He felt at the same time an odd conviction that this woman had played a
part all day, and that now, through fatigue and depression, she was
tiring of her role and would cast it away, showing herself to him as
she was. For some reason he did not want this. The face behind the
mask, of which he was beginning to get a glimpse at intervals, was a
face he feared he would not like. He shrank from it as a child shrinks
from what it does not understand.
Much to his relief, she threw off the dark mood that seemed to threaten
her, and at the play she was more human than she had been yet.
"Ah, that first act," she said, as the curtain fell on Peter Pan's
flight through the window with the Darling Children--"that delicious
first act! Of course Barrie can't keep it up--no one could. But the
humor of it and the tenderness and the naivete! Only a grown-up with
the heart of a child could really appreciate it."
"And you are that?" he asked, daringly. He knew she was not.
"Only for this half-hour," she smiled. "I may get critical at any
moment and entirely out of touch."
She did not, however, and watching her indulgent appreciation of the
little boys in Never Never Land, he unconsciously reflected that, after
all, this must be the real woman. That other personality, some sudden
disheartening side of which he got from time to time, was not his new
friend who laughed like a young girl over the crocodile with the clock
inside, and showed a sudden swift moisture in her brown eyes when the
actress pleaded for the dying fairy. When the curtain fell on the last
act, leaving Peter Pan alone with his twinkling fairy friends in his
little home high among the trees, Alice Stansbury turned to her
companion with the sudden change of expression he had learned to dread.
The pupils of her eyes were strangely dilated, and she was evidently
laboring under some suppressed excitement. She spoke to him curtly and
coolly.
"We'll have a Welsh rabbit somewhere," she said, "and then I'll
go--back." He was struck by this use of the word, and by the tone of
her voice as she said it. "Back," he repeated, mentally--"back to
something mighty unpleasant, I'll wager."
At the restaurant she ate nothing and said little. All the snap and
sparkle had gone out of the day and out of their companionship as well.
Even the music was mournful, as if in tacit sympathy, and the faces of
the diners around them looked tired and old. When they left the
dining-room they stood together for an instant in the vestibule opening
into the street. No one was near them, and they were for the moment
beyond the reach of curious eyes. She cast one quick look around to be
sure of this, and then, going close to him, she put both her hands on
his shoulders. As she stood thus he realized for the first time how
tall she was. Her eyes were almost on a level with his own.
"You're a dear boy," she said, quickly, and a little breathlessly. "You
have made the day perfect, and I thank you. We shall not meet again,
but I'd like to feel that you won't forget me, and I want you to tell
me your first name."
He put his hands over hers.
"It's Philip," he said, simply, "and as for forgetting, you may be very
sure I won't. This isn't the kind of thing one forgets, and you're not
the kind of woman."
As he spoke the grip of her hands on his shoulders tightened, and she
leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Under the suddenness and
the surprise of it his senses whirled, but even in the chaos of the
moment he was conscious of two conflicting impressions--the first, an
odd disappointment in her, his friend; the second, an absurd resentment
against the singular remoteness of those cool, soft lips that for an
instant brushed his own. She gave him no chance to speak.
"I've left my gloves on the table," she said, crisply. "Get them."
He went without a word. When he returned the vestibule was deserted.
With a swift intuition of the truth he opened the door and rushed out
into the street. She was not there, nor the cabman whom he had
instructed to wait for them. She had slipped away, as she intended to
do, and the kiss she had given him had been a farewell. He was left
standing looking stupidly up and down the street, with her gloves in
his hand and her purse, as he now remembered, in his pocket. Well, he
could advertise that the next morning, in such a way that she could
reclaim it without seeing him again if she wished. He could even seal
it in an envelope and leave it at the _Herald_ office, to be given to
any one who would describe it. He walked slowly down Broadway and
turned into the side street which held the house and the unattractive
hall bedroom he called home. He felt "let down," as he would have put
it, and horribly lonely and depressed. She was such a good sort, he
reflected, and it was such a big pity she wouldn't let him see her
again. He knew somehow that he never would. She was not a woman that
changed her mind about things. Jove! but the whole experience had been
interesting; and that kiss--that kiss he had been cad enough to
misunderstand for an instant. ... The deepest blush of the day scorched
his face as he recalled it.
