XV

He fell instinctively into a small manoeuvre, which was merely this:

that he quietly shifted forward his public itinerary by quarter of an

hour. Next day, he started rapidly toward the street-cars at quarter

before one, and shot out of Miss Grace's at quarter past four, sharp.

Ultimate detection was certain, of course; but for the moment the

trifling ruse did seem to win a hardly hoped-for respite in the headlong

courtship. Neither on Friday, nor again on Monday, was the Home-Making

Fordette so much as seen. And the next disturbance of the authority's

delicate social scales, and of the author's Line, came, as might be

said, from precisely the opposite direction.

In the Studio, matters had continued to progress backward. Once here,

and the door safely shut, Charles had been steadily at work, the

hymeneal shadow put resolutely from his mind. No writer's time, he had

pledged himself, should go to somber meditations on the cosmic

consequences of a kiss, still less to fruitless bitterness concerning

wasted write-ups, the hardness of Egoettes, etc. Day by day, he had

wooed that subtle calm of the spirit which is the bread and meat of

authors; night by night, expended himself in the service of pure

Letters. And it had all been for nothing.

Contrary to explicit resolve, in short, he had been making a fresh

attempt at his new novel, hoping--rather weakly--that his mind wasn't

quite so unsettled as he secretly knew it was. And, once more, he had

been well punished for his rashness. Symptoms of weakness having

developed increasingly through the week just past, on Monday evening

Charles took his medicine, just before supper. Ten thousand words of

brand-new manuscript lay in his drawer there; and he would be lucky if

he could save a thousand of them for the novel that should be.

Of the "line" taken by this second abortive effort, the less said the

better. It suffices to suggest that if Mary Wing had been a totally

different sort of person, it might never have been undertaken at all.

Of all ways of spending the time known among men, unquestionably the

most abominable, the most nerve-wrecking and devilish, is Thinking up a

Book. Charles smoked box after box of cigarettes, couldn't sleep at

night, talked in his sleep when he did, and was growing a scowl between

his brows almost as dark as poor Two-Book McGee's--the interesting Type

that was leading its own life and wished it weren't. The final

conviction of the worthlessness of his work was hardly calculated to

improve the young man's state of mind. He was, indeed, profoundly

discouraged and concerned. For ten weeks now he had been struggling to

isolate a point of view which would at once "carry" all his newer

observations on his Subject, and command the support of his unqualified

conviction. And to-night he seemed further away from his goal than he

had been the day he finished "Bondwomen."

However, what brought Charles's humor to a sudden head this evening,

what precipitated the fury in which Donald Manford found him--Donald,

entering so happy and fine in the evening regalia which the match-making

Mary seemed to clap on him every night nowadays--by chance had not to do

with his own book at all, but with another's.

In short, the young author, very injudiciously in view of his resolve to

think of Egoettes no more, had been dipping into "Marna."

This book of Angela's had long lain as a plague on the mind of Charles.

For a space, he had not returned the book because of the estrangement,

or misunderstanding; for another space, because of the swiftly ripening

intimacy, compelling the general policy of lying low; and now a large

fresh obstacle had risen, in the girl's unfortunate remarks directly

connecting the return of her book with a call. Whether, after that, he

could harden his heart to slip "Marna" back to her by the hand of the

Judge--without any appreciative blossoms, needless to say--remained to

be seen. So long as the situation remained as it was, Charles had

decided simply not to take up the worry at all.

Hence Angela's book rested, gathering dust on the Studio mantel. And,

chancing to come on it in his moody pacings after supper, the author had

picked it up, in mere resentment at its being there. Standing hostilely,

he permitted himself to skim a few pages of the stuff, toward the end.

Next, with growing intention, he looked into the middle. And finally,

he sat frankly down with "Marna" in the Judge's new easy-chair.

It had occurred to him that it was probably his professional duty to see

what sort of line on the Unrest the other fellows were taking these

days. This book here was enjoying an immense vogue; every newspaper

reminded you that it was the Best Selling Book in America. What truth,

then, did it have to tell? Or--put more simply--it may be that Charles

had merely fallen a weak victim to the true writer's continual

temptation and longing, viz.: to clutch at anything, anything, that will

keep him from having to write, or think up.

