week or two at a time! The waiting, the brooding, the wondering, at
the store and here in her home--in the former place making mistakes at
times because she could not get her mind off him and being reminded
of them, and here at her own home at nights, being so absent-minded
that her parents remarked on it. She felt sure that her parents must
be noticing that Arthur was not coming any more, or as much as he
had--for she pretended to be going out with him, going to Mabel Gove’s
instead--and that Barton had deserted her too, he having been driven
off by her indifference, never to come any more, perhaps, unless she
sought him out.
And then it was that the thought of saving her own face by taking up
with Barton once more occurred to her, of using him and his affections
and faithfulness and dulness, if you will, to cover up her own dilemma.
Only, this ruse was not to be tried until she had written Arthur this
one letter--a pretext merely to see if there was a single ray of hope,
a letter to be written in a gentle-enough way and asking for the return
of the few notes she had written him. She had not seen him now in
nearly a month, and the last time she had, he had said he might soon be
compelled to leave her awhile--to go to Pittsburgh to work. And it was
his reply to this that she now held in her hand--from Pittsburgh! It
was frightful! The future without him!
But Barton would never know really what had transpired, if she went
back to him. In spite of all her delicious hours with Arthur, she could
call him back, she felt sure. She had never really entirely dropped
him, and he knew it. He had bored her dreadfully on occasion, arriving
on off days when Arthur was not about, with flowers or candy, or both,
and sitting on the porch steps and talking of the railroad business
and of the whereabouts and doings of some of their old friends. It
was shameful, she had thought at times, to see a man so patient, so
hopeful, so good-natured as Barton, deceived in this way, and by her,
who was so miserable over another. Her parents must see and know, she
had thought at these times, but still, what else was she to do?
“I’m a bad girl,” she kept telling herself. “I’m all wrong. What right
have I to offer Barton what is left?” But still, somehow, she realized
that Barton, if she chose to favor him, would only be too grateful
for even the leavings of others where she was concerned, and that even
yet, if she but deigned to crook a finger, she could have him. He was
so simple, so good-natured, so stolid and matter of fact, so different
to Arthur whom (she could not help smiling at the thought of it) she
was loving now about as Barton loved her--slavishly, hopelessly.
And then, as the days passed and Arthur did not write any more--just
this one brief note--she at first grieved horribly, and then in a fit
of numb despair attempted, bravely enough from one point of view, to
adjust herself to the new situation. Why should she despair? Why die
of agony where there were plenty who would still sigh for her--Barton
among others? She was young, pretty, very--many told her so. She could,
if she chose, achieve a vivacity which she did not feel. Why should she
brook this unkindness without a thought of retaliation? Why shouldn’t
she enter upon a gay and heartless career, indulging in a dozen
flirtations at once--dancing and killing all thoughts of Arthur in a
round of frivolities? There were many who beckoned to her. She stood at
her counter in the drug store on many a day and brooded over this, but
at the thought of which one to begin with, she faltered. After her late
love, all were so tame, for the present anyhow.
And then--and then--always there was Barton, the humble or faithful, to
whom she had been so unkind and whom she had used and whom she still
really liked. So often self-reproaching thoughts in connection with
him crept over her. He must have known, must have seen how badly she
was using him all this while, and yet he had not failed to come and
come, until she had actually quarreled with him, and any one would have
seen that it was literally hopeless. She could not help remembering,
especially now in her pain, that he adored her. He was not calling
on her now at all--by her indifference she had finally driven him
away--but a word, a word-- She waited for days, weeks, hoping against
hope, and then----
* * * * *
The office of Barton’s superior in the Great Eastern terminal had
always made him an easy object for her blandishments, coming and going,
as she frequently did, via this very station. He was in the office of
the assistant train-despatcher on the ground floor, where passing to
and from the local, which, at times, was quicker than a street-car, she
could easily see him by peering in; only, she had carefully avoided him
for nearly a year. If she chose now, and would call for a message-blank
at the adjacent telegraph-window which was a part of his room, and
raised her voice as she often had in the past, he could scarcely fail
to hear, if he did not see her. And if he did, he would rise and come
over--of that she was sure, for he never could resist her. It had been
a wile of hers in the old days to do this or to make her presence felt
by idling outside. After a month of brooding, she felt that she must
act--her position as a deserted girl was too much. She could not stand
it any longer really--the eyes of her mother, for one.
