Partly because she was not ready to resign her place in the schools,
partly, perhaps, to heighten the dramatic stinging quality of what she
called her "brilliant revenge," Mary Wing had kept her great _coup_ a
secret for the present. So she, famous wherever weekly periodicals were
read round the world, honored officer-elect of a powerful national
organization, walked daily, in sun and rain, to a grammar school as
before.
As to looks and appearance, Charles had always recognized Mary as one of
the variable women. She was not indifferent on those subjects, he
judged, but the utilitarian supremacy of work in her life commonly
produced that effect. Mary rarely went to parties any more; but at her
flat in Olive Street she often enough entertained at dinner,
strategically, a person or two of consequence in the educational or
political world. Charles (being, of course, of not the slightest help to
anybody) had never been invited to but one of these little dinners. On
that solitary occasion, the look and air of his friend in evening dress
had considerably surprised him, and in several other ways, including the
dinner, he had absorbed agreeable impressions of Mary not tallying with
other impressions. However, pretty clothes and pretty manner were deemed
too good for every day, it seemed; for the realities, Mary dressed as
plainly as she acted. And now, trudging homeward along this slightly
squalid street, she looked, it must be admitted, not like a shining
celebrity at all, but just like an ordinary person, a school-teacher,
and rather a fatigued one at that.
So, at least, thought the author of the write-ups, catching sight of her
through the glass over Eustace's shoulder, noting the somewhat droopy
manner of her walk. But he reflected, there was no satisfying some
people. And hastily clutching up the speaking-tube of the old lady, he
gave the order which brought his great car to a standstill; and so
stepped forth upon the sunny sidewalk, just in front of her.
The General Secretary looked up, with a small start at finding herself
intercepted. She saw Charles Garrott, and her face changed perceptibly,
though under what impulse he could scarcely have said. That his recent
demeanor must have seemed slightly puzzling to her, the young man was,
however, sufficiently aware: and now he was all at once conscious of a
want of ease within himself, a rare and odd constraint.
Hence he fell instinctively into his lightest and most mask-like tone:
"Well met! I was hoping I might run on you somewhere out this way. Do
get in and let me take you home."
Mary accepted at once, with pleasure.
"But whose beautiful car is this you're using now?" she went on easily.
"I was sure I saw you whiz by in it the other day."
"Oh, this!--yes!--I must tell you about it."
So due explanations covered the start of the drive. Establishing his
famous friend in the old lady's limousine, Charles told, in modified,
expurgated form, how he had got possession of it. For Angela's benefit,
he had lately informed Donald that he was unwell from overwork: that was
why he had to ride in a closed car wherever he went. Report of this had
unluckily reached Mary, it seemed, necessitating more explanation: that
he was not sick at all, unless you would count writer's sickness, etc.,
etc.
"And this saves such a lot of time, getting around, too--which is no
small thing."
The conclusion of the explanation was followed by a small silence:
scarcely one of the golden sort, but rather a dearth of conversation
such as had once been rare between these two. But Mary, whose manner
seemed as usual, or perhaps only the least bit more polite, broke it at
once, saying cordially:--
"So you have an extra hour for your own work now? That's splendid! And
how's your new novel getting on?"
"Oh!--not at all, thank you! I've made two starts, but both of them
proved false, I regret to state. So now I'm back at zero again. It's a
hard business, writing a book.... And as far as I can make out, I'm
specially handicapped by having all sorts of foolish theories as to what
a novel ought to be. If I were only a good plain realist now, how simple
life would be!"
His tongue loosened; he found himself embracing the chance topic, so
hard and impersonal, so beautifully remote from everything that fretted
his mind. He had come, magnanimously, to give one fair warning about
Donald; but no doubt he planned it that his warning should fall
casually, half-buried in other talk. There was such a thing as being too
generous for self-interest, of course. Or possibly Charles perceived
that the sound of his own voice, running surely along on a subject of
which he knew everything, and she knew nothing, gave him just that sense
of easy command of the situation which his manly need demanded.
Mary had said courteously: "You think realism is so much easier to
write?"
