A STORM AND A HELMSMAN
In quiet wise her winter wore on. In a month or two the home feeling
began to make itself felt, and the city grew less appalling, though
hardly less oppressive. There were moments when it seemed the most
splendid presence in the world--at sunset, when the river was crowded
with shipping and the great buildings loomed up blue as wood-smoke,
almost translucent; when the brick walls grew wine-colored; when the
river was flooded with radiance from the western sun, and the great
steamers lay like birds wearied and dreaming after a long journey.
Sometimes, too, at night, when she came out of the concert hall and saw
the glittering twin tiaras of burning gold which the Great Northern
towers held against the blue-black, starless sky, two hundred feet above
the pavement; or when in the early evening she approached the
mountainous Temple, luminous and sparkling with electric lights, lifting
a lighted dome as airy as a bubble three hundred feet into the pale
sapphire of the cloudless sky--the city grew lofty.
The gross, the confused in line, the prosy in color, disappeared at such
moments, and the city, always vast, took on grace and charm and softened
to magnificence; became epic, expressing in prophecy that which it must
attain to; expressed the swift coming in of art and poetry in the lives
of the western world-builders.
She grew with it all; it deepened her conception of life, but she could
not write of it for the reason that it was too near and too multiple in
its appeal upon her. She strove daily to arrange it in her mind, to put
it into form, and this striving wore upon her severely. She lost some of
her superb color and physical elasticity because of it, and became each
week a little less distinctive exteriorly, which was a decided loss,
Mason told Isabel.
"She isn't losing anything very real," Isabel said. "She's just as
unaccountable as ever. She goes out much less than you imagine. I take
her out, and send her, all I can to keep her from getting morbid. Why
don't you come oftener and help me?"
"Self-protection," said Mason.
"Are you afraid of a country girl?"
"O, no--afraid of myself."
"How much do you mean of that, Warren?"
"All of it."
She wrinkled her brow in disgust of his concealing candor.
"O, you are impossible in that mood!"
As the winter deepened Rose narrowed the circle of conquest. She no
longer thought of conquering the world; it came to be the question of
winning the approbation of one human soul. That is, she wished to win
the approbation of the world in order that Warren Mason might smile and
say "Well done!"
She did not reach this state of mind smoothly and easily. On the
contrary, she had moments when she rebelled at the thought of any man's
opinion being the greatest good in the world to her. She rebelled at the
implied inferiority of her position in relation to him and also at the
physical bondage implied. In the morning when she was strong, in the
midst of some social success, when people swarmed about her and men bent
deferentially, then she held herself like a soldier on a tower defying
capture.
But at night, when the lights were all out, when she felt her essential
loneliness and weakness, and need--when the world seemed cold and cruel
and selfish, then it seemed as if the sweetest thing in the universe
would be to have him open his arms and say "Come!"
There would be rest there and repose. His judgment, his keen wit, his
penetrating, powerful influence, made him seem a giant to her, a giant
who disdained effort and gave out an appearance of indifference and
lassitude. She had known physical giants in her neighborhood who spoke
in soft drawl, and slouched lazily in action, but who were invincible
when aroused.
She imagined she perceived in Mason a mental giant, who assumed
irresolution and weakness for reasons of his own. He was always off duty
when she saw him, and bent more upon rest than a display of power. Once
or twice she saw him roused, and it thrilled her; that measured lazy
roll of voice changed to a quick, stern snarl, the brows lowered and the
big, plump face took on battle lines. It was like a seemingly shallow
pool suddenly disclosed to be of soundless depths by a wind of passion.
The lake had been the refuge of the distracted and restless girl. She
went to it often in the autumn days, for it rested her from the noise of
grinding wheels, and screams and yells. Its smooth rise and fall, its
sparkle of white-caps, its sailing gulls, filled her with delicious
pleasure. It soothed her and it roused her also. It gave her time to
think.
