The following morning brother and sister rode down-town together in the
cars. "Don't you think you might have consulted me before asking Jim
to supper?" she inquired.
"Don't be foolish," he replied cheerfully, "you were locked in your
room."
She worked all day in that state of suppressed excitement which
presages great events, from the first ride on the lodge goat to the
codicil part of uncle's will. Everything she saw or touched was more
vivid than usual to her senses. Her typewriter keys seemed picked out
in the air against a deep perspective, their lettering very heavy,
their clicking singularly loud. One of the little flags caught in a
ventilation grill, and instead of fluttering out freely, flapped and
bellied, making a small snapping noise. A flag wasn't meant to do
that, so she crossed the big room, pulled up a chair and released it,
somewhat to the surprise of the youth sitting directly beneath it.
The old man, usually rapid enough with his letters, seemed hopelessly
slow and awkward this morning, and she had to bite her tongue to keep
from helping him out with the proper word when he got stuck. He was
leaning back in his swivel chair, wasting interminable time with pauses
and laryngeal interjections, the tips of his fingers together, his eyes
half closed, droning out his sentences. He wore a little butterfly
tie, to-day, blue spots on brown, just below his active Adam's apple
and thin, corded neck. Under the point of his chin was a little patch
which his razor had skipped, hopelessly white. She wondered what could
be in it for him any more, and why he didn't retire.
She rattled off her letters, then added a note for Stevens, "Dinner
to-night?" and left it in the S compartment of the _Letters Received_
box.
When he came in later for his afternoon mail he caught her eye and
nodded, and on the way out of the old man's office stopped at her desk
for a few hasty words: "What time, and where?"
"Wherever you like--at six thirty."
"Max's?" he suggested, "we'll have snails."
"Oh, what a perfectly dear place--in every sense of the word."
"My treat," he said.
"No."
"You never dined with me before; you might let me celebrate.
"We'll celebrate anyway, Dutch. Make it Max's."
He didn't prolong the argument. They had long before made a compact
that the expenses of their expeditions should be shared.
"I suppose," he inquired, "your six thirty really means seven. I've an
appointment, might keep me till then, unless----"
"I'll meet you on the stroke of half-past," she said, and was as good
as her word.
They had snails _à la Max_, whereof the frame is finer than the
picture, as well as Maxian frogs' legs, boned and wrapped in lettuce
leaves, and, not without misgivings, a bottle of claret.
Stevens, unaware that it was their last time of pretending, abided by
the rules. They talked shop and shows and vacations. Georgia slipped
in a few appropriate words concerning her cultural progress. They were
both somewhat severe upon the orchestra, because there was too much
noise to the music, so Mason beckoned the head waiter and "requested"
the barcarole from _Tales of Hoffman_, and they floated off in it
toward the edge of what they knew.
It is said that most people have at least two personalities. In this
respect Georgia was like them. One side of her was the woman of 1850,
and the times previous; whether mother, wife, daughter, maiden or
mistress, primarily something in relation to man, her individuality
submerged in this relationship, as a soldier's individuality is
submerged in his uniform.
The other aspect of Georgia's nature was that of the "new woman," the
women hoped for in 1950. Bold, determined, taught to think, relentless
in defense of her own personality, insistent that men shall have less
and she shall have more sexual freedom, she is first of all herself and
only next to that, something to a man.
When the woman of 1850 managed to get in a word about Jim and his
fruitless wait at home, the woman of 1950 answered, "Shall you now be
absurd enough to leave the man you love for one you hate?"
"Shall we take in a show?" he suggested when they had finished their
coffee.
"I believe I'd rather walk home."
"Why, it's five miles." He was somewhat disconcerted by her energy,
for he was distinctly let down, in reaction from his day's work, and
his afternoon's excitement of looking forward to an unusual meeting
with her, which had turned out after all to be more than commonly
placid.
"Five miles--and a heavenly night. The first of spring. Come, brace
up."
