The false courage that supported her in Dickerson's presence left
Cornelia when she went back to her room, and she did not sleep that
night, or she thought she did not. She came down early for a cup of
coffee, and the landlady told her that Mr. Dickerson had just gone; he
wished Mrs. Montgomery to give Cornelia his respects, and apologize for
his going away without waiting to see her again. He had really expected
to stay over till Monday, but he found he could save several days by
taking the Chicago Limited that morning. Mrs. Montgomery praised his
energy; she did not believe he would be on the road a great while
longer; he would be in the firm in less than another year. She hinted
at his past unhappiness in the married state, and she said she did hope
that he would get somebody who would appreciate him, next time. There
did not seem to be any doubt in her mind that there would be a next
time with him.
Cornelia wanted to ask whether she expected him back soon; she could
not; but she resolved that whenever he came he should not find her in
that house. She thought where she should go, and what excuse she should
make for going, what she should tell Charmian, or Mr. Ludlow, if she
ever saw him again. It seemed to her that she had better go home, but
Cornelia hated to give up; she could not bear to be driven away. She
went to church, to escape herself, and a turmoil of things alien to the
place and the hour whirled through her mind during the service; she
came out spent with a thousand-fold dramatization of her relations to
Mr. Dickerson and to Mr. Ludlow. She sat down on a bench in the little
park before the church, and tried to think what she ought to do, while
the children ran up and down the walks, and the people from the
neighboring East Side avenues, in their poor Sunday best, swarmed in
the square for the mild sun and air of the late October. The street
cars dinned ceaselessly up and down, and back and forth; the trains of
the Elevated hurtled by on the west and on the east; the troubled city
roared all round with the anguish of the perpetual coming and going;
but it was as much Sunday there as it would have been on the back
street in Pymantoning where her mother's little house stood. The leaves
that dripped down at her feet in the light warm breaths of wind passing
over the square might have fallen from the maple before the gate at
home. The awful unity of life for the first time appeared to her. Was
it true that you could not get away from what you had been? Was that
the meaning of that little wretch's coming back to claim her after he
had forfeited every shadow of right to her that even her mother's
ignorance and folly had given him? Then it meant that he would come
back again and again, and never stop coming. She made believe that if
she looked up, she should now see him actually coming down the path
toward her; she held her eyes fixed upon the ground at her feet, and
then it seemed to her every moment that he was just going to take the
seat next her. The seat was already taken; a heavy German woman filled
it so solidly that no phantasm could have squeezed in beside her. But
the presence of Dickerson became so veritable that Cornelia started up
breathless, and hurried home, sick with the fear that she should find
him waiting for her there.
She was afraid to go out the next morning, lest she should meet him on
the street, though she knew that by this time he was a thousand miles
away.
At the Synthesis she was ashamed to let Charmian think that her absent
and tremulous mood had something to do with Ludlow; but she was so much
more ashamed of the shabby truth that she would have been willing to
accept the romance herself. This was very dishonest; it was very wicked
and foolish; Cornelia saw herself becoming a guilty accomplice in an
innocent illusion. She found strength to silence Charmian's surmise, if
not to undeceive her; she did her best; and as the days began to remove
her farther and farther from the moment of her actual encounter with
Dickerson, her reason came more and more into control of her
conscience. She tried not to be the fool of a useless remorse for
something she was at least not mainly to blame for. She had to make the
struggle alone; there was no one she could advise with; her heart shut
when she thought of telling any one her trouble; but in her perpetual
reveries she argued the case before Ludlow.
It seemed to her as if he had come to render her a final judgment when
his name was sent up to her room, that Saturday afternoon which ended
the longest week of her life. She went down, and found him alone in the
long parlor, and it was in keeping with her fantastic prepossession
that he should begin, "I wonder how I shall say what I've come for?" as
if he would fain have softened her sentence.
