her hands, while the old man moved about putting things a bit in order,
as he called it, before he left. “Since the missus died, I have to
look after everything inside and outside.” This he said as he brushed
the crumbs from the preceding breakfast on to the floor, and then swept
crumbs, dirt and all out of the door.
After he disappeared down the hill, behind the pump, Ellen raised her
eyes appealingly to mine. “What am I to do, Don Compie?” This was
the name she had given me when she was a baby and could not say John
Constable. Her mother, too, had called me by it in later years, to
distinguish me from her husband.
As I have said, it was seven years since I left for Europe in one last
effort to forget her, whom fortune decreed I could not possess. When
I left little Ellen was just a child, almost a baby. But now she was
blooming into womanhood.
“Ellen, dear,” I asked sympathetically, “do you feel strong enough to
tell me of the death of mother and daddy? Were you in the motor with
them at the time of the accident, or just how did it happen?”
“No,” she answered slowly, and unrestrained tears flowed freely down
the pale cheeks, “they were alone with Peter the chauffeur, returning
from Upper Falls. Peter turned into the railing of the bridge to avoid
another machine, which was coming very fast--the railing gave way,
Peter jumped and escaped injury, but mother and daddy were caught under
the car. Daddy was dead when they found him, but mother lived almost a
day.”
I had grown callous to suffering and trouble as I approached middle
age, but my heart was touched as it never had been before. I slowly
patted the white hand in an effort to disclose my feelings, but I’m
afraid the child has never known the depth of them to this day.
“You see,” she continued bravely, “it was because daddy died first that
mother’s will and not his became valid, and in it she left everything,
including the home at Pine Grove where Uncle Albert lives, to me. Daddy
bought it in just recently, because Uncle Albert had mortgaged it so
heavily that it was to be sold and daddy wanted to keep it in the
family.
“Uncle Albert was furious when he heard mother had made you my
guardian. He begged and begged me to marry him. I was raging, and
threatened to write you all about it. Then he lured me to the country.
He wrote that he was very ill, and I believed him. Watkins told me
everything immediately. He said Uncle Albert had sent you a fake
telegram, and he had seen him put something in the whiskey, but he,
Watkins, had filled it with water, so it would not hurt you. I was
frantic--every exit in the wing of the house where I was imprisoned
was locked. Dear, dear, I was frantic--about midnight I seemed to feel
mother’s presence beside me impelling me to go to your assistance. I
heard something that sounded like a pebble hit the glass in my window.
At first I was afraid to look out. It was Watkins, and he threw me a
rope. I quickly tied one end to the radiator, and made my escape. As I
flew through the corridor I felt a hand clutch me. It was Uncle Albert.
He told me he would kill me if I let you know we were in the house.
Then--in this terrible second of desperation you found me.”
“The brute,” I muttered between my teeth. “He wired me to come and help
search for you--that you had eloped with a man who wanted your fortune,
but that he had a clue and wanted me to help solve it.”
“Don’t you see,” she replied, “he had carefully planned to poison you,
and then he was going to force me to marry him, for without father he
had absolutely no means of support.”
“And he was taking the line of least resistance,” I thought--“the line
that leads to nowhere.”
“Heavens, what do you think he was going to do with me, Don Compie?”
I never recall having seen such a look of appeal and terror registered
upon the face of any other person in my life.
“My little Ellen,” said I, holding the two hands firmly in my own, “do
you know I loved your mother very dearly? I always wanted the right to
protect her, but it was denied me--your daddy won out. She is gone, but
you are left. Will you trust yourself to my care?”
She answered with a look that meant more than words--a look that I
would have given my soul to have had from another twenty years before.
We washed the dishes, closed the old man’s door and started toward our
destination, for I had resolved to find Ellen comfortable quarters with
a companion before I finished the affair with Albert.
The rain had ceased and there was a peculiarly clear, cool freshness in
the atmosphere for a day in August. The hills that surrounded the farm
house made clear scallops of green against a pure blue background, and
it was hard to believe that turmoil and trouble could exist in such
quiet, pleasant surroundings.