Angela's book (which was so strangely unlike Angela) had come from the

typewriter of a brilliant and industrious British Thinker. From the

"literary criticism" and publisher's advertising that he read--and he

seemed to read little else in these days--Charles had already gathered

that "Marna" followed that simple "ultra-modern" line which to him, with

his expanding knowledge, now seemed so oddly old-fashioned. In his

standing skim just now, he had noted, with quickening distaste, how

easily _Marna_ accomplished a glorious Career: as, indeed, a girl has

small excuse for not doing, when she has an able author working for her

night and day. In particular, he observed that her "demonstrating

experiment in freer forms of union" turned out far more happily than

poor unauthored Flora Trevenna's. As well as Charles could make out,

_Marna's_ swain not only had a wife living when she met him, but was

engaged to another woman besides. But when the splendid girl said to

him, on page 478: "What a joy, beloved, to strike back at the grubby

little people who're trying to fetter the love-spirit! Ah, but I'm glad

you're married!"--after this, every one knew that it was all up with _De

Bevoies_, who, being a poet, could hardly be expected to argue back at

agreeable talk of this sort. (_Marna_ had met him at an anarchist

"social"; he was stunningly modern, and borrowed two pounds from her the

first thing next morning.) Not long after the talkative but Higher

Honeymoon on the Breton Coast, _Mrs. De Bevoies_ died, with thoughtful

promptness, and it was noted that the New couple at once adopted the

old-established form of union, after all, and (of course) quickly became

the toasts of London.

"_George!..._ How easy writing would be," thought Charles, with great

indignation--"if only the truth were as simple as that!"