The street disturbed her, left her purposeless and powerless, but out
there where the ships floated like shadows, and shadows shifted like
flame, and the wind was keen and sweet--there she could get her mental
breath again. She watched it change to wintry desolation, till it grew
empty of vessels and was lonely as the Arctic sea, and always it was
grand and thought-inspiring.
She went out one day in March when the home longing was upon her and
when it seemed that the city would be her death. She was tired of her
food, tired of Mary, tired of her room. Her forehead was knotted tensely
with pain of life and love--
She cried out with sudden joy, for she had never seen the lake more
beautiful. Near the shore a great mass of churned and heaving ice and
snow lay like a robe of shaggy fur. Beyond this the deep water spread, a
vivid pea-green broken by wide, irregular strips of dark purple. In the
open water by the wall a spatter of steel-blue lay like the petals of
some strange flower, scattered upon the green.
Great splendid clouds developed, marvelously like the clouds of June,
making the girl's heart swell with memories of summer. They were white
as wool, these mountainous clouds, and bottomed in violet, and as they
passed the snow-fields they sent down pink-purple, misty shadows, which
trailed away in splendor toward the green which flamed in bewildering
beauty beyond. The girl sat like one in a dream while the wind blew the
green and purple of the outer sea into fantastic, flitting forms which
dazzled her eyes like the stream of mingled banners.
Each form seemed more beautiful than the preceding one; each combination
had such unearthly radiance, her heart ached with exquisite sorrow to
see it vanish. The girl felt that spring was coming on the wing of the
southern wind, and the desire to utter her passion grew almost into
pain.
It had other moods, this mighty spread of water. It could be angry,
dangerous. Sometimes it rolled sullenly, and convoluted in oily surges
beneath its coverlid of snow, like a bed of monstrous serpents.
Sometimes the leaden sky shut down over it, and from the desolate
north-east a snowstorm rushed, hissing and howling. Sometimes it
slumbered for days, quiet as a sleeping boa, then awoke and was a
presence and a voice in the night, fit to make the hardiest tremble.
Rose saw it when it was roused, but she had yet to see it in a frenzy.
The knowledge of its worst came to her early in May, just before her
return to the coule.
The day broke with the wind in the north-east. Rose, lying in her bed,
could hear the roar of the lake; never before had its voice penetrated
so far. She sprang up and dressed, eager to see it in such a mood. Mary
responded sleepily to her call, saying the lake would be there after
breakfast.
Rose did not regret her eagerness, though it was piercingly cold and
raw. The sea was already terrific. Its spread of tawny yellow showed how
it had reached down and laid hold on the sand of its bed. There were
oily splotches of plum-color scattered over it where the wind blew it
smooth and it reached to the wild east sky, cold, desolate, destructive.
It had a fierce, breathing snarl like a monster at meat. It leaped
against the sea-wall like a rabid tiger, its sleek and spotted hide
rolling. Every surge sent a triangular sheet of foam twenty-five feet
above the wall, yellow and white, and shadowed with dull blue; and the
wind caught it as it rose, and its crest burst into great clouds of
spray, which sailed across the streets and dashed along the walk like
rain, making the roadway like a river; while the main body of each
up-leaping wave, falling back astride the wall, crashed like the fall of
glass, and the next wave met it with a growl of thunderous rage,
striking it with concave palm, with a sound like a cannon's exploding
roar.
Out of the appalling obscurity to the north frightened ships scudded at
intervals with bare masts bending like fire-trimmed pines. They hastened
like homing pigeons which do not look behind. The helmsmen stood grimly
at their wheels, with eyes on the harbor ahead.
The girl felt it all as no one native to the sea can possibly do. It
seemed as if the bounds of the flood had been overcome, and that it was
about to hurl itself upon the land. The slender trees, standing deep in
the swash of water, bowed like women in pain; the wall was half hidden,
and the flood and the land seemed mingled in battle.
Rose walked along the shore, too much excited to go back to her
breakfast. At noon she ate lunch hurriedly and returned to the shore.
