There was a great deal of jangling of bells, and much laughter and talk,
and the chaperon, who was an assistant Greek professor, looked as if she
had never heard of Aristophanes, and listened apparently with the most
intense interest to a Harvard half-back eagerly explaining to her the
advantages of a flying wedge; and when the College loomed in sight, with
its hundreds of lights, and the sleigh drew up under the big _porte
cochère_, and while a handsome youth was bidding his sister, the hostess
of the party, an unusually affectionate good-by, she explained to the
rest how very sorry she was she could not invite them in. But the
Harvard men, in a feeling sort of way, said they understood, and after
much lifting of hats and more laughter, the sleigh went off, and the
chaperon and her charges were left standing in the “Centre.”
She confessed then that she was extremely tired and that she did not
think she ever cared again to see the “winter sports.” She thought the
sight afforded her that afternoon, of two nice boys, very scantily
clothed and with bloody faces, banging away at each other until they
could hardly stand, compared with the view of those same young gentlemen
the week before at the College, immaculately dressed and with very
good-looking noses and eyes, was entirely too great a strain on her. So
she went off to her study and left the excited and pleased young women
to stroll down the corridor to Miss Ronald’s room, to talk it over and
to decide for the twentieth time that Somebody of ’94 ought to have come
off winner in the fencing match, instead of Somebody else of ’93.
The room they went into was a typical college room, with its bookstands
and long chairs and cushions and innumerable trophies, of which Miss
Ronald was rather proud. She was a stylish girl, with New York manners
and clothes, and a pretty, rather expressionless face, strongly addicted
to fads, and after almost four years of college life still something of
a fool. She had become popular through her own efforts and the fact that
she had a brother at Harvard. If a girl really wishes to be a favorite
in college she must arrange to have some male relative at a neighboring
university.
The sleighing party over to Harvard for the winter sports had been an
especial success, so her guests took off their wraps and settled
themselves in her chairs in a very cordial sort of way, and discussed
amiably the merits of the tug-of-war, while someone made chocolate.
After a while, when they had all had their say about the pole-vaulting
and the running jumps, the conversation flagged a little and the room
came in for its share of attention.
There was a comparative stranger among the guests--a Miss Meredith--to
whom Miss Ronald could show her numerous souvenirs for the first time.
She was especially glad to have them to show to this particular girl
because she thought they would impress her--although it would have been
a little difficult for a casual observer to understand just why, for as
Miss Meredith was led around the room by her hostess, from the screen
made of cotillion favors and the collection of lamp-post signs presented
to her by Harvard admirers afflicted with kleptomania, over to the
smoking-cap and tobacco-pouch of some smitten undergraduate, anyone
could see what a handsome girl she was, and though more plainly dressed
than the others, that she seemed to be thoroughly at her ease. Perhaps
Miss Ronald expected her to be impressed because she had taken her up,
and had first introduced her to this set and made a success of her. No
one had known anything about her or her people, and she had entered
shortly before as a “special student,” and therefore belonged to no
particular class. She was evidently a little older than Miss Ronald and
her friends, and her face was somewhat sad, and there was a thoughtful
look in the eyes. She seemed to be rather haughty, too, and as if afraid
she would be patronized. But Miss Ronald, whose particular craze in the
beauty line was a cream complexion, gray eyes, and red-brown hair, had
declared the new-comer to be lovely, and even after she had discovered
that this handsome girl was not of her own social standing, that her
people were unknown and unimportant, she still declared her intention of
cultivating her. She had found this harder to do than she had expected,
and so, as she led her around the room, she rather delighted in the
belief that she was impressing this girl by the many evidences of a gay
social career.
The others, who had seen all the trophies many times before, and who
knew just which one of Miss Ronald’s admirers had given her the Harvard
blazer, and where she had got the Yale flag and the mandolin with the
tiger-head painted on it--for Miss Ronald, being a wise young lady,
cultivated friends in every college--sat back and talked among
themselves and paid very little attention to what the other two were
doing. They were a little startled, therefore, by a low exclamation from
the girl with Miss Ronald. She had stopped before a long photograph-case
filled with pictures of first violins and celebrated actors and college
men--all the mute evidences of various passing fancies. Miss Ronald, who
was putting away the faded remains of some “Tree-flowers” and some
pictures of Hasty Pudding theatricals, looked over at the girl.
“What is it?” she said, carelessly, and then noting her pallor and the
direction of her gaze she laughed in an embarrassed little way and went
over to her.
“Is it this?” she said, taking a half-hidden photograph from among the
jumble of pictures and holding it up to the view of all.
