Her name was in newspaper headlines before she was out of her
teens; and many and many a time since. She wished to be a
doctor, and the Medical School would not take her in. And
shortly this slim girl, with her sweetly-cut chin and ethereal
eyes, had raised the whole State on the issue of principle thus
thrown down: Did a woman have the right to study, or not? She
stormed the courts for an injunction, she set the legislature
by the ears for a special act. The story of her personal
interview with the Governor, at the height of the disturbance,
is often told to this day; but never by any friend of the
Governor's. And then, when she was within a step of winning the
long fight, her father died suddenly and she faced the
immediate necessity of earning a living.
Farther along, the author's eye found the particular passage that had
been in his mind from the start, the part about the National League for
Education Reform. Having recounted how the bequest of Rufus B. Zecker's
millions had "assured the permanence and ultimate triumph of the
League's programme," the generous "puff" went on:--
What the National League contemplates is nothing less than the
remaking of our entire educational system, on the basis of a
new perception of truth, namely: that education is, not
learning at all, but purely the process of fitting the
individual for effectual relations with his (or her)
environment. With the League's propaganda to that end, under
the brilliant leadership of Horace Gurney Ames, Miss Wing has
been closely associated for the past seven years. Her work here
has been, indeed, the dominant part of her career....
The dominant part of her life, he would better have written. And that
was precisely the trouble.
The sheets dropped from the young man's hands, and he gazed unwinking at
the green translucence of his lamp. His mind skipped back to a day in
early September, when Mary and her mother had come home from their two
weeks in the metropolis--Mrs. Wing still looking rather crushed from the
overwhelming rush of New York, Mary radiant with the hope that before
long she might go back to New York, to stay there the rest of her life.
For on that journey she had abruptly learned that the League directors
had their eyes upon her with reference to their General Secretaryship,
which was to become vacant next March. Undoubtedly, the brilliant Dr.
Ames had sounded her pretty directly on this point. Undoubtedly, too, it
would be another long step up for Mary, making her, in the educational
world at least, a figure of national consequence. Once again, of course,
Charles Garrott had been delighted. And yet it was clear to him now that
his Modernity had first felt conservative reactions on that very day.
Through the shut door of the bedroom there came a gentle snoring. After
the day's secretarial labor, Judge Blenso slept well. Charles rose and
walked his carpet, much worn with a writer's meditative pacing.
The wisest of us generalize from the instances that lie nearest us. How
far this young man's views on Woman had been moulded by contrasting the
maturing uselessness of his pupil Grace Chorister, say, with the fine
efficience of Miss Wing, he himself could not have said. But at least he
knew that Mary Wing had long embodied the best of the whole Movement for
him. He had held her up, in season and out, as a perfect example of the
New Woman at her best. And Mary Wing was that, he declared it now; the
real thing, as different as possible from the hollow shams of the
Redmantle Club. Of course--of _course_--she had a right, just the same
right that a man had, to put away her mother, her family and friends,
and follow away the star of her work. But ... if only she showed a
little more appreciation of values apart from My Career; if only you
could imagine Mary sometimes speaking of Being a Daughter and Being a
Sister.
Yes; those were the words that rose naturally in his mind. Beyond doubt,
Mary Wing's cousin from the backwoods had given a push to Charles
Garrott's thought; he would have been the first to admit that. Not
merely had Miss Angela happened to body forth, in the most pleasing,
unconscious way, that very type which all Redmantlers so derided; but
further, she had artlessly used a phrase which, to his authoritative
mind, had helped to scientize her case at a bound. For of course the
most scientific modern demand as to Miss Angela's class came simply down
to this, that all Temporary Spinsters should have some regular business
to occupy their hands and heads. Very well, then, laughed this little
girl: What about the _Business_ of Making Homes?
The phrase, connoting so much more than mere "keeping house," was worthy
of a writer. And when had this other doctrine grown so strong and sure,
that the Business of Making a Career, of Developing My Ego, was
necessarily the biggest business in the world?
