The blue of the lake had faded into grey--a grey that looked thick and
heavy and that lay impassive under the blasting sunlight. Its coolness
was gone and its vigor. Above, in _The Journal_ office, where the shades
were drawn down to keep out the heat, the vigor seemed gone too. The
machinery went on smoothly enough. At Horatia’s desk a young woman,
fresh from a New York school of journalism, was typing an excellent
article on what suffrage had done in the recent campaign. At the
surrounding desks the reporters struck off brief histories of automobile
accidents, police raids, city happenings. In Langley’s room, the pale
little stenographer took dictation as he walked up and down and worked
out his editorials. There were editorials on the street car franchise,
that hardy perennial in city problems, on the new appointment of the
city planning commission, on the latest foreign tangle, on the eternal
disentangling of the knot of political complications at Washington.
Clearcut and well-phrased, his words came on each subject, so that the
stenographer hurried to keep up with the flow of his thought, and yet
something intangible had gone out of his thinking as out of the office
atmosphere. The office was no longer a place of romance--an
adventure--a laboratory in which to solve world problems--a crusade
against corruption as it had been for the past six months. It was a
work-shop, a clean, orderly work-shop--and that was all. They all missed
Horatia. During the first week of her absence Bob Brotherton had a
maddening way of calling constant attention to it and bewailing it. He
needed her for this and for that and he said facetiously that there was
no use in sprucing himself up any more. No one cared for him and he
would wear old clothes until she came back.
Jim had not realized how much Horatia meant to the staff. His own
devotion to her had been so absorbing that he had not noticed the
relations of the others. Now a stream of comments about her seemed to be
floating about the office all day long. To excuse her outrageously long
and indefinite vacation he had been compelled to say that she was not
well and the staff felt a shadow over them. They were forever finding
things in the day’s work which would have amused Horatia, forever
recalling this or that incident which had amused her, forever wishing
she were back. Langley alone did not comment on her, but Bob would say
wisely when a particularly caustic comment came out of the inner office,
“He’s not himself. He misses the young lady. He’s a different man when
she’s around.”
With a great deal of wisdom he did not make that remark openly to
Langley.
_The Journal_ was prospering more and more. It was no longer a paper to
apologize for or worry about. It was getting a very substantial
circulation and more and more advertisers. Jim realized that this
success was due not only to the paper itself, but also to the fact that
there was coming to be a place for a clean paper in the city--that more
and more people liked their news straight and unadulterated and wanted
to read comment on the news with which they did not necessarily a priori
agree. He was stopped more and more often by old friends and urged to
come to the “house”; more and more often he found himself deferred to in
political discussions at the club as the judgment of last appeal. He
liked it all and he improved under it. He kept up scrupulously after
Horatia had gone as if to show her that he would not let her work be
wasted. Yet there was a change in him and in the quality of his vigor.
He was a man working for a principle and not an object, whereas before
he had been working for a principle and Horatia. The eagerness had gone
out of his eyes. Sometimes after the office was empty he would go into
the outer office and sitting at Horatia’s desk write her
letters--letters which left him sometimes pale and exhausted and
sometimes set and stern. But he had one invariable habit. He tore the
completed ink-written papers into tiny pieces and stuffed them into the
wastebasket before he left the office and went home. There was also
often a curious look on his face as he looked over his mail, and
sometimes he would lay an envelope carefully aside until everything
else had been attended to and then fall upon it as if he were famished.
The envelopes were rather more frequently present at first than later
after Horatia had left town.
In the hurt anger of her vacation’s first twelve hours she had quite
decided not to write to him at all. During the second twenty-four hours
she wrote ten letters and mailed one brief little note saying that she
was sorry if she had hurt him and that she wanted above all things not
to hurt his work or affect _The Journal_, stated where several of her
copy sheets had been left and urged him to take a vacation himself and
get a genuine rest. She ended by saying that Maud wanted her to go with
them to a country place near Lake Habitat and that she thought she
probably would go. Jim looked a little grim at that because Lake Habitat
was where the Wentworth cottage was and he knew Maud. But he read on to
her conclusion, a conclusion so honest, so sweet and so suffering that
the tears came into his eyes.
“It’s so hard, Jim. I feel empty and faint and I try to move about but I
seem like waxwork. Everything seems awfully mixed up in me. Nothing in
the world matters except you and yet we mustn’t fling ourselves blindly
into sentimental fervors if we really don’t belong together in every
way. I can’t write. Good-night--and God bless you.”
