That autumn, with its heats and brown fogs and sharp frosts, was the
happiest time in Sarah Maitland's life--the happiest time, at least,
since those brief months of marriage;--_Blair was in the Business!_ "If
only his father could see him!" she used to say to herself. Of course,
she had moments of disappointment; once or twice moments of anger,
even; and once, at any rate, she had a moment of fright. She had
summoned her son peremptorily to go with her to watch a certain
experiment. Blair appeared, shrinking, bored, absent-minded, nearly an
hour later than the time she had set. That put her in a bad humor to
start with; but as they were crossing the Yards, her irritation
suddenly deepened into dismay: Blair, his lip drooping with disgust at
the sights and sounds about him, his hands in his pockets, was lounging
along behind her, and she, realizing that he was not at her side,
stopped and looked back. He was standing still, looking up, his eyes
radiant, his lips parted with delight.
"What is it?" she called. He did not hear her; he stood there, gazing
at three white butterflies that were zigzagging into a patch of pale
blue sky. How they had come into this black and clamorous spot, why
they had left their fields of goldenrod and asters farther down the
river, who can say? But here they were, darting up and up, crossing,
dipping, dancing in the smoky sunshine that flooded thinly the noisy
squalor of the Yards. Blair, looking at them, said, under his breath,
in pure delight, "Yes, just like the high notes. A flight of violin
notes!"
"Blair!" came the impatient voice; "what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"I was just going to tell you that a high silicon pig--"
"My dear mother," he interrupted wearily, "there is something else in
the world than pig. I saw three butterflies--"
"Butterflies!"
She stood in the cinder pathway in absolute consternation. Was her son
a fool? For a moment she was so startled that she was not even angry.
"Come on," she said soberly; and they went into the Works in silence.
That evening, when he dropped into supper, she watched him closely, and
by and by her face lightened a little. Of course, to stop and gape up
into the air was silly; but certainly he was talking intelligently
enough now,--though it was only to Elizabeth Ferguson, who happened to
be taking supper with them. Yes, he did not look like a fool. "He _has_
brains," she said to herself, frowning, "but why doesn't he use 'em?"
She sighed, and called out loudly, "Harris! Corn-beef!" But as she
hacked off a slab of boiled meat, she wondered why on earth Nannie
asked Elizabeth to tea so often, and especially why she asked her on
those evenings when Blair happened to be at home. "Elizabeth is such a
little blatherskite," she reflected, good-naturedly, "the boy doesn't
get a chance to talk to me!" Then it occurred to her that perhaps he
came because Elizabeth came? for it was evident that she amused him.
Well, Sarah Maitland had no objection. To secure her son for her dingy
supper table she was willing to put up with Elizabeth or any other
girl. But certainly Nannie invited her very often. "I'll come in
to-night, if you'll invite Elizabeth," Blair would bribe her. And
Nannie, like Mrs. Maitland herself, would have invited anybody to gain
an hour of her brother's company.
Those four weeks had committed Blair Maitland to his first real
passion. He was violently in love, and now he acknowledged it. The
moment had come when his denials became absurd, even to himself, so he
no longer said he did not love her; he merely said he would never let
her know he loved her. "If she doesn't know it, I am square with
David," he argued. Curiously enough, when he said "David," he always
thought of David's mother. He was profoundly unhappy, and yet
exhilarated--there is always exhilaration in the aching melancholy of
hopeless love; but somewhere, back in his mind, there was probably the
habit of hope. He had always had everything he wanted, so why should
not fate be kind now?--of course without any questionable step on his
part. "I will never tell her," he assured himself; the words stabbed
him, but he meant them. He only wished, irrationally enough, that Mrs.
Richie might know how agonizingly honorable he was.
Elizabeth herself did not know it; she had not the slightest idea that
he was in love with her. There were probably two reasons for an
unconsciousness which was certainly rather unusual, for a woman almost
always knows. Some tentacles of the soul seem brushed by the
brutalities of the material fact, and she knows and retreats--or
advances. Elizabeth did not know, and so did not retreat. Perhaps one
reason for her naive stupidity was the commonplaceness of her relations
with Blair. She had known him all her life, and except for that one
childish playing at love, which, if she ever remembered it, seemed to
her entirely funny, she had never thought of him in any other way than
as "Nannie's brother"; and Nannie was, for all practical purposes, her
sister. Another reason was her entire absorption in her own
love-affair. Ever since she had learned of the little legacy, the
ardent thought had lurked in her mind that it might, somehow, in spite
of David's absurd theories about shoestrings, hasten her marriage.
"With all this money, why on earth should we wait?" she fretted to
Nannie.
"My dear! you couldn't live on the interest of it!"
"I don't know why not," Elizabeth said, wilfully.
"Goose!" Nannie said, much amused. "No; the only thing you could do
would be to live on your principal. Why don't you do that?"
Elizabeth looked suddenly thoughtful. When she went home she repeated
Nannie's careless words to Miss White, who nibbled doubtfully, and said
she never heard of such a thing. But after that, for days, they talked
of household economies, and with Cherry-pie's help Elizabeth managed to
pare down those estimates which had so diverted her uncle and Mrs.