In the silence of the large dim Studio, the young man stood stroking the
bridge of his nose, somewhat worriedly. It was a well-cut bridge, and
held three brown freckles.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he himself was helping
to spread the egoistic doctrine referred to. He remembered his novel, in
short: his Old Novel, as he already called it, albeit it was his only
one, and he and Judge Blenso had completed it but two weeks ago, to a
day. This novel, in manuscript, was now in the hands of the great house
of Willcox Brothers Company, whom Charles, after due thought, had
selected as his publishers. Willcox's offer, and the contract, might
come by any mail now.
To the writing, and infinite rewriting, of this first work had gone the
scant leisure of more than four years. Its title-page read: "BONDWOMEN:
A Novel of Modern Marriage." (The Judge had first typed the title
BANDWOMEN, as if it were a Novel of Female Bandsmen, which had annoyed
Charles very much.) Considering the cunning with which he had labored to
"keep the story moving," it could scarcely be doubted, that "Bondwomen"
was destined to have a large sale. And that, in fact, was just the
danger; that was precisely the reason that he, the author, felt this
sense of moral responsibility. Young married women, young impressionable
Temporary Spinsters everywhere, would soon be reading this book, and
moulding their characters upon it. He, of course, had never preached any
of the wilder, Trevenna Modernity. But all the same.... That passage
there, for instance, where _Lily Slender_, in the lonely vigil on the
terrace, reviews the status of Parasitic Woman and decides to leave her
husband, and grow her Soul: certainly the probability was that
intelligent women all over the world (he would have to grant British and
Colonial rights at once, no doubt) would shortly be devouring that keen,
advanced Thinking; and, it was to be feared, a general exodus from Homes
would follow. In his mind's eye, Charles saw armies of women rising and
packing Gladstone bags in the stilly night, and stealing forth, just as
the dawn whitened the east, to join _Lily Slender_ in lifting marriage
to the Higher Plane, by means of Commerce.
He had put much of Mary Wing into _Lily_; he knew that. But then he
hadn't taken it in, in those days, how serious Mary was as to--what was
the word of that mad ass Hodger?--fiercely hacking away whatever impeded
her in her Self-Development.
Had not the moment rather come when some one, some all-seeing and
completely modern authority, should resolutely sound the Note of
Warning? Was it so sure that careering Egoism had anything more valuable
to give the world than the old virtues which it flouted? Beauty, charm,
and cheer, tenderness, selfless sympathy, all that mothering meant: was
it not ridiculous to ignore these enormous contributions to the work of
the world, because, forsooth, they could not show an immediate cash
return?
Now all the clocks of the city--all, that is, that were right, and had
bells--began to sound midnight. But the absorbed author and authority
paced on, aware of no sound. He was thinking, with something like
excitement, of his next novel, "Bondwomen's" greater successor, for
which he was now just struggling to fix his point of view, straighten
out his "moral plot," by means of notes in the old French
exercise-book. Long as he had sensed a certain spiritual starkness in
his first novel, long as he had looked forward to his second, the vital
questions concerning his new "line" had never yet been settled in his
mind.... Well, suppose that, with a frank, courageous change of front,
he employed the New Novel to sound the wholesome Note of Warning;
suppose that he boldly took a Home-Maker for his heroine, for example,
and justified her--justified her _scientifically_--as no modern thinker
had ever justified her before....
The striking idea was not a new one altogether; but its possibilities,
suddenly opening out, rapidly grew more and more interesting.
Unfortunately, before it could be developed in even the smallest degree,
it was abruptly interfered with by a most unwelcome intrusion of the
practical.
Charles Garrott was a tutor. He had turned eagerly to his table, to
capture certain phrases at least, while they were yet hot in his mind.
But now, chillingly, his eye fell upon that other exercise-book, lying
there publicly atop the volume on Women. At a glance that book looked
exactly like its sister, kept hidden in a drawer; but in fact there was
a boundless distinction. No hand had overwritten the label of that book
there raising it to the peerage, as it were. That book was just a common
book: "French Composition." And it was known to contain uncorrected
exercises, forty sentences at least, which must be tutorially attended
to, before Charles Garrott slept this night.
