WHEREIN HENRY FENN MAKES AN INTERESTING EXPERIMENT
The formal announcement of the engagement of Laura Nesbit and Thomas Van
Dorn came when Mrs. Nesbit began tearing out the old floors on the
second story of the Nesbit home and replacing them with hardwood floors.
Having the carpenters handy she added a round tower with which to
impress the Schenectady Van Dorns with the importance of the Maryland
Satterthwaites. In this architectural outburst the town read the news of
the engagement. The town was so moved by the news that Mrs. Hilda
Herdicker was able to sell to the young women of her millinery
suzerainty sixty-three hats, which had been ordered "especially for
Laura Nesbit," at prices ranging from $2.00 to $57. Each hat was
carefully, indeed furtively, brought from under the counter, or from the
back room of the shop or from a box on a high shelf and secretly
exhibited and sold with injunctions that the Nesbits must not be told
what Mrs. Herdicker had done. One of these hats was in reach of Violet
Mauling's humble twenty dollars! Poor Violet was having a sad time in
those days. No candy, no soda water, no ice cream, no flowers; no buggy
rides, however clandestine, nor fervid glances--nothing but hard work
was her unhappy lot and an occasional clash with Mr. Brotherton. Thus
the morning after the newly elected Mayor had heard the formal
announcement of the engagement, he hurried to the offices of Calvin &
Van Dorn to congratulate his friend:
"Hello, Maudie," said Mr. Brotherton. "Oh, it isn't Maudie--well then,
Trilby, tell Mr. Van Dorn the handsome gentleman has came."
Hearing Brotherton's noise Van Dorn appeared, to summon his guest to the
private office.
"Well, you lucky old dog!" was Mr. Brotherton's greeting. "Well,
say--this is his honor, the Mayor, come up to collect your dog tax!
Well, say!" As he walked into the office all the secret society pins and
charms and signets--the Shriners' charm, the Odd Fellows' links, the
Woodmen's ax, the Elks' tooth, the Masons' square and compass, the
Knights Templars' arms, were glistening upon his wrinkled front like a
mosaic of jewels!
Mr. Brotherton shook his friend's hand, repeating over and over, "Well,
say--" After the congratulatory ceremony was finished Mr. Brotherton
cried, "You old scoundrel--I'd rather have your luck than a license to
steal in a mint!" Then with an eye to business, he suggested: "I'll just
about open a box of ten centers down at my home of the letters and arts
for you when the boys drop around!" He backed out of the room still
shaking Mr. Van Dorn's hand, and still roaring, "Well, say!" In the
outer office he waved a gracious hand at Miss Mauling and cried, "Three
sugars, please, Sadie--that will do for cream!" and went laughing his
seismic laugh down the stairs.
That evening the cigar box stood on the counter in Brotherton's store.
It was wreathed in smilax like a votive offering and on a card back of
the box Mr. Brotherton had written these pious words:
"In loving memory of the late Tom Van Dorn,
Recently engaged.
For here, kind friends, we all must lie;
Turn, Sinner, turn before ye die!
_Take_ one."
Seeing the box in the cloister and the brotherhood assembled upon the
walnut bench Dr. Nesbit, who came in on a political errand, sniffed, and
turned to Amos Adams. "Well, Amos," piped the Doctor, "how's Lincoln
this evening?"
The editor looked up amiably at the pudgy, white-clad figure of the
Doctor, and replied casually though earnestly, "Well, Doc Jim, I
couldn't seem to get Lincoln to-day. But I did have a nice chat with
Beecher last night and he said: 'Your friend, Dr. Nesbit, I observe, is
a low church Congregationalist.' And when I asked what he meant Beecher
replied, 'High church Congregationalists believe in New England; low
church Congregationalists believe in God!' Sounds like him--I could just
see him twitching his lips and twinkling his eyes when it came!" Captain
Morton looked suspiciously over his steel-bowed glasses to say testily:
"'Y gory, Amos--that thing will get you yet--what say?" he asked,
turning for confirmation to the Doctor.