And then, seated under the lamp Wallie Flower had so skillfully

repaired, he turned to page 1, intent upon getting this other fellow's

heroine, and her Career, at the point of origin. The _Twexhams_, he

learned, lived quietly, thirty miles from London. (Their address, if it

is of the smallest interest, was Fernleigh Cottage, the Priory, Dean's

Highgate, Lower-Minter-on-the-Mavern, Essex.) _Marna Twexham_ had the

striking beauty conventional among the Freewomen of fiction. Having had

a year at college, attended several gatherings in the Redmantle Club

vein, and read three or more books in which unmarried women told the

truth about Life, she inevitably reached the conclusion that it was her

duty to make herself free. Put in another way, she saw that it was her

duty to go to London. For, of course, "young women of genius" understand

perfectly that freedom is a matter of geography, a metropolitan

consummation, as we might term it, and would properly smile at the

antediluvian who maintained that people can be free in the suburbs, if

they can be anywhere. Thus _Marna_ smiled at the old fogey, her father,

who opposed her going to London to be free. It seemed that the old chap,

for reasons Charles could not fathom, actually wanted to keep the girl

with him. "There are dangers in London that a good woman knows nothing

of," he said, warningly; but _Marna_ eyed him so knowingly that he

changed his tune at once. "You are all we have left, Marny dear," he

wheedled. "Don't go away from us--yet, at any rate." "Why is it assumed

that a woman who does not choose to marry is _left_?" asked the wise

strong girl; and while her father scratched his head over this poser,

she continued, firm but kind: "Really, you know, Dad, the idea that

people have got to spend their lives together merely because of an

accidental birth relation--really, you know, all that's jolly well

played out. We've proved quite too awfully much about the beastly

repressive influence of the family-tie." "But your sister!--poor invalid

Muriel!" pleaded old _Twexham_. "She loves you so much, she so dependent

on you! It will kill her to--" _Marna's_ smile, checking his maundering,

was a great credit to her self-control (the author said). To set up

playing checkers with a neurasthenic spinster, against a soul's sacred

duty to itself and mankind! "Can't you really see, Dad," she said, quite

patiently, "that a trained nurse can look after my sister much more

efficiently than I can?" "It isn't that--exactly," faltered the

moss-back parent. "It's your love she needs. And--I feel that you _do_

belong to us, Marny dear! I feel that--" "No, father," replied the

glorious creature, gazing out the oriel window, over the terrace,

rose-garden, etc., and into the morning sun. "I belong--out there! Such

small abilities as I may possess," said _Marna_ with exquisite modesty,

"belong to the Race. Such small contributions as I may be able to make

to the thought of my time, I dare not withhold. I cannot be weakly

sentimental--and stay," she concluded, with some feeling. (And indeed

Dean's Highgate _was_ a quiet, dull place; Lower-Minter-on-the-Mavern,

also.) Presently, the old fellow broke down and wept, and then _Marna_,

repelled, eyeing him as if he were something odd and decidedly

contemptible, said firmly ...

"Nasty little beast!" cried Charles Garrott, aloud.

He leapt from Judge Blenso's easy-chair, and glared about like one

desirous of something to kick, and that right quickly. Then, with a

flashing understanding of his need, he went springing toward the Studio

window. And passionately he flung the window wide, and passionately he

hurled the best-selling book in America forth into the winter night.

"Faugh!" shouted Charles.

Down in dark Mason Street, the shooting "Marna" struck the limb of a

large tree, and caroming violently, bounded back against a passing old

gentleman in a black felt hat, who looked like a Confederate veteran.

The old 'un, starting with annoyance, clapped a hand to his shoulder,

and gazed round and up; then, suddenly catching sight of the young man

standing at the third-story window, he shouted something in a high angry

voice, and brandished an aged arm with menace. But the young man merely

continued to stand there, silently scowling down at him. So then the old

gentleman, composing himself but resolved that he should not be smitten

for nothing, picked up Miss Angela Flower's new book from the sidewalk

before him, dusted it carefully with an experienced handkerchief, and

hobbled away with it into the darkness.

"Disgusting little Egoette!" said Charles, scowling after him.... "And

that's the sort of stuff that passes for _thinking_ nowadays! That's the

stuff our women are reading, forming their--"

"Who're you cussing out the window, Charlie?" said Donald Manford's

hearty voice behind him.

Charles wheeled sharply.

He resented being walked in on this way; resented all companionship from

his kind just now; in especial, he resented Donald Manford's contented,

care-free face. At the same time, this face of Donald's awakened other

and different emotions, relative to the slim hope it embodied, and

enjoining tact, some cunning.

So, controlling himself, Charles merely said: "Well? What're you horning

in here for?"

"Dying for one glimpse of your sweet phiz. Nice welcome!" laughed the

young engineer, exuberantly. "But how'd you ever get into a street-row,

Charlie, out of your third-story window?"

"Oh!... Just talking to myself. Bad habit of mine," he said, with an

effort. "You're rather flossy to-night!--out to give the girls a treat,

I gather. Let's see. German, I suppose?" Laying his tall hat tenderly on

the Judge's little typewriter-table, Donald acknowledged the soft

impeachment.

"Well, who's the lucky lady, this time?--Or maybe you're stagging?"

"Who, me? Not on your life! I've got Miss Carson again--lucky thing!"

"Indeed," said the author, coldly.

"And a pippin she is too! Talk about clever, Charlie! By Jove, there's a

girl that makes a fellow use his cocoa all the time, let me tell you!"

Charles sat down heavily at his writing-table, and lit a cigarette. Mary

Wing managed her affairs well, indeed. He spoke with mysterious

bitterness:--

"You _are_ blossoming out! If anybody'd told me last year that you'd be

praising one of the new highbrow sisters, I'd have kicked him downstairs

for a liar."

"When a girl can look like that, my boy--"

"Developing into a regular man-flirt too, aren't you? Last I heard of

you, you were driving up Washington Street with Miss Flower."

Instead of resenting the odious epithet, Donald's face was seen to

assume a pleased smirk.

"Ho!--had your spies on me, have you? Why, did we pass you to-day?"

[Illustration: "HO!--HAD YOUR SPIES ON ME, HAVE YOU?"]