That was the last letter of such a kind that Jim received. The next one
was merely a note telling him that she was surely going with her sister
and giving her address in case her successor on _The Journal_ or Jim,
himself, should need her. It was a much more controlled note and of
course Jim did not know that it, like its predecessor, had been written
after much vain effort and tearing up of letter paper. There had been a
day when Horatia, who had been shopping in town alone, had almost gone
to _The Journal_ office. She hesitated and trying to gather resolution
went into a tea room and ordered some iced drink. The room was crowded
and another woman coming in sat down opposite her before they looked at
each other. It was Grace Walsh. With no change of color Grace rose, but
Horatia put out a detaining hand.
“Don’t move--please.”
“I’d like to stay if you don’t mind,” said Grace sincerely. “There are
one or two things I didn’t write you. My new companion in the flat is
quite anxious to stay on there. I suggested that you’d be undoubtedly
willing to sublet.”
“Gladly.”
“Are you still with your sister?”
“Yes--I’m going to the country with her tomorrow.”
“It’s your vacation, I suppose?”
It was very hard to dissemble before those calm, disillusioning, serious
eyes of Grace.
“A kind of vacation,” said Horatia, a little heavily.
A strange look came over Grace’s face--a look of anger, the look which a
mother has when her child is ill-treated.
“You’ve been suffering.” Without any ado of conscious readjustments they
passed from an attitude of armed neutrality to a disarmed, a benevolent
neutrality.
“Yes.”
“Some man--some damned man--no, don’t tell me--poor little
Horatia--won’t you believe me when I tell you none of them is worth it?
I wish to heaven that women would stop letting themselves suffer.
They’ve borne the emotional burdens long enough. Why shouldn’t we take
men as they take us--as part of the day’s work? Look here, Horatia,
you’re worth any ten men I ever saw. Don’t let them wear you down.”
“I’m not.”
“You look frazzled.”
“I thought you liked men,” said Horatia, irrelevantly, “and disliked
women.”
“I like men and I like women when they are individuals--but women in
relation to men are usually unspeakable--and men in relation to women
are vile. We need to stand alone, Horatia--to shake things off. To
feel--and to know when to stop feeling.”
“To stop feeling,” repeated Horatia.
Grace leaned over and put her hand on the other girl’s.
“It’s hard--but it can be done,” she said and there was almost a
mesmeric quality in her sure, slow voice.
“I think we do need to learn that,” agreed Horatia.
She rose to go.
“Some time when I’m a lot bigger and better and more controlled and not
so cheap, I want to talk with you, Grace,” she said; “I know you’re
right in lots of things but the addition of your ideas is wrong. The
grand total of your philosophy is wrong. It’s got to be wrong. I won’t
have it right. But we do need to learn to stop feeling.”
Grace’s look followed her with a queer yearning in it--her eyes seemed
to say that she had not finished all she wanted to say.
Horatia went out to the street. The incoherent conversation had checked
her desire to see Langley. It had given her a cue. She would stop
feeling. Instead of to _The Journal_ office she went to a large shop and
tried on hats before a many-sided mirror and was surprised to find
herself succeeding in her deliberate mental effort to get her mind away
from its pain. The hats interested her. Each one appeared to change her
character and she began to speculate on how she would like to change her
type during the summer with Maud and the Clapps and Wentworths. The
saleswoman brought her the kind of hats she usually ordered--large
sailors--plain wing-trimmed shapes, but Horatia laid them aside.
“That is the girl I am escaping from,” she said to herself, removing a
straight-brimmed gray sailor, and she pointed to one on a model. It was
of plain soft yellow chiffon and drooped a little about her face. Under
it she looked provocative, as if deliberately intending to charm.
She had never tried on such a hat before and she lingered before her
image in the mirror while the saleswoman poured out tributes.
“I’ll take it,” she said, and proceeded with unparalleled extravagance
to choose two more, one of black with soft waving feathers and one of
rose felt that crushed itself into different shapes on her head. Then,
urged by the saleswoman, who was gathering momentum, she bought a rose
sweater to wear with the rose hat, drew a check that half appalled and
half amused her and went home to Maud. Maud, receiving three hat boxes
next morning, was amazed and delighted. Evidently Horatia intended to
play the game. She pressed a yellow frock on Horatia which she insisted
was necessary to the well being of the yellow hat and mourned because
she herself could not wear yellow. Horatia was very gay. She pirouetted
in her hats before Harvey and to her amazement found that she was
shaking off her worries and her unhappiness. She wanted to go to the
country place and be still more happy. She insisted that unless they
made it decently gay there she wasn’t going to stay. And while Harvey
chuckled and Maud opened her eyes she danced upstairs to her room,
closed the door, flung the yellow hat in the corner and wept into Maud’s
Madeira counterpane, suddenly intolerably homesick for nothing in the
world so much as her typewriter in _The Journal_ office, the twinkle of
the lake under her window and the sound of Jim’s voice in the next room,
giving orders, telephoning, dictating.