We were commenting upon the peacefulness of the scene when an ambulance
approached over the hill before us. The road was unusually rough
and narrow, a typical country road edged with chinquapin bushes and
dogwood trees, whose leaves had already started to turn scarlet, hiding
clusters of berries beneath them.
The ambulance swayed from side to side and heeded not the ruts or
stones in its wake. As “coming events cast their shadows before,” I was
quite confident of its destination. I motioned to the driver who gave
me a sharp glance and held the horses in a walk just long enough to
inform me quickly of their errand.
“To Mr. Albert Wilbur’s,” was the answer to my question.
“Dead?” I asked.
“Don’t know, a servant ’phoned that he had tried to commit suicide.”
“Take us back, we’re related,” I said.
We returned to the house from which we had fled--to find that the two
shots, which the misguided man had fired, had done their work only too
well. There remained but the frame of him who had given nothing and
taken all.
As for myself, I was left alone in the world with this gentle, naïve
child, and I prayed each day that she would be more generous with her
love than her mother had been--and she was.
It was like a gift from heaven sent to heal a wounded and longing heart.
THE REPORTER.
I made the journey in a motor painted grey--a stylish one upholstered
in velvet, and there were things inside to blow and touch for
convenience. Be not disillusioned--it did not belong to me. It and
the chauffeur were loaned for the occasion by my married sister. Yes,
of course, married, because I believe that was what she married for.
Anyway, I sat back in this rapidly moving equipage, looking, I believe,
very comfortable, but feeling, I am sure, very--now just how did I
feel, not very, but “ante turban trepidat.” I was shaky and overcome
with the same feeling that one has when about to make his first public
speech, or at least as I imagine one would feel. However, we had
reached the outskirts of the city; the air was pungent with ozone and
there was a wafting fragrance of woods--just woods.
I carried the directions of my destination in my hand, written on a
slip of white paper. “Keep straight ahead on Falls Road, turn west
from Lake Avenue to first road running north; then turn east. First
house to the right,” the paper read. We had ridden but a short distance
after leaving the city--entirely too short for me to compose myself,
when the first house to the right began distinctly to outline itself on
the horizon. The feeling of trepidation which possessed me intensified
itself as we drove up to the door and stopped. Two dogs appeared and
barked, but did not approach me. I say they did not approach me, yet
the only thing I was entirely certain of that second was a black crepe
that hung from the door; it appeared blacker than black, because a
bunch of snow white roses unrelieved by green leaves caught the folds
and held them.
My fingers shook in an endeavor to separate one of my visiting cards
from the pasty tissues that divided them, but they stuck closer than
a mustard plaster. Before I was ready the door was opened by a neatly
dressed, middle-aged colored woman. Without glancing at me or my card
she informed me that Professor Symonds could not be seen.
But I insisted I must, I really must see him. She then scrutinized
me closely, she looked me through and through, and I saw she was
completely fooled. I was suffocated with shame when I thought of my
subterfuge, for I had attired myself in deep mourning--an outfit left
from a recent period of mourning after my brother’s death, as was also
my black-edged card.
“But, honey, he’s ’tirely done give out. I knows he won’t see no-body.”
“I’ve come so far, do inquire,” I pleaded.
“Well, jess you wait here and I’ll see. He’s right in there,” she said,
pointing to a room nearby with her head.
“Mayn’t I just go in, he’ll not mind,” I lied.
“You sure, Miss?” the look in her eyes adding force to the question.
“Quite sure.”
I followed her as she turned the knob on the sacred door and announced
me. She opened it a bit wider. I was close behind, and before anything
else happened I was in.
Professor Symonds looked handsome; that was because he was sitting
down. His nose was large, but well shaped. Perhaps, after reflecting
somewhat, I should say it was a bit too long. His forehead was just
an ordinary forehead. But his eyes--let me see, they were of an
indescribable color, and his lashes were very long--either long or his
eyes were deeply set. I think it was both that gave me the impression.
You see I was only sent to interview him and I tried not to stare.
