A NEW ATTITUDE
There are a number of things that an attorney and counselor at law
is likely to do when distracted. Morris Leighton was convinced that
the universe in general was out of joint and he did not care who
suffered. He rebuked the stenographer sharply about an error that crept
into a demurrer he had dictated, which was not her fault at all, but
Leighton’s; and the discovery that he had, with his own hand, addressed
an important letter to Portland, Maine, that should have gone to
Portland, Oregon, did not tend to ease his spirit; nor did he lift the
burden that lay upon his soul by scolding the office boy for complicity
in the loss of the letter, when the boy was neither physically nor
morally responsible.
He was quite confident that he should never see Zelda Dameron any more.
He knew she would not care, and he tried to assure himself that it made
no difference to him, but without any great degree of success. He was
lonely, for Rodney Merriam had accompanied Mrs. Forrest to Saratoga, a
place which the Merriams had visited in days gone by, and which Mrs.
Forrest wished to see again--she so expressed herself--before she died.
Rodney Merriam had departed in a low state of mind, for he declared to
Morris in confidence that if there was any choice between the place of
eternal punishment and Saratoga it was not in favor of Saratoga.
So Zelda had gone out of Morris’s life and Rodney Merriam, his best
friend, had left town, and he abused the fates that had ordained his
own presence in Mariona when it had suddenly become a hateful spot to
him; or, in the way of young men who find the path of love difficult,
he thought it had.
While in this frame of mind he walked down Jefferson Street one July
morning on his way to the office of the clerk of the Supreme Court.
He was sure that he did not think of Zelda Dameron any more and he
was congratulating himself on the ease with which he had forgotten
her, when he saw, hitched at the curb just ahead of him, Zan, with
the runabout. There was a book-shop near at hand,--a real book-shop,
with a big fireplace and many pleasant corners. Morris being, as has
been said, bound for the State House, remembered suddenly that he was
particularly anxious to see the midsummer number of a certain magazine.
The doors of the book-shop stood wide open; Zan was hitched outside;
the moment seemed opportune for a study of the periodical counter, so
Morris entered.
Very likely if Zelda should prove to be there, she would not speak
to him; she had certainly used him ill; she had always dealt harshly
with him; and the remembrance of her treatment of him at their last
interview rankled. But he walked down the long aisle of the shop, under
the pleasant delusion that he was looking for a magazine, whereas he
was looking for the owner of Zan. At the periodical counter a clerk
told him the old story, that they were just out of the magazine he
sought, and he answered that they need not trouble to get it. As a
matter of fact he always read it at the Tippecanoe Club and had not the
slightest wish to buy it. Zelda was clearly not there and he started
out, abusing the shop for never having anything he wanted,--or, at
least, he thought it was the shop that aroused his indignation, whereas
his spirit was in rebellion against himself.
Near the door there was a long bench where you might take down a book
and read, if you liked; and sitting in a corner, and looking very
cool and collected sat Olive Merriam, a book in her hand and a smile
of interest on her face. The interest was wholly centered in the
book, for it was Olive’s way to make the most of the passing moment;
and she was as completely lost in the volume she held in her hand as
though she were in her own room at home. She made a pretty picture in
the corner--an altogether charming picture--the slight, fair-haired
girl against the dark wood and black leather of the bench. If he
couldn’t see Zelda the sight of Olive was the next best thing. They had
undoubtedly driven into town together; Zelda was probably not far away.
Morris would not, of course, have spoken to Zelda had she been there
instead of Olive; but Olive was always approachable and amiable. Yet he
felt a trifle conscious as he stopped and bade Zelda Dameron’s cousin
good morning.
“It’s too bad to disturb you; you have an appearance of comfort that
rests the soul.”
“Generously spoken! I’m waiting; and while I wait I may as well be
cool.”
“Oh, you’re waiting,” said Morris, irrelevantly.
Olive looked up at him innocently, and asked:
“Yes; aren’t you--for the same person?”
“No; I was just passing--I had an errand in here.”
“I’m glad you did,” declared Olive, soberly. “I think we should always
do our errands. Zee and I are doing a few this morning.”
“Oh yes; you and Miss Dameron. I thought I recognized Zan at the door.”