Richie. With such practical preoccupations no wonder she was
unconscious of the change in Blair. Suddenly, like a stone flung
through the darkness at a comfortably lighted domestic window, she saw,
with a crash of fright, a new and unknown Blair, a man who was a
complete and dreadful stranger.
It was dusk; she had come in to see Nannie and talk over that
illuminating suggestion: _why not live on the principal?_ But Nannie
was not at home, so Elizabeth sat down in the firelight in the parlor
to wait for her. She sat there, smiling to herself, eager to tell
Nannie that she had argued Cherry-pie into admitting that the plan of
"living on the principal" was at least feasible; and also that she had
sounded her uncle, and believed that if she and David and Cherry-pie
attacked him, all together, they could make him consent!--"But of
course David will simply have to insist," she thought, a little
apprehensively, "for Uncle Robert is so awfully sensible." Then she
began to plan just how she must tell David of this brilliant idea, and
make him understand that they need not wait; "as soon as he really
understands it, he won't listen to any 'prudence' from Uncle!" she
said, her eyes crinkling into a laugh. But how should she make him
understand? She must admit at once (because he was so silly and
practical) that, of course, the interest on her money would not support
them. Then she must show him her figures--David was always crazy about
figures! Well, she had them; she had brought them with her to show
Nannie; they proved conclusively that she and David could live on her
capital for at least two years. It would certainly last as long as
that, perhaps even for two years and a half! When they had exhausted
it, why, then, David's income from his profession would be large
enough; large enough even if--she blushed nobly, sitting there alone
looking into the fire; "even if!" Thinking this all out, absorbed and
joyous, a little jealous because this practical idea had come to Nannie
and not to her, she did not hear Blair enter. He stood beside her a
moment in silence before she was aware of his presence. Then she looked
up with a start, and leaning back in her chair, the firelight in her
face, smiled at him: "Where's Nannie?"
"I don't know. Church, I think. But I am glad of it. I would
rather--see you alone." His voice trembled.
He had come in, in all the unrest of misery; he had said to himself
that he was going to "tell Nannie, anyhow." The impulse to "tell" had
become almost a physical necessity, and when he came into the room, the
whole unhappy, hopeless business was hot on his lips. The mere
unexpectedness of finding her here, alone, was like a touch against
that precariously balanced sense of honor, which was his god, and had
so far kept him, as he expressed it to himself, "square with David."
To Elizabeth, sitting there in friendly idleness by the fire, the
thrill in his voice was like some palpable touch against her breast.
Without knowing why, she put her hand up, as if warding something off.
She was bewildered; her heart began to beat violently. Instantly, at
the sight of the lovely, startled face, the rein broke. He forgot
David, he forgot his god, with whom he had been juggling words for the
last two months, he forgot everything, except the single, eternal,
primitive purpose: _there was the woman he wanted_. And all his life,
if he had wanted anything, he had had it. With a stifled cry, he caught
her hand: "Elizabeth--I love you!"
"Stop!" she said, outraged and astounded; "stop this instant!"
"I _must_ speak to you."
"You shall not speak to me!" She was on her feet, trying with trembling
fingers to put on her hat.
"Elizabeth, wait!" he panted, "wait; listen--I must speak--" And before
she knew it, he had caught her in his arms, and she felt his breath on
her mouth. She pushed him from her, gasping almost, and looking at him
in anger and horror.
"How dare you?"
"Listen; only one minute!"
"I will not listen one second. Let me out of this room--out of this
house!"
"Elizabeth, forgive me! I am mad!"
"You _are_ mad. I will never forgive you. Stand aside. Open the door."
"Elizabeth, I love you! I love you! Won't you listen--?"
But she had gone, flaming with anger and humiliation.
When Nannie came in an hour later, her brother was sitting with his
head bowed in his hands. The room was quite dark; the fire had died
down. The fire of passion had died down, too, leaving only shame and
misery and despair. His eyes, hidden in his bent arms, were wet; he was
shaken to the depths of his being. For the first time in his life he
had come against a thwarted desire. The education that should have been
spread over his whole twenty-five years, an education that would have
taught him how to meet the negations of life, of duty, of pity even,
burst upon him now in one shattering moment. He had broken his law, his
own law; and, mercifully, his law was breaking him. When he rose to his
feet as his sister came into the room, he staggered under the shock of
such concentrated education.
"Blair! What _is_ it?" she said, catching his arm.
"Nothing. Nothing. I've been a fool. Let me go."
"But tell me! I'm frightened. Blair!"
"It's nothing, I tell you. Nannie! Will she ever look at me again? Oh
no, no; she will never forgive me! Why was I such a fool?"
"What _are_ you talking about?" poor Nannie said. It came into her head
that he had suddenly gone out of his senses.
Blair sank down again in a heap on his chair.
"I've been a damned fool. I'm in love with Elizabeth, and--and I told
her so."