Besides it was his mouth that I wanted to look at, and in fact I am
conscious now of having looked too hard, but his mouth was decidedly
crooked. When he laughed it was more so, but his teeth were large,
white and straight. So on the whole it did not detract from his
appearance, but I had a keen inclination to hold his mouth and force
him to smile straight. Smile I say, but I had only seen him smile once
and then very slightly. What I really wanted to do was to coerce him,
but it could not be done; he was thinking--thinking of something that
was not conducive to smiles.
He arose slowly to greet me. Arose, as one disturbed most unwillingly.
While rising he screwed the top on his fountain pen and leisurely
adjusted it to his inside pocket. He received me kindly but with
manifest annoyance. His face reddened when I told him my mission,
and he walked deliberately away from me after I became seated. This
discouraged me, but I noticed to my complete satisfaction that he was
not handsome--he was not handsome and his clothes were not a good fit.
I was glad of these facts, because when I entered the room there was
something in the atmosphere, something intangible about the melancholy
figure that excited my sympathy and even made my heart beat quicker.
But now I saw plainly from his demeanor--his utter indifference--that
he regarded me only as a reporter. This was why I was glad to see he
was just a short, homely man.
I said, “I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion at this trying hour. I was
compelled to come for an interview.”
“Interview! How extraordinary, when a man’s wife is lying dead.” His
air of surprise did not deceive me, for I knew that many reporters
had preceded me. But I felt hurt in my whole being at the rebuff. How
could I justify myself for having to confront him at this hour--for this
indelicate visit. My color rose, I rose, and the temperature rose. For
a moment I could not speak; when my voice returned I replied humbly,
most humbly, “The editor gave me the assignment, and I try never to
fall down on my job. You must know that it is hard--quite as hard for
me as it is for you.” I felt all at once the fact that in my effort to
succeed in my business I had overlapped conventionalities too rashly.
“Damn editors, they have no feeling for anyone,” he muttered; then
asked my pardon. I bowed my head and tried to look more modest than a
reporter can look.
I saw now that I had a slight chance of procuring an interview, and
strange as it may seem I was beginning to like him again. He was
entirely uncommon and the possessor of a face embroidered with lines
from study and sorrow, and a composure that was calm but forceful.
Ill at ease as I was I made up my mind to stick and see the thing
through. A “scoop” like this for my editor meant more for me than I can
explain on paper. I pretended to be moving for the door, but wasn’t;
it was only another subterfuge--the forced weapon of a reporter.
Such things are not meant to beguile; but they are a slight means of
delusion. So unless you are adapted to the use of them do not apply for
a reporter’s job.
Professor Symonds slowly walked back from the window, which was not
far, because the house was a cottage and the rooms small.
He looked at me squarely, slightly pityingly, for I am sure he was
sorry that one so young could be so bold. As for myself I was thinking
that perhaps I should live to be an old, old lady--thin scrawny people
generally do; but never should I forget with what pride and exultation
I had received this assignment. It was first given to Mr. Tyler, our
best reporter and our most vivid writer. He failed completely in
his efforts to communicate with Professor Symonds, even after he had
resorted to detective work. From him it descended step by step to me.
Descended most describes the process, for I was a journalist just
starting my career and this was the first important piece of work that
I had received. Hence my resolution to remain immutable in my decision
to stick for the information that my paper so desired. Previous to
this affair the majority of my best literary efforts had suffered an
evanescence into the world at large. Perhaps John, the janitor, knew of
their whereabouts--he always emptied the waste-baskets.
“So you wish me to talk for publication, do you; to lay the facts of my
life open to the criticism of the public?”
“No, I--I”----
“Well, I shall do nothing of the kind. The lives of myself and family
are entirely my own affair, and no one need count on my giving the
papers material with which to fill up their columns.”
“But--but the affair was important.”
“Important or not, it is mine and with me it shall die. It’s a shame,
a shame I say, to send young girls to pry into one’s private life.”