“It was very discerning of you, to be sure; and then--you thought of
your errand!” and Olive held up her book and scanned the gilt top with
minute care. When she looked at him he was laughing and she laughed,
too. “Let’s be serious,” she said. “I don’t believe I understand your
tactics. You’ll have to get better--as Mr. Balcomb would say. You’re
what he’d call a rank quitter.”
Morris made a wry face.
“I thank you for the diagnosis. I suppose we’re referring to the same
thing.”
“Or person. Undoubtedly. And I may as well be quite frank with you.
They have all told me how talented you are; but I really don’t see it.
It’s a good thing you’ve quit; you couldn’t have made it anyhow. I
warned her against you in the beginning, and I rarely make mistakes.”
He had begun the day humbly and her mild flagellation was grateful to
his bruised spirit.
“You’re the pride of the bar, aren’t you?” she asked sweetly.
“Now you’re touching me where I’m sensitive. You can afford to be
merciful.”
“Only to the deserving. You’ve always rather flattered yourself that
you were quick of apprehension and all that sort of thing,--that you
took in a situation without having it forced upon you. You’ve had just
such conceit, Mr. Leighton, and it hasn’t been justified by the facts.”
“I’ll admit everything you could charge against me; but what can I do?
I did my best.”
“Which wasn’t very good, I must say. You weary me beyond words, Mr.
Leighton!”
They both laughed at her earnestness.
“If I were you I shouldn’t face her here; and she will be here in a
minute. You’d better go. If you should care enough for our good opinion
to come out to see us--please note the plurals--I’ll see if I can do
anything for you. But you have neither tact nor judgment. And you’re
certainly an awful lot of trouble.”
He smiled cheerfully. He felt that under her irony she really meant to
be encouraging.
“I think I’ll come out to-night, if you don’t mind,” said Morris.
“Oh, suit yourself! Don’t put yourself out for anything in the world.
But”--and Olive hesitated and looked at Morris searchingly--“you’re
very slow of comprehension or you might know that--that she has other
burdens to bear--besides you! And now I’m sorry I said that to you, for
it isn’t fair to her; so please run on and don’t be foolish any more.”
She dropped her eyes to her book and did not look at him again.
Morris went to the State House but Zelda was in his thoughts all day.
He knew Olive well enough to understand that she wished him to know
that Zelda’s way was not all clear; and he at once conjectured that
it must be her father who was the cause of her trouble. He was as
angry with himself as even Olive could have wished for having sulked
since Zelda rebuffed him. He could not imagine how much Olive knew of
what had occurred the last time he visited the farm; but she clearly
meant to encourage him in her own somewhat unsatisfactory way. As he
speculated upon the matter, the wish to aid Zelda, if he could, took
possession of him to the exclusion of all other thoughts of her; and
evening found him bound for the farm, behind a very fair livery horse.
The possibility of meeting Balcomb again was not to be risked.
When he reached the farm-house Mr. Dameron was sitting on the veranda
with Zelda and Olive. After discussing the heat of the city and the
lower temperature of the country for a few minutes he went into the
house.
“I have some papers to study. I never quite free myself of business.
Do so when you are young, Mr. Leighton--you’ll not have an opportunity
later on.”
He bowed and walked with his shuffling step across the veranda and into
the house. Olive did most of the talking now that the young people
were alone. She wished to create as much cheer as possible before
disappearing; and she lingered until there was hardly a possibility
that any one else would come,--unless it should be Pollock, and
Pollock, she said to herself, was a wise young man who knew well enough
that two are company and three are not. She rose abruptly.
“Zelda, I haven’t written to mother for a week. I must get busy--as
Mr. Leighton’s old college friend says, or I can’t mail my letter
to-morrow. Please don’t notice my absence. If you hear a sound of
murder inside it will be I--fighting June-bugs.”
It was pleasant on the veranda. The night was one of stars, the moon
that had shone upon Leighton’s previous visit having gone the way of
old moons. Insects fretted the dark with their dissonances. The air
was heavy with the sweetness and languor of a midsummer night. Far
away, through the trees, a soft light crept silently; it was steady
and strong and seemed to cut a path for itself. There was something
weird and unearthly about it, as it lighted here and there some new
bit of landscape; but presently a low rumble began to accompany it
and explained away its mystery. It was an interurban car’s powerful
electric headlight marking a ghostly right of way across farms and
through woodlands.