Miss Stansbury arrived at the front entrance of her hotel at the same
moment, and tersely instructed the driver to collect his fare at the
desk. She entered the hall with him, and walked indifferently past the
night clerk, answering with a nod the tacit question of that youth as
he glanced from her to the cabman. She was not unconscious of the
suppressed excitement in his manner nor of the elevator boy's relief as
he joyfully greeted her appearance in his car. What did it matter? What
did anything matter now? Her day was over.
Miss Manuel, already informed of her arrival by a hurried telephone
message from the office, was waiting for her at the door of their
apartment. She burst into tears as she put her arms around her patient
and kissed her and led her inside.
"Oh, my dear, how _could_ you?" she cried, reproachfully. "Think of the
agonies I've been through. It's almost twelve o'clock."
The other woman did not look at her, nor did she return the caress. She
walked into the room and sat down at her desk, with a strange
appearance of haste, at which the nurse marvelled. Without waiting to
take off her hat or coat, she seized a pen and paper and wrote these
lines, marking them plainly:
PERSONAL
FOR INSERTION IN TO-MORROW'S "HERALD"
_PHILIP.--The purse was purposely left with you. Its contents are
yours._
She put this in an envelope and directed it to the _Herald_ Advertising
Department. Then, for the first time, she spoke to the nurse, balancing
the envelope absently in her hand as she talked, and not looking once
at the other's face. Her tones were level and monotonous, almost as if
she were repeating a lesson.
"You need not have worried," she said, answering at last the nurse's
first words. "I've had what I've wanted for years--a whole day to
myself. I've done what I wanted to do. It's been worth while. But," she
added, more slowly, "you needn't ask me about it, for I shall not tell
you anything. Ring for a messenger, please. I want this taken to the
_Herald_ office at once; give him the money to pay for it."
In silence Miss Manuel obeyed. When the boy came she went into the hall
to hand the envelope to him, glancing at the address as she did so. The
instant she crossed the threshold Alice Stansbury slipped into the next
room and opened a window looking down into a court. As she did so she
whimpered like a frightened child.
"I must do it," she whispered. "I must--I must--now--now--now! If I
wait, I won't--dare."
When the nurse entered the room there was only the open window to tell
her what had happened. Panting, she leaned out and looked down with
starting eyes. Far below, on the asphalt floor of the court, was a dark
mass which moved once and then lay still.
The little clock on the table in the inner room struck twelve. Out in
the hall the messenger whistled softly as he waited for the elevator.
Hearing these familiar sounds, the nurse cast off the paralysis which
had held her, and the silent corridor of the great hotel echoed her
useless call for help.
IV
THE SIMPLE LIFE OF GENEVIEVE MAUD
Genevieve Maud reclined in a geranium-bed in an attitude of unstudied
ease. On her fat body was a white dress, round her waist was a wide,
blue sash, perched on one side of her head was a flaunting blue bow,
and in her heart was bitterness. It was dimly comforting to lie down in
all this finery, but it did not really help much. She brooded darkly
upon her wrongs. They were numerous, and her cherubic little face took
on additional gloom as she summed them up. First, she had been
requested to be good--a suggestion always unwelcome to the haughty soul
of Genevieve Maud, and doubly so this morning when she saw no
alternative but to obey it. Secondly, there was no one to play with--a
situation depressing to any companionable being, and grindingly so to
one who considered all men her peers, all women her unquestioning
slaves, and all animals grateful ministers to her needs in lowlier
fields of delight.
These delusions, it must be admitted, had been fostered during the four
short but eventful years of Genevieve Maud's life. Her method of
approach had been singularly compelling; old and young paused not to
argue, but freely stripped themselves of adornments she fancied, and
animals, from the kitten she carried round by one ear to the great St.
Bernard she half strangled in recurring moments of endearment, bore
with her adoringly, and humbly followed the trail of cake she left
behind her when she tired of them and trotted off in search of fresh
attractions. These were usually numerous; and had they been rarer, the
ingenuity of Genevieve Maud would have been equal to the test. There
were no social distinctions in her individual world. But one short year
ago she had followed a hand-organ man and a monkey to a point safely
distant from too-observant relatives and servants; there, beside the
chattering monkey, she had sung and danced and scrambled for pennies
and shaken a tambourine, and generally conducted herself like a
_debutante_ maenad.