It was evident that this speech was from one who could suppress his
feelings no longer. Nevertheless, I had grown hot and indignant at his
words. At the same time I was becoming alarmed at the nearness of the
door to me. This in a way prevented my pungent remarks from having the
effect they otherwise would have had.
“If I were allowed to choose my assignments, Professor Symonds, I
assure you I should not have chosen this one.” This retort was,
perhaps, a trifle impudent, considering the fair treatment I had at
first received, but it was made without thought, and I was sorry as
soon as I realized what I had said.
His speech had caused him remorse, for he was no longer cold and
phlegmatic. His attitude of aloofness changed suddenly and completely
to fatherly kindness, which made itself felt as he tendered his
apologies and again offered me a chair. It was my turn to assume
indifference, for I saw now that I was mistress of the situation. I
drew myself in, so to speak, smiled a hurt smile and seated myself.
“I thought you might throw a bit of light on Mr. Milton’s death,” I
ventured again.
“The man is dead, why not let it go at that,” he suggested, for by
this time he had become docile and his attitude suggested capitulation.
“But don’t you see,” I explained, “it’s my assignment, and I must take
back something. If it doesn’t go with me you’ll only be harassed by
others. Why not say just what you know?”
“Do you expect newspaper work to get you anywhere?” This was partly to
change the subject, and partly to manifest some interest in me.
“Indeed, yes,” I replied, “the practice lays a foundation for better
writing. Of course, there are things about it that I hate, such as
this, but on the whole it is good for one. You see there is no waiting
for an impulse to write, which seldom comes naturally to one. The work
is there and it must be done. This forced writing teaches concentration
and rapidity, while at the same time it keeps one awake to the
movements of the day, nationally and internationally.” This was from my
heart, for it was for this reason alone that I had associated myself
with the press.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps, but it robs girls of their modesty, and
it teaches them to exaggerate events.” This brutally frank statement
brought me perilously to the verge of tears. At the same time it
brought the realization that this particular piece of news--if
I succeeded in my purpose--must be reported correctly in every
detail--there could be no exaggeration. And I wondered why I cared.
These thoughts must have shown in my eyes. There must have been
something about my expression that made my friend sorry for me. I say
friend, because I felt from this moment that he was my friend.
“But, of course,” he went on, “there are always exceptions. I know you
are one and I hope you will remain one.” I thanked him and renewed my
efforts to worm the desired information out of him. He explained that
his aversion to newspapers was due to the pain he had but recently
suffered from a great sorrow.
“Had I been a rich man instead of a poor professor there would have
been no scandal published about my wife.”
“How could you have prevented it?” I asked innocently. I was not
innocent, for I had heard much of papers being bought off by
advertisers.
“By buying them off.”
“Then the story was true, was it not?”
His face reddened, he realized his admission.
“You are the first reporter who has been permitted to enter this
house. I have treated you with courtesy and I trust you will spare
me any further humiliation in this affair.” Such an appeal--it came
straight from his heart, but how could I befriend him? I felt myself
becoming entangled in a desperate situation. All that he said was true,
but on the other hand I had been requested to handle the case carefully
and procure the interview at any cost.
I had no doubt that I could obtain the story now, Professor Symonds
was my victim or my friend, whichever I wished to make of him. The
event rested with me; yet I could not forget with what confidence and
assurance I had received the assignment together with full directions
for finding the house. Where would I end? I played carelessly with
the beads around my neck, pulled my hat a little further to the side,
pretended to catch my veil tighter, and then smoothed the wrinkles out
of the arms of my gloves; but I could not decide which road to take.
Professor Symonds was longing for a friend--a sympathizer. He was dying
to talk--to unburden himself, and the moment seemed propitious. He gave
an appealing look and without further protest began to talk.
“This is the story. I give it to you. Do with it what you will.” From
that second, with me, love took the place of admiration, and I knew
that he knew the story was safe.