“Not bad, that,” said Leighton when the light had disappeared.
“No. It makes our nights more interesting. We can follow the headlight
for miles from our upper windows. It suggests a goblin stealing across
the country with a bull’s-eye lantern.”
“Looking for what?”
“Other goblins, I should think.”
The talk of ghosts seemed ominous and Leighton changed the subject. She
seemed to him more baffling than ever--a part of the night’s mystery.
“I had a brief note from Mr. Merriam to-day. He seems to be taking his
Saratoga rather sadly.”
“Aunt Julia hasn’t written me at all. She feels that I’ve basely
deserted her. Uncle Rodney writes to me every day or two to tell me how
charming it is, and how many perfectly lovely young women he meets. He
does that to increase my sorrow in staying at home.”
“We’ll have to confront him with our respective letters, your cheerful
one and mine in a doleful key, when he comes back.”
“Dear Uncle Rodney! He can be just as disagreeable to me as he pleases.
I believe I’d rather have him scold me than have the praise of most
people,” said Zelda.
Olive had not warned her of Morris’s coming, but her cousin’s plea of
letter-writing as an excuse for going indoors was not wholly sincere,
as Zelda knew. But there was no escaping this talk with Morris Leighton
on the veranda, and she began with sudden energy to speak rapidly of
many irrelevant and frivolous things. It was not an easy matter to meet
thus a man who a fortnight before had declared himself her lover. She
did not try to-night her old manner of chaffing him almost to the point
of impudence; she had no heart for that now. And she felt moreover his
manliness and strength; there was an appeal in her heart that almost
cried to him. She talked of the past winter; of the Dramatic Club; of
the drolleries of Herr Schmidt, and of the people who had fled the town
for the summer, and all with a gaiety that did not ring true.
Her father came out presently, evidently absorbed in thought, and went
down the walk without speaking to them. They heard the beat of his
stick beyond the gate as he followed the country road that lay between
his corn-fields. The sight of him was proving an increasing trial to
her, for she felt day by day the burden of the task she had assumed
in living with him. The contact with him grew more irksome. His ways
grew increasingly strange. He was pressing all his debtors, and some of
them came to the house to beg for time. She overheard several of these
interviews in which her father had been unyielding in his cloyingly
sweet way. If he had been an open criminal, it would have been easier
to bear. If only her mother had not left that last injunction! But that
poor pitiful prayer was never out of her thoughts:
“_Perhaps I was unjust to him; it may have been my fault; but if she
can respect or love him I wish it to be so._”
She was not aware of the interval of silence that lay like a gulf
between her and Morris, so intent was she upon her own thoughts. Then
he began as though continuing the discussion of a subject just dropped.
“I didn’t come again at once because it was easier not to. But I have
come to repeat that what I said then is still true--truer than it was
then.”
“Please don’t, please don’t!” A pitiful little sob broke from her and
wrung his heart. But he went on.
“That is what I came to say. I have thought that perhaps I did not say
just what I meant,--that I did not make you understand.”
She was silent and he added:
“It is a man’s right to tell a woman that he loves her.”
“I suppose it is,” said Zelda, hurriedly; “but I ask you, if you are my
friend,--if you care to be anything to me, not to talk of things that
only trouble me.”
“And I suppose,” said Leighton, not heeding her, “that a woman will be
as kind to him as she can, whether the idea pleases her or not. Women
are naturally kind-hearted,--at least, they have that reputation.”
“You flatter us,” said Zelda, coldly.
“It must be pleasant occasionally to be arbitrary,--to do things a
little extraordinary just because we dare,” he persisted.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about;” but she liked to
have him speak to her so.