"You must be feeling pretty strong."
"No," she said, "I am getting a bit headachy, I want some air, to get
out of four walls and merge into the darkness--if you know what I mean."
"You're not going to be sick?" he asked concernedly.
"O, no--it's just a touch of spring fever, I imagine."
There is a cement path with a sloping concrete breakwater which winds
between Lake Michigan on one side and Lincoln Park on the other for a
distance of several miles. Here come the people in endless procession
from morning until midnight, two by two, male and female, walking slow
and talking low, permeated by the souls of children begging life.
It is a chamber of Maeterlinck's azure palace of the unborn.
Presently, by good luck, Georgia and her lover came upon a bench just
as another couple was quitting it--the supply of benches being
inadequate to the demands of pleasant evenings in spring. The
departing two passed, one around each end of the seat, and walked
rapidly, several feet apart, across the strip of lawn and bridal path
beyond. They were delayed at the curb by the stream of automobiles and
stood out in clear relief against the passing headlights.
It was evident they had been quarreling, for the man looked sullen and
the woman, half turned away, shrugged her shoulders to what he was
saying.
Georgia had been watching them. "Too bad," said she, "they're having a
row."
"Perhaps they're not meant for each other."
"Everyone quarrels sometimes," she answered, "meant or not."
"Do you think we would, if----"
"I'm sure of it," she replied sharply. "We're human beings, not
angels."
There was doubtless common sense in what she said, but nevertheless it
delighted him not. He wished that she could in such moments as these,
yield herself fully to the illusion which possessed him that their life
together would be one sempiternal climax of joy.
"I honestly believe," he asserted solemnly, "that sometimes two natures
are so perfectly adjusted that there is no friction between them."
"Rubbish," she replied, quoting a newly read Shaw preface, "people
aren't meant to stew in love from the cradle to the grave."
She couldn't understand her own mood. She had arranged this evening
with Stevens to tell him that she was ready to marry him, and she found
herself unable to. Her conscious purpose was the same as ever.
Yet as often as she summoned herself to look the look or keep the
silence which would put in train his declaration, it seemed as if she
received from her depths a sudden and imperative mandate against it.
It was her long silence while she was pondering over these strange
things which gave him a false cue and he entered to the center of her
consciousness.
"This wasting of ourselves must go on until he dies?"
"The only way out is death," she said slowly, "or apostasy."
"Apostasy!" The word had an ugly sound even for him.
"I know one woman who did it for love of a man."
"And she is happy?"
Georgia did not answer at once.
"And she is happy," he repeated seriously, as if much depended on the
question, "or not?"
"She says she is," she answered, "but I don't think so. She doesn't
look happy--about the eyes--one notices those things. She seems
changed--and--reckless and--and she's not always been faithful to her
husband. I found it out."
"You found it out!"
"Yes, she asked me to go to a dinner party. Her husband was away from
town--there were four of us--and I could tell what it meant. She
wanted me to do what she was doing--and we had been friends so long--we
took our first communion together."
"Georgia," he asked, chilled through with fright, "do you often have
that sort of thing put in your way?"
"I have plenty of chances to make a mess of life," she replied, "every
woman does, who's passable looking, especially downtown women."
"Dearest heart," he begged, "I can't go on thinking of that the rest of
my life. Marry me and let me shield and shelter you from all this----"
"This what?"
"Temptation," he blurted, "and rotten, unwomanly down-town life. A
woman ought to be taken care of, in her own home, by the man who loves
her and respects and honors her."
Georgia smiled. "Do you know," she asked, "that's almost exactly word
for word the way he talked to this friend of mine and persuaded her to
get her divorce and leave the Church and marry him--almost word for
word--she told me about it at the time. And now she's--fooling him.
It didn't shield her from temptation."
"But I have known people to be divorced and marry again and live
perfectly happy and respectable lives."
