Fenton sat on the edge of his desk, swinging his leg. He folded his
arms and whistled a lively air, looking at Nora with a brightened
eye. “I see, I see,” he said.
Telling her tale had deepened her color and added to her beauty. “So
here I am,” she went on. “I know that I am dreadfully alone, that I
am homeless and helpless. But it’s a heaven to living as I have
lived. I have been content all these days, because I thought I could
content him. But we never understood each other. He has given me
immeasurable happiness; I know that; and he knows that I know it;
don’t you think he knows, George?” she cried, eager even in her
reserve. “I would have made him a sister, a friend. But I don’t
expect you to understand all this. It’s enough that I am satisfied.
I am satisfied,” the poor girl repeated vehemently. “I have no
illusions about it now; you can trust me, George. I mean to earn my
own living. I can teach; I am a good musician; I want above all
things to work. I shall look for some employment without delay. All
this time I might have been writing to Miss Murray. But I was sick
with impatience to see you. To come to you was the only thing I
could do; but I shall not trouble you for long.”
Fenton seemed to have but half caught the meaning of this impassioned
statement, for simple admiration of her exquisite purity of purpose
was fast getting the better of his caution. He gave his knee a loud
slap. “Nora,” he said, “you’re a wonderful young lady!”
For a moment she was silent and thoughtful. “For mercy’s sake,” she
cried at last, “say nothing to make me feel that I have done this
thing too easily, too proudly and recklessly! Really, I am anything
but brave. I am full of doubts and fears.”
“You’re uncommonly handsome; that’s one sure thing!” said Fenton. “I
would rather marry you than lose you. Poor Mr. Lawrence!” Nora
turned away in silence and walked to the window, which grew to her
eyes, for the moment, as the “glimmering square” of the poet. “I
thought you loved him so!” he added, abruptly. Nora turned back with
an effort and a blush. “If he were to come to you now,” he went on,
“and go down on his knees and beg and plead and rave and all that
sort of thing, would you still refuse him?”
She covered her face with her hands. “O George, George!” she cried.
“He will follow you, of course. He will not let you go so easily.”
“Possibly; but I have begged him solemnly to let me take my way.
Roger is not one to rave and rage. At all events, I shall refuse to
see him now. A year hence I will think of it. His great desire will
be, of course, that I don’t suffer. I shall not suffer.”
“By Jove, not if I can help it!” cried Fenton, with warmth. Nora
answered with a faint, grave smile, and stood looking at him in
appealing silence. He colored beneath her glance with the pressure
of his thoughts. They resolved themselves chiefly into the recurring
question, “What can be made of it?” While he was awaiting
inspiration, he took refuge in a somewhat inexpensive piece of
gallantry. “By the way, you must be hungry.”
“No, I am not hungry,” said Nora, “but I am tired. You must find me
a lodging,—in some quiet hotel.”
“O, you shall be quiet enough,” he answered; but he insisted that
unless, meanwhile, she took some dinner, he should have her ill on
his hands. They quitted the office, and he hailed a hack, which
drove them over to the upper Broadway region, where they were soon
established in a well-appointed restaurant. They made, however, no
very hearty meal. Nora’s hunger of the morning had passed away in
fever, and Fenton himself was, as he would have expressed it, off his
feed. Nora’s head had begun to ache; she had removed her bonnet, and
sat facing him at their small table, leaning wearily against the
wall, her plate neglected, her arms folded, her bright expanded eyes
consulting the uncertain future. He noted narrowly how much prettier
she was; but more even than by her prettiness he was struck by her
high spirit. This belonged to an order of things in which he felt no
commission to dabble; but in a creature of another sort he was free
to admire such a luxury of conscience. In man or woman the capacity
then and there to act was the thing he most relished. Nora had not
faltered and wavered; she had chosen, and here she sat. It was an
irritation to him to feel that he was not the manner of man for whom
such a girl would burn her ships; for, as he looked askance at her
beautiful absent eyes, he more than suspected that there was a
positive as well as a negative side to her refusal of her friend.
Poor Roger had a happier counterpart. It was love, and not
indifference, that had pulled the wires of her adventure. Fenton, as
we have intimated, was one who, when it suited him, could ride
rough-shod to his mark. “You have told me half your story,” he said,
“but your eyes tell the rest. You’ll not be Roger’s wife, but you’ll
not die an old maid.”
Nora blushed, but she answered simply, “Please don’t say that.”