He kept her hand a moment longer than he need; but he was not one of
those disgusting people who hold your hand while they talk to you, and
whom Cornelia hated. She did not now resent it, though she was sensible
of having to take her hand from him.
"I don't know," she answered, with hysterical flippancy. "If I did I
would tell you."
He laughed, as if he liked her flippancy, and he said, "It's very
simple. In fact, that's what makes it so difficult."
"Then you might practice on something hard first," she suggested
wildly. "How would the weather do?"
"Yes, hasn't it been beautiful?" said Ludlow, with an involuntary lapse
into earnestness. "I was in the Park to-day for a little effect I
wanted to get, and it was heartbreaking to leave the woods. I was away
up in those forest depths that look wild in spite of the asphalt. If
you haven't been there, you must go some day while the autumn color
lasts. I saw a lot of your Synthesis ladies painting there. I didn't
know but I might see you."
This was all very matter of fact. Cornelia took herself in hand, and
shook herself out of her hallucination. "No, I don't suppose it would
be right for a person who was merely in the Preparatory to go sketching
in the Park. And Charmian and I were very good to-day, and kept working
away at our block hands as long as the light lasted."
"Ah, yes; Miss Maybough," said Ludlow; then he paused absently a
moment. "Do you think she is going to do much in art?"
"How should I know?" returned Cornelia. She thought it rather odd he
should recur to that after she had let him see she did not want to talk
about Charmian's art.
"Because you know that you can do something yourself," said Ludlow.
"That is the only kind of people who can really know. The other sort of
people can make clever guesses; they can't know."
"And you believe that I can do something?" asked Cornelia, and a sudden
revulsion of feeling sent the tears to her eyes. It was so sweet to be
praised, believed in, after what she had been through. "But you haven't
seen anything of mine except those things--in the Fair House."
"Oh, yes, I have. I've seen the drawings you submitted at the
Synthesis. I've just seen them. I may as well confess it: I asked to
see them."
"You did! And--and--well?" she fluttered back.
"It will take hard work."
"Oh, I know that!"
"And it will take time."
"Yes, that is the worst of it. I don't see how I can give the time."
"Why?" he asked.
"Oh, because--I can't very well be away from home." She colored as she
said this, for she could have been away from home well enough if she
had the money. "I thought I would come and try it for one winter."
He said lightly, "Perhaps you'll get so much interested that you'll
find you can take more time."
"I don't know," she answered.
"Well, then, you must get in all the work you can this winter. Block
hands are well enough, but they're not the whole of art nor the whole
preparation for it."
"Oh, I've joined the sketch class," she said.
"Yes, that's well enough, too," he assented. "But I want you to come
and paint with me," he suddenly added.
"You? Me?" she gasped.
"Yes," he returned. "I'll tell you what I mean. I've been asked to
paint a lady. She'll have to come to my place, and I want you to come
with her, and see what you can do, too. I hope it doesn't seem too
extraordinary?" he broke off, at sight of the color in her face.
"Oh, no," said Cornelia. She wondered what Charmian would say if she
knew this; she wondered what the Synthesis would say; the Synthesis
held Mr. Ludlow in only less honor than the regular Synthesis
instructors, and Mr. Ludlow had asked her to come and paint with him!
She took shelter in the belief that Mrs. Burton must have put him up to
it, somehow, but she ought to say something grateful, or at least
something. She found herself stupidly and aimlessly asking, "Is it Mrs.
Westley?" as if that had anything to do with the matter.
"No; I don't see why I didn't tell you at once," said Ludlow. "It's
your friend, Miss Maybough."
Cornelia relieved her nerves with a laugh. "I wonder how she ever kept
from telling it."
"Perhaps she didn't know. I've only just got a letter from her mother,
asking me to paint her, and I haven't decided yet that I shall do it."
She thought that he wanted her to ask him why, and she asked, "What are
you waiting for?"
"For two reasons. Do you want the real reason first?" he asked, smiling
at her.