There followed a brief struggle; but it could end in only one way.
Charles, with no good grace, sat at his table and clutched up a fat blue
pencil.
It was a galling occurrence. Yet a man, of course, must live, whether
cynical Frenchmen can see the necessity or not. And the tutoring, say
what you would against it, was the best net result of a gradual sifting
process, designed to find what would yield the largest amount of money
for the least amount of work. So had Charles Garrott bent his life, to
be a writer. Bred casually to the law, he had thrown over the
encouraging beginnings of a practice directly he found that clients
expected to take all a man's time, including nights even. Teaching he
did not love, and yet, as he had enjoyed an excellent education, it
"came easier" than anything else. His boast to friends, indeed, was that
he could teach anything, whether he had ever heard of it before or not;
and it was a fact that at a private school once--years ago, in the
interval between college and law-school--he had taught Spanish on three
days' notice, keeping, as he said, precisely one page and a half ahead
of his class the whole year through. But teaching Ancient Languages at
Blaines College was found, upon fair experiment, to involve too many
papers in the Studio, conferences with boys, annoying teachers'
meetings, and similar invasions of a writer's privacy. Besides, it was
not nearly lucrative enough, after the coming of the Judge, who drew
twenty-five dollars a month as Secretary, besides his keep.
Thus had evolved the private tutor, with a waiting-list. Thus it was
that probably the only living compeer of the lady in Sweden must put
aside his Thinking to-night, to peruse and criticize such stuff as
this:--
16. _Bon jour, Monsieur le Curé! Avez vous vu le grand cheval
de mon oncle, le médecin?_
Oh, detestable!
The two French exercise-books--twins with what a difference!--had
started life equally as the property of a certain dear old lady, who had
been spurred into studious endeavor by reading in a magazine that Roman
Cato learned Greek at eighty. She had pointed out to her daughter,
quite excitedly, that she herself was but seventy-one, and French was
easier, besides; and that evening she had telephoned to Charles. The old
lady wrote a very neat but virtually illegible hand, employing the
finest Spencerian pen ever seen:--
23. _Non, petit Henri, non; votre soeur Marie n'est pas
jamais aussi méchante que vous fûmes hier soir._
The author's golden moments fled.
Nevertheless, before he went to bed, Charles Garrott did produce from
his drawer that other private book of his (the front part of which,
also, was stuffed with observations about the Curé and naughty little
Henry). Here, for what time he had, the young modern set down, on a
fresh page, preliminary Notes, such as, indeed, contrasted oddly with
those inscribed in the earlier evening. And when he shut up his book to
go to bed, he did it with an air, and spoke aloud:--
"Let 'em bite on that!"
From his tone, you might have supposed that all the Redmantlers of the
world would come to-morrow and look at these novel words of his. That,
of course, was far from being the case: these were his inviolable
secrets. Yet so real were his imaginings to the young man, so
reactionary seemed even the thought of a Novel of Warning, that an
unmistakable defiance had tinged his voice as he spoke. And particularly
did this defiant air seem to extend to his excellent friend, Mary Wing.
Charles Garrott went to bed that night thinking defiantly of Mary (and
almost tenderly of Mary's so different cousin); and on succeeding
afternoons, when he took his walks abroad, he did not turn his steps, as
was frequently his habit, toward streets where the advanced assistant
principal was likely to be met.
None the less, he did meet Mary on the street, before the week was out;
and then the case was such that the secret sense of disloyalty faded,
and Charles saw that he had been right all along. Mary, in short, was
found parading Washington Street, where the largest possible number of
people would be certain to see her, in the company of the too celebrated
Miss Trevenna. And then the authority thought of the Home-Making cousin
more sympathetically than ever; though he did not guess that the cousin,
chancing to see him and his ladies from an upstairs window, was also
thinking, not unsympathetically, of him.