That had been a glorious day. She recalled it now smoulderingly,
resentfully. Different, indeed, was the tragic present. No one to play
with--that was bad enough. But there were still worse conditions. She
was not even allowed to play by herself! Rover had been banished to a
neighbor's, the kitten had been lent generously to the Joyce children,
her human playmates had been warned off the premises, and Genevieve
Maud had been urged to be a dear little girl and keep very, very quiet
because mamma was sick. As if this was not enough, fate drove its
relentless knife and gave it a final twist. Far back in a corner of the
garden where she lay, almost hidden by the drooping branches of an old
willow, sat her two sisters, Helen Adeline and Grace Margaret, highly
superior beings of a stately dignity even beyond their ripe ages of
eleven and nine years. They were too old to play with little girls, as
they had frequently mentioned to Genevieve Maud, but they were not
wholly beyond the power of her spell, and there had been occasions when
they had so far forgotten themselves as to descend to her level and
enjoy doll tea-parties and similar infantile pleasures. To-day,
however, they were of a remoteness. Their plump backs were turned to
her, their heads were close together, and on the soft afternoon breeze
that floated over the garden were borne sibilant whispers. They were
telling each other secrets--secrets from which Genevieve Maud, by
reason of her tender years, was irrevocably shut out.
Genevieve Maud sat up suddenly in the flower-bed as the full horror of
this truth burst upon her, and then briskly entered into action
designed to transform the peace and quiet of the scene. Her small, fat
face turned purple, her big, brown eyes shut tight, her round mouth
opened, and from the tiny aperture came a succession of shrieks which
would have lulled a siren into abashed silence. The effect of this
demonstration, rarely long delayed, was instantaneous now. A
white-capped nurse came to an up-stairs window and shook her head
warningly; the two small sisters rose and scurried across the lawn; a
neighbor came to the hedge and clapped her hands softly, clucking
mystic monosyllables supposed to be of a soothing nature; neighboring
children within hearing assumed half-holiday expressions and started
with a rush to the side of the blatant afflicted one. Surveying all
this through half-shut eyes and hearing the steady tramp of the
oncoming relief corps, an expression of triumphant content rested for
an instant of Genevieve Maud's face. Then she tied it up again into
knots of even more disfiguring pattern, took another long breath, and
apparently made an earnest effort to attract the attention of citizens
of the next township. "I'm tired!" was the message Genevieve Maud sent
to a sympathetic world on the wings of this megaphonic roar.
The trained nurse, who had rushed down-stairs and into the garden, now
reached her side and drastically checked Genevieve Maud's histrionism
by spreading a spacious palm over the wide little mouth. With her other
hand she hoisted Genevieve Maud from the flower-bed and escorted her to
neutral ground on the lawn.
"'Tired!'" repeated the irate nurse, as the uproar subsided to gurgles.
"Heavens! I should think you would be, after that!" Helen Adeline and
Grace Margaret arrived simultaneously, and the older child took the
situation and the infant in hand with her best imitation of her
mother's manner.
"I am so sorry you were disturbed, Miss Wynne," she said, "and poor
mamma, too. We will take care of Genevieve Maud, and she won't cry any
more. We were just making some plans for her future," she ended,
loftily.
The mouth of Genevieve Maud, stretched for another yell, was arrested
in its distension. Her small ears opened wide. Was she, after all, in
the secret? It would seem so, for the nurse, seemingly satisfied, left
the three children alone and went back to her patient, while Helen
Adeline at once led her small sister to the choice retreat under the
willow.
"We are going to talk to you, Genevieve Maud," she began, "ve-ry
seriously, and we want you to pay 'tention and try to understand." This
much was easy. Mamma usually opened her impressive addresses in such
fashion.
"'Pay 'tention and try to understand," echoed Genevieve Maud, and
grinned in joyful interest.
"Yes, really try," repeated Helen Adeline, firmly. Then, rather
impatiently, and as one bearing with the painful limitations of the
young, she went on:
"You're so little, Maudie, you see, you don't know; and you won't know
even if we tell you. But you are a spoiled child; every one says so,
and mamma said the other day that something should be done. She's sick,
so she can't do it, but we can. We've got to take care of you, anyhow,
so this is a good time. Now what it really is, is a kind of game.