"I've never tried, of course--but doesn't it impress you so? You
remember old Meredith said distinctly, that was the cue for little
writers. And I must say I think he had an idea what he was talking
about. In fact," continued Charles, with unwonted loquacity, while his
limousine rolled rapidly, "if I were old and generally recognized as the
dean of American novelists--kindly do not laugh--and was visited for
counsel by a young writing fellow who had no literary abilities except
industry--why, I should say to him at once, 'My dear young man, become a
realist, of course. That is really the only line where you will find
your want of abilities a positive advantage. If you possess any shred of
humor, charm, insight, sympathy, idealism, so-called,--above all,
idealism,--and if you are cursed with any sense of form and unity, and
feel that a story ought to have a beginning and an end, and be _about_
something in the mean time,--why, trample on all this as you would on so
many snakes,' I should say to him. 'Get it fixed firmly in your dull
mind that life is dreary and meaningless, or has but a material meaning,
if you like, and that sound fiction must behave accordingly. Then,' I
should say to my young friend, 'if you will but choose as your heroine a
young girl with more looks than character--and not necessarily such a
lot of looks either--who comes up to the city to get on, it is
inconceivable to me that even you could fail to score a great realistic
success.'--'But,' we can imagine this fellow, this nonexistent admirer
of mine, saying, 'I don't understand you. What am I, as a creative
author, to put in to take the place of the insight, humor, unity, and
all the rest that I've eliminated?' 'My poor boy, I've just told you,' I
should reply. 'Industry and pessimism. That is all a realist knows and
all he needs to know. You tell me you have the industry. I tell you that
the pessimism is the easiest little trick to pick up in the world.'
But," said Charles, in his own voice, "I fear, Miss Mary, I 'm putting
you to sleep with all this musty shop-talk--"
"Indeed, no!--it's extremely interesting," said the heroine of the
write-ups, very civilly, but looking straight ahead. "You don't often
talk about your work."
"Haven't often had the chance," thought Charles. And if that was
considerably unjust, he did not seem to mind at all, but rather was
pleased by the knowledge that Mary observed his copious ironic manner,
and found it baffling and queer.
"Well,--in conclusion, as you public speakers say,--I was only going to
add that I didn't know enough to swallow my own medicine. The trouble
seems to be--Well, take the horrible thing called sentiment now, that
makes a sophisticated realist so sick. I look about me and, try as I
will, I seem to see the disgusting thing very much alive and
kicking--not something made up by a fourth-class writer to tickle
shopgirls, but actually playing a prominent part in the hard world round
me, all the time, everywhere. I seem--"
"I don't see how any one could deny that!"
"It wouldn't seem so, would it?" said Charles respectfully, and a sudden
faint gleam came into his eye. "But really isn't that what they do, in
effect? Here am I, as an observer, seeing men and women all round me
doing things they don't want to do, giving up things they do want to
do"--did his voice, too, acquire a thin edge?--"for immaterial reasons
that can only be traced to some inner ideal--hated word! And then here
am I, as a writer, required to deny all these observations of mine--and
for what reason? Merely, as far as I can make out, to keep some sour
chap with a defective liver, probably a German to boot--why are Germans
so pessimistic, do you know?--from calling me a sentimental ass. Of
course we admit," he prattled on, taking note of the passing streets,
"that sentiment is weak and childish and Victorian, and 'idealism' is
the screaming joke on Western civilization. Still, isn't it my only
business as a writer to find out whether or not these contemptible
things do act and react in the life I see? And if they do--must I
represent the contrary, merely to please the peculiar taste of a small
sad school that has no God but a second-hand mannerism bagged from dear
old Europe?--By the way, are you in a special hurry now?"
"Why, no. Not at all."
"Good!--Eustace," called Charles through the tube, "drive more slowly."
And then, feeling himself completely master of the situation now, the
young man said with quite a gay laugh:--
"And to add to all my other troubles, I've deliberately gone and taken
Woman for my subject! That will make you smile! You remember you warned
me in advance it was a theme I didn't know the first thing about."
But Mary was not observed to smile.
"I did say that, in fun once," she said, punctiliously, after a
perceptible pause--"but, of course, I didn't mean it--in any literal
sense. Indeed, I think--"
"But you were right--absolutely!--that's just what I want to say! I 'm
finding out more and more every day how true that word was. This whole
Movement now--what is it? What's it for? Blest if I know! The last time
we talked about it, you may remember, I took the ground that the
Movement--or what I supposed was the Movement, that week--suffered by
confusing itself with another propaganda it hadn't a thing under the sun
to do with. But--"
"No--what propaganda? I don't remember."
"Oh!--Personal Liberty!... The Cult of the Ego, perhaps you might call
it. But, of course, for all I know," said the light masterful Charles,
"that is the Movement, and always has been. Only last week I lighted on
a new formula--sort of a definition--to-morrow I'll probably discard it
for another. It's very unsettling--for my writing, you know. By the
way--can't you help me out a little? What would be your best definition
of the Unrest--for literary purposes?"
But Mary, with a carefulness not usual to her, eluded controversy,
merely saying it all depended on how you looked at it, or words to that
effect. And then she gave him a small thrill by neatly taking his bait.
"But what is your new definition?"
"Oh, that! Definition's too grand a word, of course. I merely wondered
if what is called the Woman's Movement was anything more than a
projection--don't you know?--of an everlasting struggle going on between
two irreconcilable elements in every woman's nature."