There were hundreds of people coming and going along the drive; young
girls shrieking with glee, as the sailing clouds of spray fell upon
them. Rose felt angry to think they could be so silly in face of such
dreadful power.
She came upon Mason, dressed in a thick mackintosh coat, taking notes
rapidly in a little book. He did not look up and she passed him, wishing
to speak, yet afraid to speak. Near him a young man was sketching.
Mason stood like a rock in his long, close-fitting raincoat, while she
was blown nearly off her feet by the blast. She came back against the
wind, feeling her soul's internal storm rising. It seemed quite like a
proposal of marriage to go up and speak to him--yet she could not forego
the pleasure.
He did not see her until she came into his lee, then he smiled,
extending his hand. She spoke first:
"May I take shelter here?"
His eyes lightened with a sudden tender humor.
"Free anchorage," he said, and drew her by the hand closer to his
shoulder. It was a beautiful moment to her, and a dangerous one to him.
He took refuge in outside matters.
"How does that strike your inland eyes?" He pointed to the north.
"It's awful. It's like the anger of God." She spoke into his bowed ear.
"Please don't think I'm reporting it," he explained. "I'm only making a
few notes about it for an editorial on the need of harbors." Each moment
the fury increased, the waves deepened. The commotion sank down amid the
sands of the deeper inshore water, and it boiled like milk. Splendid
colors grew into it near at hand; the winds tore at the tops of the
waves, and wove them into tawny banners which blurred the air like blown
sand. On the horizon the waves leaped in savage ranks, clutching at the
sky like insane sea-monsters, frantic, futile.
"I've seen the Atlantic twice during a gale," shouted the artist to a
companion, "but I never saw anything more awful than this. These waves
are quicker and higher. I don't see how a vessel could live in it if
caught broadside."
"It's the worst I ever saw here."
"I'm going down to the south side; would you like to go?" Mason asked of
Rose.
"I would, indeed," she replied.
Back from the lake shore the wind was less powerful but more uncertain.
It came in gusts which nearly upturned the street cars. Men and women
scudded from shelter to shelter like beleaguered citizens avoiding
cannon shots.
"What makes our lake so terrible," said Mason, in the car, "is the fact
that it has a smooth shore--no indentations, no harbors. There is only
one harbor here at Chicago, behind the breakwater, and every vessel in
mid-lake must come here. Those flying ships are seeking safety here like
birds. The harbor will be full of disabled vessels."
As they left the car a roaring gust swept around a twenty-story building
with such power Rose would have been taken off her feet had not Mason
put his arm about her shoulders.
"You're at a disadvantage," he said, "with skirts." He knew she prided
herself on her strength, and he took no credit to himself for standing
where she fell.
It was precisely as if they were alone together: the storm seemed to
wall them in, and his manner was more intimate than ever before. It was
in very truth the first time they had been out together, and also it was
the only time he had assumed any physical care of her. He had never
asserted his greater muscular power and mastery of material things, and
she was amazed to see that his lethargy was only a mood. He could be
alert and agile at need. It made his cynicism appear to be a mood also;
at least, it made her heart wondrously light to think so.
They came upon the lake shore again, near the Auditorium. The refuge
behind the breakwater was full of boats, straining at anchor, rolling,
pitching, crashing together. Close about the edge of the breakwater
ships were rounding hurriedly, and two broken vessels lay against the
shore, threshing up and down in the awful grasp of the breakers. Far
down toward the south the water dashed against the spiles, shooting
fifty feet above the wall, sailing like smoke, deluging the street, and
lashing against the row of buildings across the way.
Mason's keen eye took in the situation:
"Every vessel that breaks anchor is doomed! Nothing can keep them from
going on shore. Doubtless those two schooners lost anchor--that one
there is dragging anchor." He said suddenly, "She is shifting position,
and see that hulk--"
Rose for a moment could not see it. She lay flat on her side, a
two-master, her sails flapping and floating on the waves. Her anchor
still held, but she had listed her cargo, careened, and so lay helpless.
"There are men on it!" cried some one. "Three men--don't you see them?
