It was an amazingly pleasant lunch. Horatia was not too sophisticated in
this matter of eating with men in public restaurants and under the
flattering charm of Jim Langley’s interest and attention she sparkled
with excitement and response. She liked him. She liked his easy careless
manners and his half-mocking, half-kind indulgence towards her remarks
and the real amusement in his smile and the skill he showed in ordering
food. And Langley across from her, along with his faint note of
self-mockery, showed that he enjoyed himself too, for Horatia’s face was
young and her mind was clear and above all she did not seem tired but
fresh and vigorous. He asked her about herself, subtly keeping the
conversation on her, and she told him of the house on the hill and her
married sister and her aunt and uncle and the neighbors.
“They are kind, you know,” she finished, “but they are so simple that
they all call me intellectual and set me apart as queer.”
“And you aren’t queer at all,” said Langley, “you’re a perfect product
of what the nice cleanliness of West Park would produce with a college
education superimposed on it. Why don’t you leave things alone, young
lady? Your realities may be stupid but they are clean and straight. Why
do you want to get tangled up and wrinkled up? Wouldn’t the West Park
High School perhaps be a better solution than the newspaper? Or a good
husband?”
She smiled at him.
“You smile now but later you’ll be sorry. You think you know about
troubles because you’ve studied sociology and heard a lot of war
lecturers. But you really are quite untouched. And life hurts. Even in
West Park it must hurt, but in a city, in work--it probably will hurt
much more. And besides the world isn’t the place it used to be, with
clean-cut issues and a welcome for the young romanticist. It is worn
with war, and very tired and a bit unscrupulous and there are no ideals
left which haven’t been tampered with----”
“But we have to live in it just the same,” argued Horatia.
“You might enter a convent.” At which they both laughed, for it was so
absurd to think of Horatia in a convent.
“Your people will probably object to your taking a job on my paper,”
said Langley at length; “maybe you will when you hear more about me. I
can’t pay you enough to make it worth your while financially. But
perhaps if you want to come and will take the work I can give you and
try to increase our circulation, I can find a desk for you anyway.” And
having committed himself, the editor looked as if he were calling
himself a fool in his thoughts.
“I’ll work for anything you’ll pay me,” said Horatia, “and I don’t think
anyone can frighten me away from your paper, Mr. Langley. When can I
come?”
“Good luck to begin on Monday.”
“I shall be at the office on Monday morning,” she promised, with a
thrill, a young thrill in her voice.
She left the restaurant with all the spirit of the morning reinforced.
Friday--Saturday--Sunday--then she would be at work. It wasn’t hard to
find work. She would try very hard to make what she wrote interesting
and possibly soon people would be buying the newspaper to read what she
had written, and Langley would say--even so do fresh college graduates
dream. But the college graduate of ten years back walked back to the
office over the lake and told Bob Brotherton apropos of nothing that
there was always a new way in which to make a damned fool of oneself.
What he was to do with her, why he had taken on an added responsibility
just when _The Journal_ seemed on its last legs were doubtless
sufficiently irritating questions. But more irritating must have been
the flare-up of impulsiveness, the response to youth and romance, which
he had been deliberately trying to deaden in himself and which he had
hoped were permanently deadened. He had waded through realism and
discouragements to a kind of refusal to care about anything more and
here he was lending a hand to someone who would go through the same
weary mess. She would be far better off in her stupid suburbanism.
Someone would marry her and use the youth and the freshness to decorate
another suburban home somewhere. She shouldn’t be encouraged. The
persistence of the devil that had made all that old stuff leap up in him
again!
Horatia went on to Maud’s. Maud was her sister, who had married to the
full approbation of West Park and her own satisfaction. It came upon
Horatia in the midst of her excitement at the beautiful way things were
turning out that she was sorry for people who couldn’t have all this
interest in their lives and particularizing she discovered a localized
regret that Maud’s life wasn’t more colorful. She hadn’t seen her sister
often that summer. Maud’s two babies had come close together, and on the
advent of the second they had moved from their first apartment to a
house on one of the city boulevards, which pleased Aunt Caroline
immensely. Horatia had been in the house only once or twice, for Maud
brought the children to West Park on Sundays and that had been almost
enough sisterly intercourse for Horatia. But now she wanted to spread
out her inspiration and she turned her steps towards Elm Boulevard.
It was a newly-built section of the city which took great pride in its
residential restrictions and its extremely up-to-date houses of brick or
stucco, each of them representing a vague travesty on some architectural
period or “style.” The sleek, small lawns were chopped off neatly, one
from another, by little hedges which were not too high to hide any of
the beauties or improvements of the place from the passing motorist.
Well polished cars stood in front of some of the houses, children in
smocked frocks and gaily colored half-socks played in the lawn-swings or
walked up and down the sidewalks. It was mid-afternoon and the
comfortable-prosperous were enjoying themselves. Horatia felt the still
orderliness of the atmosphere and realized again why Aunt Caroline was
given to occasional remarks about how “well Maud had done.”