Amos Adams smiled gently at the Captain, but addressed the Doctor
eagerly, as one more capable of understanding matters occult: "And I'll
tell you another thing--Mr. Left is coming regularly now."
"Mr. Left?" sniffed the Captain.
"Yes," explained the editor carefully, "I was telling the Doctor last
week that if I go into a dark room and blindfold myself and put a pencil
in my left hand, a control who calls himself Mr. Left comes and writes
messages from the Other Side."
"Any more sense to 'em than your crazy planchette?" scoffed Captain
Morton.
The editor closed his eyes in triumph. "Read our editorial this week on
President Cleveland and the Money Power?" he asked. The Captain nodded.
"Mr. Left got it without the scratch of a 't' or the dot of an 'i' from
Samuel J. Tilden." He opened his eyes to catch the astonishment of the
listeners.
"Humph!" snorted the Doctor in his high, thin voice, "Old Tilden seems
to have got terribly chummy with Karl Marx in the last two years."
"Well, I didn't write it, and Mary says it's not even like my handwrite.
And that reminds me, Doctor, I got to get her prescription filled again.
That tonic you give her seems to be kind of wearing off. The baby you
know--" he stopped a moment vaguely. "Someway she doesn't seem strong."
Only the Doctor caught Grant's troubled look.
The Doctor snapped his watch, and looked at Brotherton. The Doctor was
not the man to loaf long of an autumn evening before any election, and
he turned to Amos and said: "All right, Amos--we'll fix up something for
Mary a little later. Now, George--get out that Fourth Ward voters' list
and let's get to work!"
The group turned to the opening door and saw Henry Fenn, resplendent in
a high silk hat and a conspicuously Sunday best suit, which advertised
his condition, standing in the open door. "Good evening, gentlemen," he
said slowly.
A look of common recognition of Fenn's case passed around the group in
the corner. Fenn saw the look as he came in. He was walking painfully
straight. "I may," he said, lapsing into the poetry that came welling
from his memory and marked him for a drunken fool, "I may," opening his
ardent eyes and glancing affectionately about, "have been toying with
'lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon' and my feet may be 'uncertain, coy
and hard to please,'" he grinned with wide amiability, "but my head is
clear as a bell." His eyes flashed nervously about the shop, resting
upon nothing, seeing everything. He spied Grant, "Hello, Red," exclaimed
Mr. Fenn, "glad to see you back again. 'M back again myself. Ye crags
'n' peaks 'm with you once again." As he nourished his silk hat he saw
the consternation on Brotherton's big, moon face. Walking behind the
counter he clapped both hands down on Brotherton's big shoulders.
"Georgy, Georgy," he repeated mournfully:
"Old story, Georgy. Fight--fight, fight, then just a little, just a very
little surrender; not going to give in, but just a nip for old sake's
sake. Whoo-oo-oo-oo-p the skyrocket blazes and is gone, and then just
another nip to cool the first and then a God damn big drink and--and--"
He laughed foolishly and leaned forward on the counter. As his arm
touched the counter it brushed the smilax covered cigar box and sent the
box and the cigars to the floor.
"Henry, you fool--you poor fool," cried Brotherton; but his voice was
not angry as he said: "If you must mess up your own affairs for Heaven's
sake have some respect for Tom's!"
"Tom's love affairs and mine," sneered the maudlin man. "'They grew in
beauty side by side.' But don't you fool yourself," and Fenn wagged a
drunken head, "Tom's devil isn't, dead, she sleepeth, that's what she
does. The maiden is not dead she sleepeth, and some day she'll wake up
and then Tom's love affair will be where my love affair is." His eyes
met the doctor's. Fenn sighed and laughed fatuously and then he
straightened up and said: "Mr. George Brotherton, most worshipful
master, Senior Warden, Grand High Potentate, Keeper of the Records and
Seals--hear me. I'm going out to No. 826 Congress Street to see the
fairest of her sex--the fairest of her sex." Then he smiled like the
flash of a burning soul and continued:
"'The cold, the changed, perchance the dead anew,
The mourned, the loved, the lost.'"