The water goes over them every time!"
"Sure enough! I wonder if they are going to let them drown, here in the
harbor!"
Rose grew numb with horror. On the rounded side of the floating hulk
three men were clinging, looking like pegs of tops. They could only be
seen at intervals, for the water broke clear over their heads. It was
only when one of them began to move to and fro that the mighty crowd
became certainly aware of life still clinging to the hull.
It was an awful thing to stand helplessly by, and see those brave men
battle, but no life-boat or tug could live out there. In the station men
wept and imprecated in their despair--twice they tried to go to the
rescue of the beleaguered men, but could not reach them.
Suddenly a flare of yellow spread out on the wave. A cry arose:
"She's breaking up!"
Rose seized Mason's arm in a frenzy of horror.
"O God! can't somebody help them?"
"They're out of reach!" said Mason solemnly. And then the throng was
silent.
"They are building a raft!" shouted a man with a glass, speaking at
intervals for the information of all. "One man is tying a rope to
planks ... he is helping the other men ... he has his little raft nearly
ready ... they are crawling toward him--"
"O see them!" exclaimed Rose. "O the brave men! There! they are
gone--the vessel has broken up."
On the wave nothing now lived but a yellow spread of lumber; the glass
revealed no living thing.
Mason turned to Rose with a grave and tender look.
"You have seen human beings engulfed like flies--"
"No! no! There they are!" shouted a hundred voices, as if in answer to
Mason's thought.
Thereafter the whole great city seemed to be watching those specks of
human life, drifting toward almost certain death upon the breakwater of
the south shore. For miles the beach was clustered black with people.
They stood there, it seemed for hours, watching the slow approach of
that tiny raft. Again and again the waves swept over it, and each time
that indomitable man rose from the flood and was seen to pull his
companions aboard.
Other vessels drifted upon the rocks. Other steamers rolled heavily
around the long breakwater, but nothing now distracted the gaze of the
multitude from this appalling and amazing struggle against death.
Nothing? No, once and only once did the onlookers shift their intent
gaze, and that was when a vessel passed the breakwater and went sailing
toward the south through the fleet of anchored, straining, agonized
ships. At first no one paid much attention to this late-comer till Mason
lifted his voice.
"By Heaven, the man is _sailing_!"
It was true; steady, swift, undeviating, the vessel headed through the
fleet. She did not drift nor wander nor hesitate. She sailed as if the
helmsman, with set teeth, were saying,
"By God! If I must die on the rocks, I'll go to my death the captain of
my vessel!"
And so, with wheel in his hand and epic oaths in his mouth, he sailed
directly into the long row of spiles, over which the waves ran like
hell-hounds; where half a score of wrecks lay already churning into
fragments in the awful tumult.
The sailing vessel seemed not to waver, nor seek nor dodge--seemed
rather to choose the most deadly battle-place of waves and wall.
"God! but that's magnificent of him!" Mason said to himself.
Rose held her breath, her face white and set with horror.
"O must he die?"
"There is no hope for him. She will strike in a moment--she
strikes!--she is gone!"
The vessel entered the grey confusion of the breakers and struck the
piles like a battering ram; the waves buried her from sight; then the
recoil flung her back; for the first time she swung broadside to the
storm. The work of the helmsman was over. She reeled--resisted an
instant, then submitted to her fate, crumbled against the pitiless wall
like paper and thereafter was lost to sight.
This dramatic and terrible scene had held the attention of the
onlookers--once more they searched for the tiny raft. It was nearing the
lake wall at another furious point of contact. An innumerable crowd
spread like a black robe over the shore waiting to see the tiny float
strike.
A hush fell over every voice. Each soul was solemn as if facing the
Maker of the world. Out on the point, just where the doomed sailors
seemed like to strike, there was a little commotion. A tiny figure was
seen perched on one of the spiles. Each wave, as it towered above him,
seemed ready to sweep him away, but each time he bowed his head and
seemed to sweep through the gray wall. He was a negro and he held a rope
in his hands.