The car rolled in silence.
"There's a pessimistic definition for you! For I suppose," said the
friend of women, and could no longer keep the seriousness out of his
voice, "it must be true that every struggle implies the defeat--of
something.... Doesn't it? I suppose we can really never get away from
the sad discovery of childhood, that we can't eat our cake and have it
too."
"That's interesting! But I don't believe I understand you altogether.
What do you symbolize as the cake?"
She, the strong and successful, had turned on him her level arched gaze,
intent with its habitual interrogativeness. It was instantly clear that,
though she might be struck with his few remarks, she was far indeed from
being struck personally. And her sudden characteristic look was to him
like a hand held up, the banner of her independence flung out--and just
in time, too.
Charles laughed mirthlessly. He was aware of the lameness of his reply.
"Exactly!--what? It all depends on how you look at it, as you just said.
And I seem unable to look at it the same way two days running.... Number
6 Olive Street, Eustace."
Mary's response escaped him.
He sat staring through the glass, at the passing sights, a curious sense
of anti-climax within, a strange flat feeling of failure. He was like a
boy who, having run valiantly at a jump, tamely subsides and ducks under
the string. What then? Had he really been about to court a new
humiliation by _lecturing_ Mary Wing? Telling himself that he came
generously to warn her about Donald, had he actually been thinking that
he would discuss the personal losses involved in Leaving Home?--perhaps
by some frankness even bridge the gap in the old friendship? It really
did seem that some such thoughts must have lurked in his mind, judging
by this sense within him now.
Then, out of blankness and frustration, the young man felt slowly rising
a deep exasperation, a mighty grievance. So he shook himself at once,
donned his mask quickly while yet he could, and said in quite a
natural-seeming voice:--
"But I'm afraid I've bored you horribly with these purely literary
troubles. And, by the way,--speaking of realism versus romance just
now,--how are Donald and Miss Carson getting on these days?"
She appeared a little surprised at the change of topic, but replied
easily: "Oh!--very well, indeed, I believe. They're together somewhere
nearly every evening.--But why--"
"Really! That relieves me--knowing your serious interest in that affair.
I was beginning to fear Donald might be wandering a little in his
affections."
"Wandering? No--how do you mean?"
"Well, he has seemed quite attentive to your pretty cousin of late,
don't you think?"
Then the Secretary turned her head again, sharply. And it hardly
improved Charles Garrott's frame of mind to perceive that, of all he had
said in the strangely talkative drive, this alone had really touched
her: this, which affected her personal purposes, her Own ambitions.
"Angela? Why, not that I know of! I didn't know he'd seen her at
all--except one casual meeting, perhaps!"
"I've happened to see them driving together from tune to time, as I plod
about on my rounds. But no doubt it's all quite casual, as you say,
since you've heard nothing about it."
"You have? But please tell me!--where have you seen them together--and
when?"
He cited particulars from his collection, damaging ones, though perhaps
not so damaging as he could have made them had not self-interest
restrained. Still, something in him was not displeased as he saw his
old friend's concern steadily deepening.
"I'm surprised, and--frankly, I 'm sorry," she said slowly, at the end.
"Of course Angela's a dear girl, very sweet and attractive, but--I
shouldn't like Donald to see too much of her--in view of my other hopes!
I've had good reason to think that he's really interested in Helen, and
she in him.--Well!" she went on, after a small pause, "this seems to
require some diplomatic management. Donald has engagements for every
evening this week--but--"
"It's in the daytime that he meets Miss Flower. At least, I don't think
she takes the Fordette out at night."
Beside him on the padded seat, Mary sat silent, a little pucker between
the dark brows which set such a question-mark in her colorless face.
Considering her formidable strength, it was odd how all but ethereal,
how sincerely girlish, she could look at times.
"Well, Donald's going to New York on Friday," she said, thoughtfully.
"He's had a fine offer from Blake & Steinert--to go into the firm, had
you heard?--so fine that I think he'd have taken it, and thrown over
Wyoming, if I had let him! He'll be gone nearly a week. Then, about the
time he comes back, I've arranged to have him invited to Creekside, the
Kingsleys' place at Hatton, for a week-end party. Helen's to be
there--I've really been hoping great things of that. Meantime," she
rounded up efficiently, "there are the afternoons. Perhaps I could start
him to playing golf, or something of that sort.... I suppose, of course,
you're too busy to--"
"I?" said the young man, hastily. "Oh, I fear I can offer nothing to
rival Miss Angela's attractions just now."
"Does it look as serious as that? Well," she said, with a sort of
determined friendliness, "all the more reason that I should like to have
your help."