“My dear girl,” he said, “I religiously respect your secrets.” But,
in truth, he only half respected them. Stirred as he was by her
beauty and by that sense of feminine appealingness which may be an
inspiring motive even to a very shabby fellow, he was keenly
mortified by feeling that her tenderness passed him by, barely
touching him with the hem of its garment. She was doing mighty fine
things, but she was using him, her hard, vulgar cousin, as a
senseless stepping-stone. These reflections quickened his
appreciation of her charm, but took the edge from his delicacy. As
they rose to go, Nora, who in spite of her absent eyes had watched
him well, felt that cousinship had melted to a mere name. George had
been to her maturer vision a painful disappointment. His face, from
the moment of their meeting, had given her warning to withdraw her
trust. Was it she or he who had changed since that fervid youthful
parting of sixteen months before? She, in the interval, had been
refined by life; he had been vulgarized. She had seen the world; she
had known better things and better men; she had known Hubert, and,
more than ever, she had known Roger. But as she drew on her gloves
she reflected with horror that distress was making her fastidious.
She wished to be coarse and careless; she wished that she might have
eaten a heavy dinner, that she might enjoy taking George’s arm. And
the slower flowed the current of her confidence, the softer dropped
her words. “Now, dear George,” she said, with a desperate attempt at
a cheerful smile, “let me know where you mean to take me.”
“Upon my soul, Nora,” he said, with a hard grin, “I feel as if I had
a jewel I must lay in soft cotton. The thing is to find it soft
enough.” George himself, perhaps, she might endure; but she had a
growing horror of his friends. Among them, probably, were the female
correlatives of the “parties” who had come to chat with Mr. Franks.
She prayed he might not treat her to company. “You see I want to do
the pretty thing,” he went on. “I want to treat you, by Jove, as I
would treat a queen! I can’t thrust you all alone into an hotel, and
I can’t put up at one with you,—can I?”
“I am not in a position to be fastidious,” said Nora. “I shall not
object to going alone.”
“No, no!” he cried, with a flourish of his hand. “I will do for you
what I would do for my own sister. I am not a fine gentleman, but I
know what’s proper. I live in the house of a lady who lets out
rooms,—a very nice little woman; she and I are great cronies; I’m
sure you’ll like her. She will give you the comforts of a home, and
all that sort of thing.”
Nora’s heart sank, but she assented. They re-entered their carriage,
and a drive of moderate length brought them to a brownstone dwelling
of the third order of gentility, as one may say, stationed in a cheap
and serried row. In a few moments, in a small tawdry front parlor,
Nora was introduced to George’s hostess, the nice little woman, Mrs.
Paul by name. Nice enough she seemed, for Nora’s comfort. She was
young and fair, plump and comely; she wore a great many ringlets.
She was a trifle too loving on short acquaintance, perhaps; but,
after all, thought Nora, who was she now, to complain of that? When
the two women had gone up stairs, Fenton put on his hat,—he could
never meditate without it (he had written that last letter to Nora
with his beaver resting on the bridge of his nose),—and paced slowly
up and down the narrow entry, chewing the end of a cigar, with his
hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. In ten minutes Mrs.
Paul reappeared. “Well, sir,” she cried, “what does all this mean?”
“It means money, if you’ll not scream so loud,” he answered. “Come
in here.” They went into the parlor and remained there for a couple
of hours with closed doors. At last Fenton came forth and left the
house. He walked along the street, humming gently to himself. Dusk
had fallen; he stopped beneath a lighted lamp at the corner, looked
up and down a moment, and then exhaled a deep, an almost melancholy
sigh. Having thus relieved his conscience, he proceeded to business.
He consulted his watch; it was five o’clock. An empty hack rolled
by; he called it and got in, breathing the motto of great spirits,
“Confound the expense!” His business led him to visit successively
several of the best hotels. Roger, he argued, starting immediately
in pursuit of Nora, would have taken the first train from Boston, and
would now have been more than an hour in town. Fenton could, of
course, proceed only by probabilities; but according to these, Roger
was to be found at one of the establishments I have mentioned.
Fenton knew his New York, and, from what he knew of Roger, he
believed him to be at the “quietest” of these. Here, in fact, he
found his name freshly registered. He would give him time, however;
he would take time himself. He stretched his long legs awhile on one
of the divans in the hall. At last Roger appeared, strolling
gloomily down the corridor, with his eyes on the ground. For a
moment Fenton scarcely recognized him. He was pale and grave;
distress had already made him haggard. Fenton observed that, as he
passed, people stared at him. He walked slowly to the street door;
whereupon Fenton, fearing he might lose him, followed him, and stood
for a moment behind him. Roger turned suddenly, as if from an
instinct of the other’s nearness, and the two faced each other.
Those dumb eyes of Roger’s for once were eloquent. They glowed like
living coals.