Gracie and I will play it, and you are going to--to--well, you are
going to be the game."
Genevieve Maud nodded solemnly, well satisfied. She was in it, anyhow.
What mattered the petty details? "'Going to be the game,'" she echoed,
as was her invariable custom, with the air of uttering an original
thought.
Helen Adeline went on impressively.
"It's called the simple life," she said, "and grown-up folks are
playing it now. I heard the minister an' mamma talking about it las'
week for hours an' hours an' hours. They give up pomps an' vanerties,
the minister says, an' they mus'n't have luxuries, an' they mus' live
like nature an' save their souls. They can't save their souls when they
have pomps an' vanerties. We thought we'd try it with you first, an'
then if we like it--er--if it's nice, I mean, p'r'aps Grace an' I will,
too. But mamma is sick, an' you've had too many things an' too much
'tention, so it's a good time for you to lead the simple life an' do
without things."
Genevieve Maud, gazing into her sister's face with big, interested
eyes, was vaguely, subconsciously aware that the new game might halt
this side of perfect content; but she was of an experimental turn and
refrained from expressing any scepticism until she knew what was
coming. In the mean time the eyes of her sister Grace Margaret had
roamed disapprovingly over Genevieve Maud's white dress, the blue sash
that begirded her middle, the rampant bow on her hair. Katie had put on
all these things conscientiously, and had then joyfully freed her mind
from the burden of thought of the child for the rest of the afternoon.
"Don't you think," Grace Margaret asked Helen Adeline, tentatively,
"sashes an' bows is pomps?"
Helen Adeline gave the speaker a stolid, unexpressive glance. She
acquiesced.
"Let's take 'em off," went on the younger and more practical spirit.
"Then we won't never have to tie 'em for her, either, when they get
loose."
They stripped Genevieve Maud, first of the sash and bows, then of the
white gown, next of her soft undergarments, finally, as zeal waxed,
even of her shoes and stockings. She stood before them clad in
innocence and full of joyful expectation.
"All these fine clothes is pomps an' vanerties," remarked Helen
Adeline, firmly. "The minister said so when he was talking with mamma
'bout the simple life, an' Gracie and I listened. It was very
interestin'."
She surveyed the innocent nudity of her little sister, "naked but not
ashamed," with a speculative glance.
"Katie will be glad, won't she?" she reflected, aloud. "She says
there's too much washing. Now she won't have to do any more for you.
Don't you feel better an' happier without those pomps?" she asked
Genevieve Maud.
That young person was already rolling on the grass, thrusting her
little toes into the cool earth, exulting in her new-found sartorial
emancipation. If this was the "new game," the new game was a winner.
Grace Margaret, gazing doubtfully at her, was dimly conscious of an
effect of incompleteness.
"I think she ought to have a hat," she murmured, at last. Helen Adeline
was good-naturedly acquiescent.
"All right," she answered, cheerfully, "but not a pompy one. Papa's big
straw will do." They found it and put it on the infant, whose eyes and
face were thereby fortunately shaded from the hot glare of the August
sun. Almost before it was on her head she had slipped away and was
running in and out of the shrubbery, her white body flashing among the
leaves.
"We'll have our luncheon here," announced Helen Adeline, firmly, "an'
I'll bring it out to save Katie trouble. Maudie can't have rich food,
of course, 'cos she's livin' the simple life. We'll give her bread off
a tin plate."
Grace Margaret looked startled.
"We haven't got any tin plate," she objected.
"Rover has."
Grace Margaret's eyes dropped suddenly, then rose and met her sister's.
An unwilling admiration crept into them.
"How will Maudie learn nice table manners?" she protested, feebly.
"Mamma says she must, you know."
"Folks don't have nice table manners when they're livin' simple lives,"
announced Helen Adeline, loftily. "They just eat. I guess we won't give
her knives an' forks an' spoons, either."
Grace Margaret battled with temptation and weakly succumbed.
"Let's give her some of the rice pudding, though," she suggested. "It
will be such fun to see her eat it, 'specially if it's very creamy!"
Of further details of that luncheon all three children thereafter
declined to speak. To Genevieve Maud the only point worthy of mention
was that she had what the others had. This compromise effected, the
manner of eating it was to her a detail of indescribable unimportance.