She turned in at her sister’s house and Maud, who was sitting on the
porch with her baby in her arms, jumped up to welcome her volubly and to
introduce her to two other ladies as cool and plump and white-clad as
Maud herself.
“Did you walk out this wretchedly hot day--all the way from town?”
Horatia had not felt the heat but she put a suddenly self-conscious hand
up to her hair and hat under her sister’s solicitous inquiry. She found
she was hot and moist beside these cool suburban ladies.
“I am hot,” she admitted. “May I go up and wash?”
The inside of the house was pleasanter than she had remembered. It was
cool, its shades were drawn against the heat. Clean, pretty colors
everywhere, and as she passed the children’s room the whiteness and
pinkness of it charmed her.
She went down to the porch refreshed and admiring. Even if the Williams
had chosen this location where there was no lake view and the houses
were rather closely set, it had distinct advantages. She told Maud so
and Maud was obviously greatly pleased.
“I knew I was right in insisting on this part of town,” she said. “A
lake view is all right and so is the country. But unless you have oodles
of money and three or four cars and a regular estate it is much better
to settle in one of the good residence districts.”
“What makes a residence district good?” asked Horatia, quizzically,
though she knew perfectly well.
The three suburban ladies looked a little shocked.
“Why the people, the people who live here. This district is restricted.
You can’t build houses here that cost less than twelve thousand. That
keeps out undesirables.”
“I see,” said Horatia, waiving her rights to controversy.
“Of course, with growing children,” began Maud in an instructive
matronly tone.
Growing children, it appeared, were all important to the three ladies.
Horatia dropped out of the conversation but kept a look of bright
intelligence focused on her informants. Growing children must be
carefully watched and not allowed to make acquaintances among those
whose residence districts were not restricted. They “picked up
everything.” They were the subject of a long conversation which went
from schools to carrots. The interest of the three ladies never flagged.
Horatia held the baby in her lap and played with its wisps of hair,
hardly attending to what was said. She vaguely heard the talk pass from
undesirable children to undesirable mothers and the voices became more
tense. The names were nothing to her and she was in no mood to combat
the intolerances of the others. The baby was so small and pink and clean
and desirable. Maud must have a lot of fun. It must be fun to share
children with a man---- She heard a familiar name and broke off her
thoughts abruptly. What was that they were saying?
“She was seen downtown having lunch with that Jim Langley--and you know
what he is.”
“Oh, she doesn’t care what she does,” said Maud. “Whatever happened
between her and her husband--do you know?”
“They say that after their baby died, she refused flatly to have any
more--and you know how men are. If a woman can’t be tactful about those
things and the way she feels--she said outrageous things about not being
able to endure more such suffering. And yet when the child was alive she
was hardly ever home.”
“That’s the way with those women,” said Maud sagely.
“And then running around with Jim Langley----”
The sick little feeling in Horatia grew acute. She had heard the name
rightly.
“Who’s the pernicious gentleman?” she asked lightly enough.
“Jim Langley--no one you ought to know.” Maud was quick to adopt the
tone of chaperonage.
“But I should know all about him,” persisted Horatia, easily, “because
he’s just given me a job.”
There was a dangerous little pause. Then Maud spoke.
“You’re joking.”
“No--truly. He promised to give me a position on _The Journal_.
Reporting, I suppose. I went to all the newspapers this morning.”
A flush had mounted to her sister’s cheeks.
“Horatia,” she said with a tense air of lightness, “where did you get
this sudden notion of going to work at all?”
Horatia felt a little sorry. She realized that Maud was being humiliated
by the turn the conversation had taken. But still she did want to know
about Jim Langley.
“Of course I’ll want to do something. No one sits around any more with
folded hands waiting to be married.”
This was a trifle better. It at least showed the callers that the work
project was a freak and not a necessity. Maud decided to try to pass it
off as a joke and reckon with Horatia later, but before she could speak
one of her guests was inquiring:
“Really on Jim Langley’s paper, Miss Grant?”
“Why not?” asked Horatia. “He seems pleasant enough. What is the matter
with him?”
“Horatia hasn’t been home except summers for four years,” said Maud
shortly. “Why, he’s got a bad reputation, and was mixed up with a
dreadful scandal here. He was named in the Hubbell divorce suit.”
“And he didn’t marry Mrs. Hubbell.”
“Should he?” Horatia sought instruction.
Maud rose with an air of exasperation.
“You shouldn’t go about alone to newspaper offices, Horatia,” she said.
“It’s ridiculous. As for your working on _The Journal_, you just talk to
Harvey and see what he says. Come, let’s see the garden.”