As they comprehended his danger the crowd cheered him, but in the
thunder of the surf no human voice could avail. The bold negro could not
cry out, he could only motion, but the brave man on the raft saw his
purpose--he was alone with the shipwrecked ones.
In they came, lifted and hurled by a prodigious swell. They struck the
wall just beneath the negro and disappeared beneath the waves.
All seemed over, and some of the spectators fell weeping; others turned
away.
Suddenly the indomitable commander of the raft rose, then his
companions, and then it was perceived that he had bound them all to the
raft.
The negro flung his rope and one man caught at it, but it was swept out
of reach on a backward leaping billow. Again they came in, their white,
strained, set faces and wild eyes turned to the intrepid rescuer. Again
they struck, and this time the negro caught and held one of the sailors,
held him while the foam fell away, and the succeeding wave swept him
over the spiles to safety. Again the resolute man flung his noose and
caught the second sailor, whose rope was cut by the leader, the captain,
who was last to be saved.
As the negro came back, dragging his third man over the wall, a mighty
cry went up, a strange, faint, multitudinous cry, and the negro was
swallowed up in the multitude.
* * * * *
Mason turned to Rose and spoke: "Sometimes men seem to be worth while!"
Rose was still clinging to his arm as they walked away. Mason did not
speak again for some time.
"We have suffered in vain," he said at last, "and you are cold and
stiffened with long standing. Let me put you in a cab and--"
"Oh, no, thank you! The walk will do me good."
"Perhaps you are right. I'll go with you to the car, and then I must go
to my desk for six hours of hard work. Put this behind you," he said
tenderly. "It does no good to suffer over the inevitable. Forget those
men!"
"I can't! I shall never forget them while I live. It was awful!" She
shuddered, but when she looked into his face she nearly cried out in
astonishment at the light in his eyes.
"It had its grandeur. They went to their death like men. They have
taught me a lesson. Hitherto I have drifted--henceforth _I sail_!" He
bent to her with a mystical smile.
She drew away in a sort of awe as if she looked unworthily upon a sacred
place. He misunderstood her action and said, "Don't be afraid. I have
something to say to you, but not here; perhaps I'll write it. When do
you go?"
"On Saturday."
"I will write you soon. Good bye."
She watched him as he moved away into the crowd, with powerful erect
body--the deskman's droop almost gone out of his shoulders. What did he
mean?
She was standing waiting for a chance to board a car when Elbert Harvey
came pushing along against the wind, fresh and strong and glowing with
color like a girl.
"O, I've been looking for you, Rose," he said. "I was at your house.
They said you were over on the lake front and so--See here! You're all
wet and cold. I'm going to get a carriage."
He would not be gainsaid, and she was really glad to escape the crowd in
the car. He said: "I'm going to take you home to get warm."
She allowed herself to be driven to the door before she realized what it
might be taken to mean, but it was then too late to insist on being
driven home, it would do no harm to see Mrs. Harvey for a moment--and
then she was so tired, too tired to resist.
Mrs. Harvey met her in the hall, smiling and scolding:
"Why, you reckless girl! Have you been down town? Elbert, where did you
get her?"
"I found her on the street waiting for a State street car--shivering,
too."
"Why, you're all wet! Come up to my room and change your shoes."
The warm air and the glow of the beautiful rooms seemed to narcotize
her, and Rose allowed herself to be led away like a sleepy child. It was
delicious to be so attended. Mrs. Harvey took her to her own room, a
room as big and comfortable and homely as herself, and there she put
Rose down before the grateful fire and rang for her maid.
"Annette, remove Mademoiselle's shoes and give her some slippers."
The deft girl removed Rose's wraps, then her shoes, while Mrs. Harvey
knelt by her side and felt of her stocking soles.
"They're wet, just as I expected." She said joyfully, "Take them off!"
"O, no! They'll dry in a minute."
"Take them off, Annette," commanded Mrs. Harvey. "O, what lovely feet
and ankles!" she said, and so betrayed her not too subtle design to
Rose.