It was the photograph of a young man, a successful man, whose name had
become suddenly famous and whose personality was as potent as his
talents. He was not handsome, but his fine face was more attractive than
a handsome one would have been. There was a look of determination in the
firmly closed lips and square-cut jaw, and an indefinable air of the man
of the world about the face which rendered it extremely fascinating. On
the lower edge of the picture was written his name, in a strong, bold
hand that corresponded with the look on the face.
“My latest craze,” said Miss Ronald, smiling rather nervously and
coloring a little as she still held the picture up. There was a slight
and awkward pause, and then half a dozen hands reached for it. There was
not a girl in the room who had not heard of this man and wished she knew
him, and who had not read his last book and the latest newspaper
paragraphs about him. But their interest had been of the secretly
admiring order, and they all felt this girl was going a little too far,
that it was not just the thing to have his picture--the picture of a man
she did not know. And as she looked around and met the gray eyes of the
girl beside her she felt impelled to explain her position as if in
answer to the unspoken scorn in them. She was embarrassed and rather
angry that it had all happened. She could laugh at the first-violins and
the opera-tenors and the English actor--they had only been silly
fancies--but this one was different. Without knowing this man she had
felt an intense interest in him and his face had fascinated her, and she
had persuaded herself that he was her ideal and that she could easily
care for him. She suddenly realized how childish she had been and the
ridiculousness of it all, and it angered her.
“Of course I know it isn’t nice to have his picture--in this way--” she
began defiantly, “but I know his cousin--it was from him that I got this
photograph--and he has promised to introduce us next winter.” She seemed
to forget her momentary embarrassment and looked very much elated.
“Won’t that be exciting? I shan’t know in the least what to say to him.
Think of meeting the most fascinating man in New York!”
“Be sure you recognize him,” murmured one of the girls, gloomily, from
the depths of a steamer-chair. “I met him last winter. I had never seen
a photograph of him then, and not knowing he was _the_ one, I talked to
him for half an hour. When I found out after he had gone who he was, I
couldn’t get over my stupidity. My mother was angry with me, I can tell
you!”
Each one knew something about him, or knew someone who knew him, or the
artist who illustrated his stories, or the people with whom he had just
gone abroad, or into what thousandth his last book had got. They all
thought him a hero and fascinatingly handsome, and they declared with
the sentimental candor of the very young girl, that they would never
marry unless they could marry a man like that--a man who had
accomplished great things and had a future before him, and who was so
clever and interesting and distinguished-looking.
The girl who had had the singular good fortune to meet him was besieged
with questions as to his looks and manner of talking, and personal
preferences, to all of which she answered with a fine disregard for
facts and a volubility out of all proportion to her knowledge. They
wondered whether his play--he had just written one, and the newspapers
were saying a great deal about its forthcoming production--would be as
interesting as his stories, and they all hoped it would be given in New
York during the Christmas holidays, and they declared that they would
not miss it for anything.
Only one girl sat silent, her gray eyes bright with scorn--she let them
talk on. Their opinions about his looks, and whether he was conceited or
only properly sensible of his successes, and whether the report was true
that he was going to Japan in the spring, seemed indifferent to her. She
sat white and unsmiling through all their girlish enthusiasm and
sentimental talk about this unknown god and their ideals and their
expectations for the future--and when the photograph, which had been
passed from hand to hand, reached her, she let it fall idly in her lap
as though she could not bear to touch it. As it lay there, a hard look
came into her face. When she glanced up, she found Miss Ronald gazing at
her with a curious, petulant expression.
Suddenly she got up and a look of determination was upon her face and in
her eyes. Their talk was all very childish and silly, but she could see
that beneath their half-laughing manner there was a touch of
seriousness. This man, with his fine face and his successes and personal
magnetism, had exercised a strange fascination over them, and most of
all over the pretty, sentimental girl looking with such a puzzled
expression at her.
After all, this girl had been good to her. She would do what she could.
She stood tall and straight against the curtains of the window facing
the rest and breathing quickly.
“Yes--I know of him,” she said, answering their unspoken inquiry. “You
think you know him through his books and the reviews and newspaper
notices of him.” Her voice was ringing now and she touched the picture
lightly and scornfully with her finger.
“I know him better than that. I know things of him that will not be told
in newspaper paragraphs and book reviews.” She paused and her face grew
whiter. “You read his stories, and because they are the best of their
kind, the most correct, the most interesting, because his men are the
men you like to know, men who are always as they should be to men,
because there is an atmosphere of refinement and elegance and pleasing
conventionality about them--you think they must be the reflex of
himself. O yes! I know--the very last story--you have all read it--who
could be more magnificent and correct than _Roscommon_? And you think
_him_ like his hero! There is not one of you but would feel flattered at
his attentions, you might easily fall in love with him--I dare say you
would scarcely refuse him--and yet”--she broke off suddenly.