Charles's heart seemed to leap a little. "Why, no," he said, sweetly. "I

was speaking of one day last week. So you stole another drive

to-day--you sly rascal!"

"Don't know that you'd call it driving, exactly. Where'd that brother of

hers dig the little four-wheeler, d'you s'pose? I thought that kind were

extinct, same as the Dodo--"

"Why, I think it's a very nice little car, Donald! Small, old-fashioned,

yes--but very comfortable and--easy-going. I've--ah--had a--a number of

pleasant drives in it. The real trouble is," said Charles, with immense

carelessness, "she honestly doesn't know how to manage it very well as

yet. And I, of course, don't know how to teach her--unfortunately."

Having seated himself in Judge Blenso's chair, Donald was lighting, with

a lordly air, one of Judge Blenso's cigars; the Judge himself being at

his club, through lack of interest in the Studio. Extinguishing his

match by waving it languidly back and forth, the youth said, with a

faint reminiscent smile:--

"Well, I gave her a pretty good lesson this afternoon, far as that goes.

Had a very fairish time, too. Nice little girl, she is."

The author gazed, with a sort of nervous incredulity. He laughed

hurriedly.

"Nice!--well, I should say so! She's--she's charming! You'll have to

look pretty sharp if you want any more drives there--too much

competition! But, of course, she may not be _bookish_ enough, to suit

your new taste--"

"Oh, bookish, no. She's not that sort. I'll tell you what your little

friend is, Charlie," said the young engineer, with an air of

insufferable conceit. "She's what _I_ call a womanly woman."

Charles averted his eyes. This simple fool's quick response to the

"putting on" treatment almost passed belief. Unquestionably, Donald was

far more receptive to feminine influences now, than he had been in his

industrious pre-Wyoming days; again, mere use, mere custom and

propinquity, were famous for accomplishing just these wonders. Still,

Charles's philosophic overmind, contrasting this grin on Donald's face

with that unflattering remark of his last November, threw out a

different concept, viz.: that perseverance in a woman is a marvelous

thing.

But the hope, though it shot up delightfully, was a thin one yet. Dull

Donald went on knowingly:--

"But speaking of the competition, what's happened to you, old horse?"

"How do you mean, happened to me?"

"Your little friend says you used to meet her nearly every day for a

drive, but now you haven't been seen for days. I told her you'd probably

changed your hours a little, as I'd seen you at lunch earlier than--"

"You did?" said the author, looking at the engineer with unconcealed

annoyance. "Well, you were mistaken, that's all! You had no business to

say anything of the sort. Of course, my hours may vary a little--in

fact, they vary a good deal. Great heavens, I--"

"Well, don't get peevish about it!--friendly tip I'm giving you, that's

all. She thinks you're mad with her--do you get me? Says you've never

forgiven her for something she said to you once--some misunderstanding

you had--you know, I guess--"

"Why, damnation, we never _had_ any misunderstanding! I'm _busy_! I

don't undertake to start to lunch at a certain particular second--"

"Well, don't tell it to me!" said Donald, cheerfully. "Trot along and

explain it to her, that's the way.--I say, Charlie--change the

subject--did I tell you what old Gebhardt said to me the first day we

looked over the plans? About my concrete bridge over Sankey River?"

And then the childish egotistical youth was off. It seemed, indeed, that

the monologue ensuing was what he had come for; it seemed that he had

dressed himself one hour too early for the German with just this most

agreeable of all purposes in his mind: to sit and have a good long talk

about himself. Charles received his boastings with restless boredom,

marking meaninglessly on the pad before him, moodily biding his time. He

could have kicked Donald for his stupidity in mentioning his trifling

change of hours; but of course his need was to get the conversation back

to Angela quietly, without arousing the slightest suspicion. His need

was that Donald should agree to give Angela regular lessons in driving

the Fordette, every day through the lunch-hour.

But Donald, happening to note the face of Big Bill, came suddenly to his

feet: and then, as suddenly, gave the talk an unlooked-for turn.

"I say, Charlie! How about you and old Blenso for the Wings' apartment?"