Rose was passive now, and yielded to the manipulations of the two women.
They all had a gale of fun over the difference between Mrs. Harvey's
stockings and her own, and then they brought out a fantastic pair of
slippers and a beautiful wrap, which Mrs. Harvey insisted upon putting
about her.
At about this time Elbert knocked on the door.
"Can't I come in and share the fun, Caroline?"
"In a moment!" she replied, and finished tucking the robe about Rose.
"Now you may."
Elbert came in, radiant, unabashed, smiling, almost grinning his
delight. He had changed his dress to a neat and exquisitely fitting dark
suit, and he looked very handsome indeed. His cheeks were like peaches,
with much the same sort of fuzz over them.
He took a place near the fire where he could see Rose, and he signaled
to his mother at the earliest chance that she was stunning.
Rose lay back in the chair with the robe drawn about her, looking the
_grande dame_ from her crown of hair to the tasseled toes of her
slippers. She might almost have been Colombe on the eve of her birthday.
It was delicious, and she had not heart or resolution at the moment to
throw off this homage. She knew that Mrs. Harvey was misreading her
acquiescence, and that every moment she submitted to her care and
motherly direction, involved her, enmeshed her. But it was so delicious
to be a princess and an heiress--for an hour.
The whole situation was intensified when Mr. Harvey's soft tenor voice
called:
"Where is everybody?"
"Come up; here we are! There's somebody here you'll want to see."
Mr. Harvey came in smiling, looking as calm and contained as if he were
just risen from sleep. He was almost as exquisitely dressed as his son.
"Well! well! This is a pleasure," he cordially exclaimed. "What's the
meaning of the wrap; not sick?"
"Elbert picked her up on the street, wet and shivering, waiting for a
car, and brought her home."
"Quite right. We're always glad to see you. Did you give her a little
cordial, Caroline? In case of cold--"
Rose protested. "I'm not sick, Mr. Harvey, only tired. I've been out all
the day watching the dreadful storm. I saw those ships go on the rocks.
O, it was dreadful!"
"Did you see the three men on the raft?" asked Elbert.
Rose shuddered. How far away she was from that cold, gray tumult of
water. Of what manner of men were they who could battle so for hours in
the freezing sleet?
"Well, now, we won't talk about the storm any more," Mrs. Harvey
interposed. "It does no good, and Rose has had too much of it already.
Besides, it's almost dinner time, Mr. Harvey. Go dress!"
There was not a thread ruffled on Mr. Harvey's person, but he dutifully
withdrew. He had had a busy day, and had transacted business which
affected whole states by its influence, yet he was quiet, cordial,
exquisite.
"What does this mean, my dear?" he asked of Mrs. Harvey, who followed
him out.
"It may mean a great deal, Willis," she said. "All I know is Elbert
brought her home, his eyes shining with delight."
"Not to be wondered at," Mr. Harvey replied. "I'm only afraid of
actresses," he added a little incoherently, but his wife understood him.
Elbert was not lacking in adroitness. He did not presume on his position
during his mother's absence. He remained standing in the same position.
"How do you like coddling? Now, you see what I get when I dare to
sneeze. Caroline will coddle any one into regular sickness if you let
her."
"I was chilled, but I am not sick in the least."
"You'd better straighten up and shout at her when she comes in, or
she'll be for sending your dinner up to you, and I don't want that."
"O, I must go home, now."
"Not till after dinner."
"I'm not--dressed for dinner."
"There's nobody here but ourselves. You _must_ stay."
Every one seemed determined to press her into a false position, and
there was so little chance to throw the influence off.
She rose out of her cloak, and when Mrs. Harvey came back she was
standing before the fire with Elbert--which seemed also to be
significant.
"Caroline, don't coddle Rose any more; she's all right."
Mrs. Harvey accepted this command, because it argued a sense of
proprietorship on her son's part.