Horatia saw the garden obediently and the guests’ departure, followed
close by the bedtime ceremonies at which Maud helped and presided,
forced the matter out of the way. It was only as they sat at dinner that
the topic rose again. Maud had composed herself and, considering that
Horatia’s conversation had merely shown inexperience and ignorance, was
no longer angry. She was rarely angry for any length of time. Now,
looking at her husband over the neat central fern-dish, she said,
half-jocularly, “You’ll really have to take Horatia in hand, Harvey. She
is dreadful. Here she went and saw this Jim Langley person today and
asked him for a position on his paper.”
“But the point is, Maud, that he gave me a job.”
Harvey looked at his sister-in-law and came at the question from a man
angle.
“You don’t want to work on his paper, Horatia. If you want that kind of
work, try either _The Tribune_ or _The Reporter_. Langley’s paper is one
of those enterprises that run themselves into the ground early. He’s
always uncertain--no policy, no circulation to amount to anything. And
then of course--Langley, himself.”
Horatia leaned towards him.
“But tell me about it, Harvey. There was a chorus of horror when I
mentioned his name this afternoon. And he was the only gentleman I met
this morning. I did try _The Tribune_ and _The Reporter_. I even tried
_The Buzz-saw_.”
Harvey threw back his head and roared.
“That’s a modern young woman. Why didn’t you take a job on that?”
“They offered me one--a scandal column, but I turned it down. Seriously,
tell me about Mr. Langley.”
“Why, there’s not so much to tell,” said Harvey. “He’s in pretty bad
odor, that’s all. The women are all interested in him because he was
co-respondent in a divorce suit. Isn’t that it, Maud?”
“Don’t be silly, Harvey. You know what he is and you ought to tell
Horatia.”
Harvey tried again with that disinclination to hurt the personal
reputation of a man which most men show in such discussion.
“Jack Hubbell sued his wife for divorce and named Langley, who’d been
philandering a lot. Langley always did that. He was a University man
about my time and a tremendous fellow. Everybody worshipped his
footsteps.”
“I’ve heard of him there,” said Horatia.
“He had a little money and started this newspaper, which would have been
all right if he hadn’t refused to tie himself up with any political
party and hadn’t also refused to make any concessions to advertisers.
Seemed to have an idea that newspapers are run like books. Then he got a
lot of booze-fighters working for him and sort of lost his grip. That’s
all there’s to it. When his money gives out his paper will go to the
wall.”
“But the divorce suit?”
“You’re as bad as the rest of them,” sighed poor Harvey. “Stick to the
scandal. It never came to trial at all. Hubbell killed himself after the
suit was filed.”
Maud finished.
“And he didn’t marry the woman or make any attempt to justify the
situation. Just stopped going places and refused to explain anything.
Naturally people assume the worst.”
Horatia felt a little pale. She could hear his kind voice, with the
tinge of bitterness in it. And his remark, “Probably you won’t want to
work for me after you hear what people say.” Well, she had heard. And
she did want to work for him. They’d outlawed him from their silly
society because he’d held his tongue. Probably none of it was true. And
if it was true it didn’t matter. She brought her last reflection into
words.
“But after all it doesn’t much matter, does it? He doesn’t want me to
marry him or to take stock in his newspaper. All he offers is a job and
even if all these things are as dreadful as they are reported to be,
they don’t enter in. I’m old enough to be incorruptible surely. And I
need newspaper experience.”
“I think, maybe I could get you on _The Tribune_ if I talked to
Weissner,” said Harvey.
“There,” said Maud, “why didn’t you come to us first? Of course it’s the
thing just now to work, since the war. Dorothy Macdonald is studying
stenography and you know how rich she is. And lots of others. But you
might have asked us or Uncle George.”
“I wanted to find work for myself,” said Horatia, the memory of that
morning’s somewhat torn glory still shining in her eyes. “And I’ve
promised Mr. Langley, Maud. I couldn’t work on another paper. It would
be too insulting.”
“You don’t want to ruin your reputation and the reputation of all the
rest of us, do you?” asked Maud sharply.
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, you know, Maud,” interposed her
husband. “Langley pays his bills and is in good standing at his clubs.
Of course he isn’t getting anywhere, but it wouldn’t hurt Horatia’s
reputation. Nothing hurts a girl’s reputation any more,” added Harvey,
chuckling. “Debutantes appear in banks and come delivering laundry. You
never know when you’ll come on them next. Let her do as she likes.”
“You’re a darling, Harvey. And I promise you, Maud, that I’ll tell you
all the scandal from the inside and you can flourish it, copyrighted,
around the boulevard.”
At which sally they all laughed; but the last thing Horatia heard that
night as she climbed into Maud’s guest-room bed was Maud’s voice from
her dressing-room, somewhat muffled but distinct, as she talked to her
husband.
“I don’t like it, Harvey. He’s probably fascinated her, and they say he
hasn’t any principles.”
“Oh, come dear, let it wear itself out. Horatia’s not a child and she
can look out for herself. Come here, sweetheart, and take a look at
these white flannels. Are they fit for tennis?”