As I read Reggie’s letter, strange thoughts swept turbulently over me.
What was he coming for? Why should he take me back? Had the time come at
last when he felt able to marry me? He had put off our marriage so long
upon one excuse or another that I could not help feeling sceptical over
the possibility that now the time had actually come; for his mention of
his coming political fight made me wonder whether he would not be the
first to think that this was a bad time for him to marry. He would need
the support of the Marbridge family more than ever, and I knew that much
of that support had come because of _Miss_ Marbridge’s personal interest
in Reggie. Ada had written me that it was generally rumored in Montreal
that they were engaged.
No! I felt sure Reggie was coming simply to gratify his selfish desire
to see me. In his way, I knew he loved me, so far as it was possible for
a man like Reggie to love, and it seemed to me that never again could I
supinely be the victim of his vanity and pride. He should not come to me
and pour out his confidences and his boastings; nor lavish on me
caresses that could not be sincere. His influence over me had waned; and
yet as I thought of his coming now, I felt a vague sense of helplessness
and even terror. Might not the old influence prevail after all?
I walked up and down my miserable little room, wringing my hands and
desperately trying to decide what I should do. I thought of his coming
with a feeling of both longing to see him and of revulsion. I reread his
letter and it seemed to me, in spite of his tender phrases, that the
man’s self-centered character stood out clearly in every line. All of
Reggie’s letters to me had laid stress upon the success of his progress
both in politics and the law, and although he assumed that I would be
pleased and proud, I had in reality felt fiercely resentful. I could not
help comparing his circumstances and mine. I had literally been starving
in Boston. I had done that thing which in the eyes at least of my own
kind of people, if known to them, would have put me “beyond the pale.” I
had stood in a room, naked, before half a score of men! My face burned
at the thought, and I suffered again the anguish I had felt when I
ascended, like a slave, that model’s throne.
Feverishly I packed my clothes. I would go to New York! Reggie should
not again find me here to hurt me further.
My train would not leave till night and I had a few friends to whom I
wished to bid good-bye. When I was leaving the house I met Tim O’Leary,
and he invited me to have lunch with him. I smiled to myself as I sat
opposite that bartender thinking what Reggie would say if he could see
me and I suddenly said to Tim:
“Tim, do you know, you are more of a real gentleman than the grandson of
a Duke I know.”
Tim’s broad, red face shone.
When I said good-bye to Rose St. Denis she took me in her arms like a
mother.
“Enfant,” she said, “you are so t’in from ze seekness, I have for you ze
pity in my ’eart. I will not see your face never again, but I will make
me a prayer to le bon Dieu to pitifully tek care of ‘ma petite sœur.’”
“Oh, Rose,” I said, crying, “I’ll never, never forget _you_. I think the
thought of _you_ will always keep me _good_!”
I was fortunate in finding Dr. Squires in, though it was not his office
hour. He seemed glad to see me and when I said:
“Doctor, I am off for New York,” he answered:
“What’s the matter with Boston, then?”
I explained that I thought that I could do better in New York and he
agreed that my chances there were more promising. Then I said:
“Doctor, I want to thank you for all your kindness to me, and will you
please tell me how much your bill is?”
He had not only come to see me two or three times a day during my
illness, but he had also supplied all the medicines. He looked at me
very seriously when I asked for his bill, and then he said in a deep
thrilling voice:
“You do not owe me a cent. It is _I_ who am indebted to _you_.”
I knew what he meant, and, oh, it did thrill me to think that my illness
had brought those two beautiful people together, Lois and her doctor.
When I was going out, I said:
“Doctor, I am going on the stage. Perhaps I’ll succeed. Wish me
good-luck.”
“I wish you the best of luck in the world,” he said cordially, “and I
wouldn’t be a bit surprised to hear of your success. You look like Dusé,
Bernhardt, Julia Marlowe, and at times like a composite of all the great
actresses.” He did not laugh when he said that, and he wrung my hand
warmly as if he actually meant it.
Once when I was a little girl, my father had punished me for something
bad that I had done, and I determined to run away from home and be a
gypsy. I followed an organ-grinder down the street and told him that I
wanted to go with him. But he turned around and drove me back, shouting
angry words at me. I crept home and hid in the barn till Charles found
me there and dragged me into the house by the ear.
In running away from Reggie I had somewhat the same feeling. My heart
was bursting with my love for him and at the same time with my
vindictive purpose to punish him. I felt my knees trembling under me as
I climbed aboard the train. Nevertheless, Reggie’s influence over me
seemed to vanish the farther away we got from Boston as it had when I
left Montreal.
As we came into New York, I peered out of the window. The city appeared
uninviting and the buildings ugly as the train passed along;
nevertheless I felt already its encroaching fascination. I experienced
the feelings of a child who holds a package of unknown contents in his
hand, wondering and fearing to open it lest he be disappointed.
Lil lived on One hundred and ninth Street and she had sent me directions
how to get there. When I came out on Forty-second Street with my valise
in my hand, I did not know which way to go--which was east, west, south
or north.
A man on the train, who had given me a magazine and opened the window
for me, offered to carry my valise. He asked me where I was going and I
told him that I wanted to find the Sixth Avenue elevated. Carrying my
bag, he took me to the elevated station at Sixth Avenue and Forty-second
Street. I thanked him and he said:
“It’s nothing. If I had a sister arriving in a strange town alone, I’d
hope some one would do as much for her.”