They continued this intimate talk during the dinner. Elbert took her
down and placed her near him. There were a couple of elderly ladies,
sisters of Mr. Harvey, who sat also at table in a shadowy way, and Rose
divined in a flash of imaginative intelligence how they subordinated
themselves because they were dependent. "Would I grow like that as I
grew old?" was her thought.
At the table she felt it her duty to rouse herself to talk, and she took
part in the jolly patter between Elbert and his mother. Their
_camaraderie_ was very charming--so charming one almost forgot the
irreverence expressed by his use of "Caroline."
After dinner Mrs. Emma Seymour Gallup, whom Rose had met two or three
times but who always demanded a new introduction, came whisking in on
her way to some party. She had everything in decidedly the latest crimp.
Her sleeves did not fit; her hips seemed enormous; her bonnet seemed
split on the middle of her head, and was symmetrically decked with bows
of ribbon and glitter and glimmer. Her real proportions were only to be
divined at the waist, all else was fibre-cloth and conjecture.
Her eyes were bright and her face cold and imperious. She had once
before chilled Rose with a cold nod and insulting shift of shoulder. She
was plainly surprised to see Rose in the bosom of this family, and she
seized the only plausible explanation with instant readiness and smiled
a beautiful smile, and Rose could not help seeing that she had a very
charming face after all.
"Ah! How do you do, Miss Dutcher! I am very glad to see you again!"
"Thank you," Rose replied simply.
"You're quite well--but then I know you're well," Mrs. Gallup went on,
assuming still greater knowledge of her.
"Did you see the storm? Wasn't it dreadful! I saw it all quite securely
from Mrs. Frost's window. How cosy you all look. I wish I could stay,
but I just dropped in to ask you to take a seat in my box on Saturday
night. Bring Miss Dutcher--Mr. Gallup will be delighted to meet her."
All that she said, and more that she implied enmeshed Rose like folds of
an invisible intangible net.
Mrs. Harvey calmly accepted, but Rose exclaimed: "O, you're very kind
but I am going home on Saturday morning!"
"How sad! I should have liked to have you come."
After she was gone Rose sprang to her feet. "I must go now," she said
and there was a note in her voice which Mrs. Harvey knew meant
inflexible decision.
As they went upstairs Rose was filled with dread of some further
complication, but Mrs. Harvey only said:
"I love you, my child. I wish you were going to stay here always."
She left the way open for confidences, but Rose was in a panic to get
away and kept rigid silence.
In the carriage she contrived to convey to Elbert her desire to be left
alone and so he kept back the words of love which were bubbling in his
good frank soul. He was saddened by it but not made hopeless. It would
have been a beautiful close to a dramatic day could he have kissed her
lips and presented her to his mother as his promised wife--but it was
impossible for even his volatile nature to break into her somber, almost
sullen, silence; and when he said "Good night, Rose!" with tender
sweetness she replied curtly, "Good night!" and fled.
She hurried past Mary to her own room and lay for hours on her bed,
without undressing, listening to the howl of the wind, the grind of cars
and the distant boom of the breakers. There was a storm in her heart
also.
She thought of that lovely and gentle home, of the power wealth would
give her, of the journeys into the world, of trips to Europe, to the
ocean, to Boston and New York and London. It could give her a life of
ease, of power, of grace and charm. O, how beautiful it all was, but----
To win it she had to cut off her old father. He never could fit in with
these people. She thought of his meeting with the Harveys with a
shudder. Then, too, she would need to give up her own striving toward
independence, for it was plain these people would not hear to her
continued effort. Even if they consented, she would be meshed in a
thousand other duties.
And then she thought of Mason toiling at his desk down there in the
heart of the terrible town, and the look on his face grew less and less
imperious and more wistful and pleading. This day she had caught a new
meaning from his eyes--it was as if he needed her; it seemed absurd, and
she blushed to think it, but so it seemed. That last look on his face
was the look of a lonely man.
His words came to her again and again: "Hitherto I have
drifted--henceforth I will sail!"
And she pushed away the splendid picture of a life of ease and reached
out for comradeship with a man of toil, of dreams and hidden powers.