It was six-fifteen one evening when, coming out of the store in which
she worked, she turned her step disconsolately homeward. Her heart
was heavy, her face rather pale and drawn. She had stopped in the
store’s retiring-room before coming out to add to her charms as much as
possible by a little powder and rouge and to smooth her hair. It would
not take much to reallure her former sweetheart, she felt sure--and yet
it might not be so easy after all. Suppose he had found another? But
she could not believe that. It had scarcely been long enough since he
had last attempted to see her, and he was really so very, very fond of
her and so faithful. He was too slow and certain in his choosing--he
had been so with her. Still, who knows? With this thought, she went
forward in the evening, feeling for the first time the shame and pain
that comes of deception, the agony of having to relinquish an ideal and
the feeling of despair that comes to those who find themselves in the
position of suppliants, stooping to something which in better days and
better fortune they would not know. Arthur was the cause of this.
When she reached the station, the crowd that usually filled it at this
hour was swarming. There were so many pairs like Arthur and herself
laughing and hurrying away or so she felt. First glancing in the small
mirror of a weighing scale to see if she were still of her former
charm, she stopped thoughtfully at a little flower stand which stood
outside, and for a few pennies purchased a tiny bunch of violets. She
then went inside and stood near the window, peering first furtively to
see if he were present. He was. Bent over his work, a green shade over
his eyes, she could see his stolid, genial figure at a table. Stepping
back a moment to ponder, she finally went forward and, in a clear
voice, asked,
“May I have a blank, please?”
The infatuation of the discarded Barton was such that it brought him
instantly to his feet. In his stodgy, stocky way he rose, his eyes
glowing with a friendly hope, his mouth wreathed in smiles, and came
over. At the sight of her, pale, but pretty--paler and prettier,
really, than he had ever seen her--he thrilled dumbly.
“How are you, Shirley?” he asked sweetly, as he drew near, his eyes
searching her face hopefully. He had not seen her for so long that he
was intensely hungry, and her paler beauty appealed to him more than
ever. Why wouldn’t she have him? he was asking himself. Why wouldn’t
his persistent love yet win her? Perhaps it might. “I haven’t seen you
in a month of Sundays, it seems. How are the folks?”
“They’re all right, Bart,” she smiled archly, “and so am I. How have
you been? It has been a long time since I’ve seen you. I’ve been
wondering how you were. Have you been all right? I was just going to
send a message.”
As he had approached, Shirley had pretended at first not to see him, a
moment later to affect surprise, although she was really suppressing a
heavy sigh. The sight of him, after Arthur, was not reassuring. Could
she really interest herself in him any more? Could she?
“Sure, sure,” he replied genially; “I’m always all right. You couldn’t
kill me, you know. Not going away, are you, Shirl?” he queried
interestedly.
“No; I’m just telegraphing to Mabel. She promised to meet me
to-morrow, and I want to be sure she will.”
“You don’t come past here as often as you did, Shirley,” he complained
tenderly. “At least, I don’t seem to see you so often,” he added with
a smile. “It isn’t anything I have done, is it?” he queried, and then,
when she protested quickly, added: “What’s the trouble, Shirl? Haven’t
been sick, have you?”
She affected all her old gaiety and ease, feeling as though she would
like to cry.
“Oh, no,” she returned; “I’ve been all right. I’ve been going through
the other door, I suppose, or coming in and going out on the Langdon
Avenue car.” (This was true, because she had been wanting to avoid
him.) “I’ve been in such a hurry, most nights, that I haven’t had time
to stop, Bart. You know how late the store keeps us at times.”
He remembered, too, that in the old days she had made time to stop or
meet him occasionally.
“Yes, I know,” he said tactfully. “But you haven’t been to any of our
old card-parties either of late, have you? At least, I haven’t seen
you. I’ve gone to two or three, thinking you might be there.”
That was another thing Arthur had done--broken up her interest in
these old store and neighborhood parties and a banjo-and-mandolin club
to which she had once belonged. They had all seemed so pleasing and
amusing in the old days--but now-- * * * * In those days Bart had been
her usual companion when his work permitted.
“No,” she replied evasively, but with a forced air of pleasant
remembrance; “I have often thought of how much fun we had at those,
though. It was a shame to drop them. You haven’t seen Harry Stull
or Trina Task recently, have you?” she inquired, more to be saying
something than for any interest she felt.
He shook his head negatively, then added:
“Yes, I did, too; here in the waiting-room a few nights ago. They were
coming down-town to a theater, I suppose.”
His face fell slightly as he recalled how it had been their custom to
do this, and what their one quarrel had been about. Shirley noticed it.