And sighing a deep sigh, and again waving his silk hat in a profound
bow, he was gone. The group in the store saw him step lightly into a
waiting hack, and drive away out of their reach. Brotherton stood at the
door and watched the carriage turn off Market Street, then came back,
shaking a sorrowful head. He looked up at the Doctor and said: "She's
bluffing--say, Doctor, you know her, what do you think?"
"Bluffing," returned the Doctor absently, then added quickly: "Come now,
George, get your voters' list! It's getting late!"
George Brotherton looked blankly at the group. In every face but the
Doctor's a genuine sorrow for their friend was marked. "Doc," Brotherton
began apologetically, "I guess I'll just have to get you to let me off
to-night!" He hesitated; then as he saw the company around him backing
him up, "Why, Doc, the way I feel right now I don't care if the whole
county ticket is licked! I can't work to-night, Doc--I just can't!"
The Doctor's face as he listened, changed. It was as though another soul
had come upon the deck of his countenance. He answered softly in his
piping voice, "No man could, George--after that!" Then turning to Grant
the Doctor said gently, as one reminded of a forgotten purpose:
"Come along with me, Grant." They mounted the stairs to the Doctor's
office and when the door was closed the Doctor motioned Grant to a chair
and piped sharply: "Grant, Kenyon is wearing your mother's life out.
I've just been down to see her. Look here, Grant, I want to know about
Margaret? Does she ever come to see you folks--how does she treat
Kenyon?"
Looking at the floor, Grant answered slowly, "Well she rode down on her
wheel on his first birthday--slipped in when we were all out but mother,
and cried and went on about her poor child, mother said, and left him a
pair of little knit slippers. And she wrote him a birthday card the
second time, but we didn't hear from her this time." He paused. "She
never looks at him on the street, and she's just about quit speaking to
me. But last winter, she came down and cried around one afternoon.
Mother sent for her, I think."
"Why!" asked the Doctor quickly.
"Well," hesitated Grant, "it was when mother was first taken sick. I
think father and mother thought maybe Maggie might see things
different--well, about Kenyon." He stopped.
"Maggie and you?" prompted the Doctor.
"Well, something like that, perhaps," replied the boy.
The Doctor pushed back in his chair abruptly and cut in shrilly, "They
still think you and Margaret should marry on account of Kenyon?" Grant
nodded. "Do you want to marry her?" The Doctor leaned forward in his
chair, watching the boy. The Doctor saw the flash of revulsion that
spread over the youth's face before Grant raised his head, and met the
Doctor's keen gaze and answered soberly, "I would if it was best."
"Well," the Doctor returned as if to himself. "I suppose so." To the
younger man, he said: "Grant, she wouldn't marry you. She is after
bigger game. As far as reforming Henry Fenn's concerned, she's bluffing.
It doesn't interest her any more than Kenyon's lack of a mother."
The Doctor rose and Grant saw that the interview was over. The Doctor
left the youth at the foot of the stairway and went out into the autumn
night, where the stars could blink at all his wisdom. Though he, poor
man, did not know that they were winking. For often men who know good
women and love them well, are as unjust to weak women as men are who
know only those women who are frail.
That night Margaret Mueller sat on the porch, where Henry Fenn left her,
considering her problem. Now this problem did not remotely concern the
Adamses--nor even Kenyon Adams. Margaret Mueller's problem was centered
in Henry Fenn, County Attorney of Greeley County; Henry Fenn, who had
visited her gorgeously drunk; Henry Fenn on whose handsome shoulder she
had enjoyed rather keenly shedding some virtuous tears in chiding him
for his broken promise. Yet she knew that she would take him back. And
she knew that he knew that he might come back. For she had moved far
forward in the siege of Harvey. She was well within the walls of the
beleaguered city, and was planning for the larger siege of life and
destiny.
About all there is in life is one's fundamental choice between the
spiritual and the material. After that choice is made, the die of life
is cast. Events play upon that choice their curious pattern, bringing
such griefs and joys, such calamities and winnings as every life must
have. For that choice makes character, and character makes happiness.