“It is true that my wife eloped with Milton.” As he uttered these words
his emotion overpowered him, and he dropped his head in his hands. It
affected me so painfully that I tried to restrain him from harrowing
his feelings any further. But it seemed as if he understood the
sympathetic attitude of his visitor, and wished to confide in me. He
continued:
“But there were circumstances that caused it. She was a good woman,
a really good woman, but our tastes were entirely different. She
loved the city and its closeness to ‘things’; I loved the country
and its freedom from noise. She loved people; I loved solitude. And
besides these differences there were things which you are too young to
understand.”
I had the natural curiosity of woman and her native diplomacy. So I did
not interrupt the continuity of his thoughts.
“Both men and women have strongly developed or even instinctive sex
complexes and the physical call of a mate transcends the restrictions
that herd instinct places upon our modern society. In other words, it
is the elemental appeal that is too strong for the system of barriers
society has thrown around modern life. We were congenial, yes, loving
and loved, but our natures differed; our habits had not grown together,
so our ways parted through no fault of either. Our emotional structures
also differed, and the instinctive emotions dominated. Perhaps you will
think this explanation incongruous, but I know it to be the truth,
and the result of it all is what I am now facing. I see now that my
selfishness was chiefly responsible. I was, by nature, the stronger of
the two; it was in my power to influence my wife, but we drifted and
the realization of the situation came too late.
“In her loneliness she had appealed to Milton and he responded. In him
she found a companion with a kindred spirit. They both loved life and
what it brought. Now that they are both dead there is only one thing I
can do for them, and that is to preserve their reputations, and save
them from the disgrace of a disclosure. The public only knows, from
the letter found on Milton, that they loved each other; it does not
and shall not know more.” His head was bent and his voice filled with
anguish.
“If I had only known sooner I believe I could have saved her the tragic
end. She was returning to me--returning to me, I am confident, for she
had entered the garden before she swallowed the poison.”
I still did not speak or move and he talked on without a pause. But now
he seemed to pull himself together, and I could see an increasing air
of satisfaction and gratification in his demeanor, as he found himself
confiding in a hearer who was growing more and more sympathetic.
“It is evident that Milton had left her. It was what such propensities
always lead to and only what I had expected. Life to be successful
must be regular and conventional. We humans are too susceptible to the
opinions of others to ignore for long any irregularities, and, as I
say, he had left her and gone to Washington. Perhaps he was returning
to his wife or perhaps he had just grown tired; anyhow he had reached
there before he heard that Helen was dead. He probably thought I’d kill
him, so he saved me the trouble.
“Dear, dear, how I should love to do something for you,” I said
involuntarily, urged by the flood of sympathy the tragic tale had
evoked. Then I realized that Professor Symonds might misunderstand me
and think my remark too forward.
“It isn’t a situation to be envied, is it?”
When he asked the question I was thinking of life and its perplexities;
the happiness and sorrows that circumstances render without the power
on our part either to aid or alter. Here was a man of rare intellectual
qualities, a pleasing personality, position and--best of all--a soul;
yet he, like others, must live and suffer apparently through no fault
of his--but through the thoughtlessness of a pleasure-seeking wife.
My sympathy was spontaneous. Is it any wonder that a warm friendship
sprang up between us?
And is it needless to say there was no “scoop” for the paper? In fact,
my days with the press were numbered. The little cottage needed a
feminine touch, and I needed all the love Professor Symonds could give
me. Yet I have never been able to fathom why he married me, for my eyes
were dark but not luminous; my hair was light, not golden; I was thin
and bony; I was tall, yet not erect; I wanted to be wise, but had lots
to learn.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious punctuation and spacing errors have been corrected.
Page 29: “remarkd Mrs. Gary” changed to “remarked Mrs. Gary”; “in in
the last two” changed “in the last two”
Page 30: “relief the monotomy” changed to “relief the monotony”
Page 47: “as she realizes that” changed to “as she realized that”
Page 49: “going to chuch” changed to “going to church”
Page 54: “she had believe it” changed to “she had believed it”
Page 70: “for there has never been” changed to “for there had never
been”
Page 75: “sweet timber of a” changed to “sweet timbre of a”
Page 93: “his indelicate visit” changed to “this indelicate visit”