What were knives, forks, spoons, or their lack, to Genevieve Maud? The
tin plate was merely a gratifying novelty, and that she had been in
close communion with rice pudding was eloquently testified by the
samples of that delicacy which clung affectionately to her features and
her fat person during the afternoon.
While they ate, Helen Adeline's active mind had been busy. She
generously gave her sisters the benefit of its working without delay.
"She mus'n't have any money," she observed, thoughtfully, following
with unseeing eyes the final careful polish the small tongue of
Genevieve Maud was giving Rover's borrowed plate. "No one has money in
the simple life, so we mus' take her bank an' get all the money out
an'--"
"Spend it!" suggested Grace Margaret, rapturously, with her second
inspiration. Helen Adeline reflected. The temptation was great, but at
the back of her wise little head lay a dim foreboding as to the
possible consequences.
"No," she finally decided, consistently. "I guess it mus' be given to
the poor. We'll break the bank an' take it out, an' Maudie can give it
to the poor all by herself. Then if any one scolds, _she_ did it!
You'll enjoy that kind an' noble act, won't you, Maudie?" she added, in
her stateliest grown-up manner.
Maudie decided that she would, and promptly corroborated Helen
Adeline's impression. The soft August breeze fanned her body, the grass
was cool and fresh under her feet, and her little stomach looked as if
modelled from a football by her ample luncheon. She was to be the
central figure in the distribution of her wealth, and wisdom beyond her
own would burden itself with the insignificant details. Genevieve Maud,
getting together the material for large and slushy mud pies, sang
blithely to herself, and found the simple life its own reward.
"We'll leave her with her dolls," continued Helen Adeline, "an' we'll
hunt up deservin' poor. Then we'll bring 'em here an' Maudie can give
'em all she has. But first"--her little sharp eyes rested
discontentedly upon Genevieve Maud's family--six dolls reposing in a
blissful row in a pansy-bed--"first we mus' remove _those_ pomps an'
vanerties."
Grace gasped.
"Take away the dolls?" she ejaculated, dizzily.
"No, not edzactly. Jus' take off all their clothes. Don't you think it
looks silly for them to have clothes on when Maudie hasn't any?"
Grace Margaret agreed that it did, and at once the mistake was
rectified, the clothing was added to the heap of Genevieve Maud's
garments, and a pleasing effect of harmony reigned. The little girls
regarded it with innocent satisfaction.
"I s'pose we couldn't really take her dolls," reflected Helen Adeline,
aloud. "She'd make an awful fuss, an' she's so good an' quiet now it's
a pity to start her off. But her toys _mus'_ go. They're very
expensive, an' they're pomps an' vanerties, I know. So we'll take 'em
with us an' give 'em to poor children."
"You think of lots of things, don't you?" gurgled Grace Margaret, with
warm admiration. Her sister accepted the tribute modestly, as no more
than her due. Leaving Genevieve Maud happy with her mud pies and her
stripped dolls, the two sought the nursery and there made a
discriminating collection of her choicest treasures. Her Noah's Ark,
her picture-books, her colored balls and blocks, her woolly lambs that
moved on wheels, her miniature croquet set, all fell into their
ruthless young hands and, as a crowning crime, were dumped into the
little go-cart that was the very apple of Genevieve Maud's round eyes.
It squeaked under its burden as the children drew it carefully along
the hall. They carried it down-stairs with exaggerated caution, but
Genevieve Maud saw it from afar, and, deeply moved by their
thoughtfulness, approached with gurgles of selfish appreciation. The
conspirators exchanged glances of despair. It was the intrepid spirit
of Helen Adeline that coped with the distressing situation. Sitting
down before her victim, she took Maudie's reluctant hands in hers and
gazed deep into her eyes as mamma was wont to gaze into hers on the
various occasions when serious talks became necessary.
"Now, Genevieve Maud," she began, "you mus' listen an' you mus' mind,
or you can't play. Ain't you havin' a good time? If you don't want to
do what we say, we'll put your clothes right straight on again an'
leave you in the midst of your pomps an' vanerties: an' then--what'll
become of your soul?" She paused impressively to allow this vital
question to make its full appeal. Genevieve Maud writhed and squirmed.