“For instance,” he went on, “suppose we are to take part in amateur
theatricals,--suppose, for example, we are assigned the principal
part. We rehearse and do finely, and are about to make the hit of
our lives. Then it occurs to us suddenly that one of our friends--or
relatives--say a cousin--never has had the same chance that we have
had, and we decide to give her additional prominence and obscure
ourselves a little, all in her interest; and we go ahead and do it,
even though it is a shock to a whole lot of people. And I suppose
you thought all the time that nobody guessed what you were doing. So
sometimes it may please a woman,--she may be the noblest and fairest of
women,--to play a part--and you--?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Leighton,” she
answered. “I have looked upon you as a friend, and after you had been
moved by the moonlight to say things that were not--wholly friendly and
that were distasteful to me, I should think that in ordinary decency
you would not refer to the matter again.”
“I’m sorry to offend, but if you thought it was the moonlight--”
“I don’t care what it was!”
“If you don’t care what it was,--sun, moon or stars, then you make my
task all the greater. I think you don’t quite understand about me. You
recommended that I get the moose--”
“Please forgive all that,” she begged in real contrition. “You have no
right to quote me against myself. You imply that I was--”
“Flirting? Nothing of the kind. You suggested last winter that I was
immensely conceited and you intimated in the friendliest possible
way that there were fields I hadn’t conquered. It was wholesome and
stimulating and I thanked you in my heart for taking the trouble to
tell me.”
“Well, you didn’t get the moose, did you?” and she laughed.
“No; but I won a case in the Supreme Court,” he declared in a droll
tone, at which both laughed; and she felt easier.
“I can’t accept the substitute,” she said. “A moose is a moose; and the
Supreme Court doesn’t sound very amusing to me. If you had really been
interested I should have had the moose-head long ago. But you are not
chivalrous. You have lost an opportunity. I wasn’t worth the trouble.
And now I believe I am tired of this. Let us change the subject.”
“Certainly not!” he exclaimed, so cheerfully that they both laughed at
his alacrity.
He had spoken with a decisive confidence and authority that was part of
his new attitude toward her. He had no intention of losing her; but he
must wait; and meanwhile she should understand.
“I am not going to make myself a nuisance to you, but what I have said
I am likely to repeat almost at any time; and some day, whether you
will or not, you shall listen to me. And meanwhile I shall be, if you
will, your friend and very obedient servant. You see, you already think
me conceited; Miss Merriam has told me that _she_ thinks so,--and I’m
giving you real reason for thinking so. And now, let us talk of other
things!”
She was silent under the shadow of the vines and he spoke in a
different key as he turned to things that were of no importance
whatever. The step of Ezra Dameron sounded once more down the road and
they heard the gate close after him; and soon the gravel crunched under
his feet near at hand.
He came up leaning heavily on his stick, breathing hard, for the night
was still and hot.
Leighton rose and placed a chair for him.
“You’d better rest here before going in,” said Zelda, very kindly.
“And tell us how the corn looks,” added Morris.
Dameron stood at the edge of the veranda looking up at the heavens
abstractedly, seemingly forgetful of their presence. He turned suddenly.
“The corn--the corn--who spoke of the corn?” he demanded. And then,
half-aloud to himself, passing the two young people as though ignorant
of their presence, “The corn, the corn, the beautiful corn!”
The vines about the veranda made a dark screen back of Zelda, shutting
out the faint starlight and the lights of the house. She sat in a low
chair with her hands clasping its rough arms, and it was well that her
eyes could not be seen, for there had come into them a look of sorrow
and weariness and fear that is best not seen in the eyes of a girl.
Morris was not wholly dull or stupid. Olive, sitting up stairs with a
book which she was not reading, would have thought well of him, if she
had heard. He rattled on amiably about the future of the Dramatic Club,
in which he was not the least interested.
“Next winter we must be sure to try a vaudeville show. It will be a lot
easier than the opera. People who are as solemn as owls are usually
delighted to black up and do specialty acts. I believe I’d do a black
face myself--to renew my youth.”
Zelda’s slim hands had dropped from the arms of the chair; and her
spirit was at ease again. Perhaps Morris understood! Her gratitude went
out to him bountifully.
“It’s absurd--talking of amateur theatricals in the dead of summer; but
_my_ family aren’t Quakers; so I don’t practise silence!” Morris rose
hastily and seized his hat and gloves.
“You needn’t have mentioned it; I had noticed it!” she said; then she
laughed happily, and went quickly into the house.