“There was a girl,” she began after a moment’s hesitation, in a tone
from which all the excitement had died, “a friend of mine, and she loved
him. Perhaps you do not know that before he became famous he lived in a
small Western town--she lived there too. They grew up together, and she
was as proud of him--well, you know probably just how proud a girl can
be of a boy who has played with her and scolded her and tyrannized over
her and protected her and afterward loved her. For he _did_ love her. He
told her so a thousand times and he showed it
[Illustration: SHE STOPPED AND HER FACE GREW WHITER]
to her in a thousand ways. And she loved him! I cannot tell you what he
was to her.” They were all looking curiously at her white face and she
tried to speak still more calmly.
“Well, after a time his ambition--for he was very ambitious and very
talented--made him restless. He wanted to go East--he thought he would
succeed. She let him go freely, willingly. His success was hers, he
said. Everything he was to do was for her, and she let him go, and she
told him then that he could be free. But he was very angry. He said that
he would never have thought of going but to be better worthy of her. He
succeeded--you know--the world knows how well he has succeeded, and the
world likes success, and what wonder that he forgot her. She was
handsome--at least her friends told her so--but she was not like the
girls he knows now. She was not rich, and she had never been used to the
life of luxury and worldliness to which he had so quickly accustomed
himself. But,” she went on, protestingly, as if in reply to some
unspoken argument or some doubt that had assailed her, “she could have
been all he wished her. She was quick and good to look at, and
well-bred. She could have easily learned the world’s ways--the ways that
have become so vital to him.”
She stopped, and then went on with an air of careful impartiality, as if
trying to be just, to look at both sides of the question, and her
beautiful face grew whiter with the effort.
“But, of course, she was not like the girls he had met. He used to write
to her at first how disgusted he was when those elegant young ladies
would pet him and make much of him and use him and his time as they did
everything else in their beautiful, idle lives. He did not like it, he
said; and then I suppose it amused him, and then fascinated him. They
would not let him alone. They wanted him to put them in his stories, and
he had to go to their dinners and to the opera with them. He said they
wanted someone to ‘show off’; and at first he resented it, but little by
little he came to like it and to find it the life he had needed and
longed for, and to forget and despise the simpler one he had known in
his youth----”
She stopped again and pulled nervously at the silk fringe of the
curtain, and looked at the strained faces of the girls as if asking them
whether she had been just in her way of putting the thing. And then she
hurried on.
“And so she released him. He had not been back in two years--not since
he had first gone away, and she knew it would be easier to do it
[Illustration: “THEY WANTED HIM TO PUT THEM IN HIS STORIES”]
before she saw him again. And so when she heard of his success and how
popular he was, and that he was the most talked about of all the younger
authors, she wrote him that she could not be his wife. But she loved
him, and she let him see it in the letter. She bent her pride that
far--and she was a proud girl! She told herself over and over that he
was not worthy of her--that success had made a failure of him, but she
loved him still and she let him see it. She determined to give him and
herself that chance. If he still loved her he would know from that
letter that she, too, loved him. Well, his answer--she told me that his
answer was very cold and short. That if she wished to give him up he
knew she must have some good reason.”
Someone stirred uneasily, and gave a breathless sort of gasp.
“That was hard,” she went on. She was speaking now in an impassive sort
of way. “But that was not the hardest. She saw him again. It was not
long ago----” She stopped and put one hand to her throat. “She had gone
away. She desired to become what he had wished she was, although she
could never be anything to him again, and she was succeeding, and
thought that perhaps she would forget and be happy. But he found out
where she was, and went to her. Something had gone wrong with him. You
remember--he was reported to be engaged to a young girl very well known
in society--the daughter of a senator, and a great beauty. Well, there
was some mistake. He came straight to my friend and told her that he did
not know what he had been doing, that she was the only girl he had ever
loved and he asked her forgiveness. He told her that his life would be
worthless and ruined, that his success would mean less than nothing to
him if she did not love him, and he implored her to be what she had once
been to him and to marry him.”
Miss Ronald looked up quickly, and the petulant expression in her eyes
had given place to a look of disdain.
“What did she say then?” she asked.
The girl shook her head, mournfully.
“She could not,” she said, simply. “She would have given her soul to
have been able to say yes, but she could not!”
When the door had quite closed behind her, they sat silent and hushed.
Suddenly Miss Ronald walked over to the window, and picking up the
photograph where it had fallen, face downward, she tore it into little
bits.