THE OMNIPRESENT EYES OF FIFTH AVENUE
The source of gossip in a village is the corner grocery store; in a
small city, what goes on about the public square; in the medium-sized
city, what transpires in the leading cafe; in New York, Fifth Avenue and
Central Park are the all-abounding sources of gossip. The Avenue has a
thousand curious eyes; those on the sidewalk peering into automobiles
and carriages for sensations; those being whirled along in vehicles,
straining their power in the quest of salacious information among the
throng beyond the curbstone. All New York passes along Fifth Avenue at
some time or another. All of one's friends are always passing along that
way when one does not particularly wish to be seen by them. If one is
walking, the friends are invariably driving; if one is driving, of
course the ubiquitous acquaintances are out for a stroll. Sometimes
people have been known to escape two-thirds of the omnipresent eyes that
line the sidewalks, pack the Avenue and infest the highways of Central
Park, but no person has ever been heard of who escaped all of them.
So the lot of our strollers was but the common lot of all, visitors as
well as resident New Yorkers.
While mutually absorbed, the one in reciting the tale, the other in
listening to it; while diverted and interested by the thousand sparks
that radiate from the batteries of youthful energy and enthusiasm and
tingle the sensibilities of a congenial comrade; while speculating on
the unknown vista from peep-holes that show only fragments, but
realizing all the vastness and richness of the world force and universal
sympathy possessed by each of them--it is not strange that in four
blocks on the Avenue they were passed by two ladies in an automobile,
who took more than an ordinary interest in their movements, and by a
dark-eyed, dark-haired man in another car, whose eyes gleamed and whose
cheeks blanched at the sight of their absorption in each other.
But the things garnered on the Avenue are never placed in cold storage,
and soon enough both of them were to hear about this stroll.
When Dr. Earl called that evening to take Mrs. and Miss Kimball to the
theatre he discovered that his reception in the morning had been
tropical compared to this one. He was compelled to wait fully fifteen
minutes before Miss Kimball appeared in house gown and slippers,
indicating her purpose to remain at home, and the bearer of a message
that her mother begged to be excused, as she had retired with a sick
headache.
In vain he sought for a reason for his frigid reception, and feeling
that his presence was an affliction he arose to go.
"I hope you had a pleasant stroll this afternoon," came in icicle tones.
This shed all the light necessary upon the character of his greeting.
The eyes of Fifth Avenue had not grown dim.
"Yes," he replied, looking at her steadily, "it was a most delightful
stroll."
She could stand the strain no longer; she came close to him and he
stooped and tenderly kissed her.
"Oh, Jack, why do you persist in having anything to do with her when
you know how unhappy it makes me!" she said in her gentlest tone.
They sat down and he related the entire story of the occurrences of the
afternoon to her. It pacified her to a degree.
"But Jack, dear, you will promise me never to see her again, will you
not?" and her tone was pleading now.
"I promised to go with my brother to a suffrage meeting she is holding
Thursday night. Of course _you_ would not wish to go, and I am certain
you do not want me to break my promise."
"I am certain," she said, emphasizing each word, "that I do not want you
to see her again."
"Let me understand you, Leonora, dear. There are many prominent New York
women in this suffrage movement. Some of my very best old-time friends,
I am informed, are participating in it. Is it your desire that I shall
cut their acquaintance also, or is it just Miss Holland you want me
never to see again?"
"Now, don't think I am jealous of her, for I am not. She is the most
conspicuous one in this suffrage movement on account of the awful
things she does, but I don't care to associate with any person who is
identified with this crusade. Neither does my mother, nor any of our
social set, and of course I would like you to feel the same way."
"But suppose I do not feel that way. Suppose my sympathies are with them
and my profession as well as my political predilections should carry me
among them?" he asked earnestly.
"Oh, Jack, what has come over you that you are so plebeian! Can't you
see how these women are cheapening New York society, associating with
workingmen and shop girls!"
"But that is what they should do in a democracy, and I am sure I never
saw better-looking women in my life than these same busy suffragists.
They have something to do, and are not dying of _ennui_ or
listlessness," he answered.
"Their stock argument," she answered, "but whoever heard of an
aristocracy based on such things as these women engage in. Promise me,
Jack, that you will have nothing to do with any of them."
"You are unduly wrought up to-night," he answered, "but I will promise
you that I shall do nothing to cause you unnecessary annoyance. You
must not be too captious, dear, and remember that I go Thursday night."
She started to protest, but he drowned the effort in a shower of
caresses and bade her goodnight. Each of them, in the silence of their
own apartments, thought long and earnestly of this interview. Leonora
Kimball had been taught to believe that the chief badges of an
aristocracy were complete idleness of the women, and the possession of
enough wealth to support such idleness. It mattered not how mentally
insipid or morally opaque or physically inane such women might be, the
true test of being fitted for the purple was whether or not they had
ever done any useful work, and whether or not they had money enough so
that the other members of their set might feel assured that they never
would do any useful work. An aristocracy of trained brains or unselfish
culture were meaningless terms to her.
But this night she was greatly disturbed over the attitude of the man
she was to marry. She had been quite honest with him when she asserted
that jealousy was foreign to her nature; affection did not run deep
enough with her to strike its eternal renewing fountain--jealousy. The
practical character with which she had been endowed easily enough
conducted affairs of the heart along paths directed by the head, and
while her professions of love were quite sincere and her loyalty beyond
question, yet she had not the remotest idea of the grand passion. She
knew that she was very fond of John Earl; that he was worthy of her;
that he could sustain her manner of life and that his social standing
was all that either she or her mother could desire. She also knew that
she did not wish to lose him, and much as she abhorred the suffragists,
she determined to be lenient with his present mood, certain she could
change it ere long, else of what avail was the all-powerful "silent
influence" upon which the Anti-Suffragists laid so much stress?
Earl was more than disturbed by her attitude, for he discovered traits
of character and a shallowness of sympathy that shocked him. His dream
of married bliss was the absolute _camaraderie_ he expected it to bring.
He feared now that she would not enter into his life or ambitions, and,
like too many of his married acquaintances, they would be seeking
happiness along diverse paths.
"However, it's all very new to her," he said to himself after an hour's
reverie, "and she is quite young. A few weeks will properly adjust our
relations."
The dominant characteristic of this young man was a deep sense of
justice, and while other feelings were all too manifest in his
subconscious being, he permitted himself only to try to solve the
problem of what was the right thing along the lines where he had cast
his future.