Margaret Mueller sitting there in the night long after the last step of
Henry Fenn had died away, thought of her lover's arms, remembered her
lover's lips, but clearer and more moving than these vain things, her
mind showed her what his hands could bring her and if her soul waved a
duty signal, for the salvation of Henry Fenn, she shut her eyes to the
signal and hurried into the house.
She was one of God's miracles of beauty the next day as she passed Grant
Adams on the street, with his carpenter's box on his arm, going from the
mine shaft to do some work in the office of the attorney for the mines.
She barely nodded to Grant, yet the radiance of her beauty made him turn
his head to gaze at her. Doctor Nesbit did that, and Captain Morton, and
Dick Bowman,--even John Kollander turned, putting up his ear trumpet as
if to hear the glory of her presence; the whole street turned after her
as though some high wind had blown human heads backward when she passed.
They saw a lithe, exquisite animal figure, poised strongly on her feet,
walking as in the very pride of sex, radiating charms consciously, but
with all the grace of a flower in the breeze. Her bright eyes, her
masses of dark hair, her dimpled face and neck, her lips that flamed
with the joy of life, the enchantment of her whole body, was so complete
a thing that morning, that she might well have told her story to the
world. The little Doctor knew what her answer to Henry Fenn had been and
always would be. He knew as well as though she had told him. In spite of
himself, his heart melted a little and he had consciously to stop
arguing with himself that she had done the wise thing; that to throw
Henry over would only hasten an end, which her powerful personality
might finally avert. But George Brotherton--when he saw the light in her
eyes, was sad. In the core of him, because he loved his friend, he knew
what had happened to that friend. He was sad--sad and resentful, vaguely
and without reason, at the mien and bearing of Margaret Mueller as she
went to her work that morning.
Brotherton remembered her an hour later when, in the back part of the
bookstore Henry Fenn sat, jaded, haggard, and with his dull face drawn
with remorse,--a burned-out sky rocket. Brotherton was busy with his
customers, but in a lull, and between sales as the trade passed in and
out, they talked. Sometimes a customer coming in would interrupt them,
but the talk went on as trade flowed by. It ran thus:
"Yes, George, but it's my salvation. She's the only anchor I have on
earth."
"But she didn't hold you yesterday."
"I know, but God, George, it was terrific, the way that thing grabbed me
yesterday. But it's all gone now."
"I know, Henry, but it will come back--can't you see what you'll be
doing to her?"
Fenn, gray of face, with his straight, colorless hair, with his staring
eyes, with his listless form, sat head in hands, gazing at the floor. He
did not look up as he replied: "George, I just can't give her up; I
won't give her up," he cried. "I believe, after the depths of love she
showed me in her soul last night, I'd take her, if I knew I was taking
us both to hell. Just let me have a home, George,--and her and
children--George, I know children would hold me--lots of children--I can
make money. I've got money--all I need to marry on, and we'll have a
home and children and they will hold me--keep me up."
In Volume XXI of the "Psychological Society's Publications," page 374,
will be found a part of the observations of "Mr. Left," together with
copious notes upon the Adams case by an eminent authority. The excerpt
herewith printed is attributed by Mr. Left to Darwin or Huxley or
perhaps one of the Brownings--it is unimportant to note just which one,
for Mr. Left gleaned from a wide circle of intellects. The interesting
thing is that about the time these love affairs we are considering were
brewing, Mr. Left wrote: "If the natural selection of love is the
triumph of evolution on this planet, if the free choice of youth and
maiden, unhampered by class or nationality, or wealth, or age, or
parental interference, or thought of material advantage, is the greatest
step taken by life since it came mysteriously into this earth, how much
of the importance of the natural selection of youth in love hangs upon
full and free access to all the data necessary for choice."
What irony was in the free choice of these lovers here in Harvey that
day when Mr. Left wrote this. What did Henry Fenn know of the heart or
the soul of the woman he adored? What did Laura Nesbit know of her lover
and what did he know of her? They all four walked blindfolded. Free
choice for them was as remote and impossible as it would have been if
they had been auctioned into bondage.