"Protestants--weren't they?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Ah, that's the point. They do what they think is right, but a
Catholic does what she knows is wrong, and begins her new marriage in a
wilful sin, so what can grow from it but more sin?"
Her voice, naturally full and resonant like a trained speaker's, was
thin and uncertain as she told of the apostate. Her other self, the
woman of the past, was ascendant, but she fought against what she
conceived to be a momentary weakness, and forced her resolution as a
skillful rider forces an unwilling horse over a jump. "But if you want
me," she said in words that trembled, "you can have me."
"If I want you----" He took her in his arms and kissed her.
It seemed to her definitely in that instant that nothing could ever be
quite the same with her again, that a certain fine purity had passed
from her forever and she must live thereafter on a lower plane.
All the modernistic teachings, books, lectures, pamphlets with which
she had in recent years packed her head, on woman's right to selfhood,
parasitic females, prostitution in marriage, endowed motherhood, sexual
slavery; and all the practical philosophy of the success school which
she had learned from years of contact with money-makers, that life is
more for the daring than for the good, were washed away by the
earlier-formed and deeper-lying impressions of her youth.
She was aware of a fleeting return of her virginal feeling that to give
herself to one man was humbleness sufficient for a lifetime; but to
give herself to two would be the permanent lowering of pride.
But she felt that for her the moving finger had writ and passed. There
could be no more going back or shadow of turning. Henceforth, for good
or evil, she belonged to this man.
She yielded to his kisses, as many as he wished, in passive submission.
"You will always be good to me--promise that, promise me, dear," she
begged, "because if you're not I'll----" Her voice choked and two
tears rolled down her cheeks. Gone was her freedom and her pride. She
spoke, not as her ideal had been, partner speaking to partner on even
terms, but as a servant to her master, asking not justice but mercy.
Her solitary happiness in this hour was the feeling that the man was
the stronger, that despite his greenness and awkwardness and the ease
with which she had hitherto controlled him, fundamentally his nature
was bigger than hers and that she was compelled to follow him. In her
new feebleness she rejoiced that she sinned not boldly and resolutely,
but because she had been taken in the traditional manner by the
overpowering male.
"I have been looking forward to this for longer than you suspect," said
she, "and now that it's come, I feel as if I were at a play watching it
happen to some one else."
He put his hand on her shoulder, then quickly turned her white face to
his. "Why, what is the matter?" he asked. "You are shaking like a
leaf."
"I think I'd better go home. It is damp and cold sitting here." After
they had gone a few steps, she said, with a weak little laugh, "I've
lost my enthusiasm for walking. Put me on the car."
He began to be thoroughly frightened. "Don't worry, dear," she
reassured him. "Nothing can change us now. We belong to each
other--for keeps."
They said little to each other in the brightly lighted street car. She
sat slightly crumpled, her shoulders rounded, swaying to the stops and
starts. She breathed slowly through her lips, and her eyes had the
strange wide-open look of a young bird's, when you hold it in your
hands. And he, but partly understanding, yearned for her helplessly,
and covenanted with his nameless gods that no sorrow should ever come
to her from him.
She hung to his arm as they walked up the half-lighted street where she
lived, between rows of three, four and five story flat buildings full
of drama. Outside her own she stopped and looked up to her windows.
They were brightly lighted.
Instead of using her key, she rang the bell to her apartment. She
heard Al's voice in answer.
"Is Jim there?" she asked.
"Yes."
She turned to Stevens with a flash of her old positiveness.
"I must go somewhere else. And I don't feel like telling my troubles
to any friend to-night. So will you take me to a hotel?"
They returned to the car line by an unusual street, lest Al should come
looking after her, she driving her sick frame along by sheer will, her
lover resolved that if need be he would save her from herself.
She waited while he engaged her room, and when he came bringing her
key, he said, "I have put you down as Miss Talbot."
"Oh, you were nice to think of that. I like to imagine sometimes it
still is so." She took his hand. "Good night, dear," she whispered.
"I will be a true wife to you."