She felt the least bit sorry for him, but much more for herself, coming
back so disconsolately to all this.
“Well, you’re looking as pretty as ever, Shirley,” he continued, noting
that she had not written the telegram and that there was something
wistful in her glance. “Prettier, I think,” and she smiled sadly. Every
word that she tolerated from him was as so much gold to him, so much of
dead ashes to her. “You wouldn’t like to come down some evening this
week and see ‘The Mouse-Trap,’ would you? We haven’t been to a theater
together in I don’t know when.” His eyes sought hers in a hopeful,
doglike way.
So--she could have him again--that was the pity of it! To have what
she really did not want, did not care for! At the least nod now he
would come, and this very devotion made it all but worthless, and so
sad. She ought to marry him now for certain, if she began in this way,
and could in a month’s time if she chose, but oh, oh--could she? For
the moment she decided that she could not, would not. If he had only
repulsed her--told her to go--ignored her--but no; it was her fate to
be loved by him in this moving, pleading way, and hers not to love him
as she wished to love--to be loved. Plainly, he needed some one like
her, whereas she, she----. She turned a little sick, a sense of the
sacrilege of gaiety at this time creeping into her voice, and exclaimed:
“No, no!” Then seeing his face change, a heavy sadness come over
it, “Not this week, anyhow, I mean” (“Not so soon,” she had almost
said). “I have several engagements this week and I’m not feeling
well. But”--seeing his face change, and the thought of her own state
returning--“you might come out to the house some evening instead, and
then we can go some other time.”
His face brightened intensely. It was wonderful how he longed to be
with her, how the least favor from her comforted and lifted him up. She
could see also now, however, how little it meant to her, how little it
could ever mean, even if to him it was heaven. The old relationship
would have to be resumed in toto, once and for all, but did she want it
that way now that she was feeling so miserable about this other affair?
As she meditated, these various moods racing to and fro in her mind,
Barton seemed to notice, and now it occurred to him that perhaps he had
not pursued her enough--was too easily put off. She probably did like
him yet. This evening, her present visit, seemed to prove it.
“Sure, sure!” he agreed. “I’d like that. I’ll come out Sunday, if you
say. We can go any time to the play. I’m sorry, Shirley, if you’re
not feeling well. I’ve thought of you a lot these days. I’ll come out
Wednesday, if you don’t mind.”
She smiled a wan smile. It was all so much easier than she had
expected--her triumph--and so ashenlike in consequence, a flavor of
dead-sea fruit and defeat about it all, that it was pathetic. How could
she, after Arthur? How could he, really?
“Make it Sunday,” she pleaded, naming the farthest day off, and then
hurried out.
Her faithful lover gazed after her, while she suffered an intense
nausea. To think--to think--it should all be coming to this! She had
not used her telegraph-blank, and now had forgotten all about it. It
was not the simple trickery that discouraged her, but her own future
which could find no better outlet than this, could not rise above it
apparently, or that she had no heart to make it rise above it. Why
couldn’t she interest herself in some one different to Barton? Why did
she have to return to him? Why not wait and meet some other--ignore
him as before? But no, no; nothing mattered now--no one--it might as
well be Barton really as any one, and she would at least make him happy
and at the same time solve her own problem. She went out into the
train-shed and climbed into her train. Slowly, after the usual pushing
and jostling of a crowd, it drew out toward Latonia, that suburban
region in which her home lay. As she rode, she thought.
“What have I just done? What am I doing?” she kept asking herself as
the clacking wheels on the rails fell into a rhythmic dance and the
houses of the brown, dry, endless city fled past in a maze. “Severing
myself decisively from the past--the happy past--for supposing, once I
am married, Arthur should return and want me again--suppose! Suppose!”
Below at one place, under a shed, were some market-gardeners disposing
of the last remnants of their day’s wares--a sickly, dull life, she
thought. Here was Rutgers Avenue, with its line of red street-cars,
many wagons and tracks and counter-streams of automobiles--how often
had she passed it morning and evening in a shuttle-like way, and
how often would, unless she got married! And here, now, was the
river flowing smoothly between its banks lined with coal-pockets and
wharves--away, away to the huge deep sea which she and Arthur had
enjoyed so much. Oh, to be in a small boat and drift out, out into the
endless, restless, pathless deep! Somehow the sight of this water,
to-night and every night, brought back those evenings in the open
with Arthur at Sparrows Point, the long line of dancers in Eckert’s
Pavilion, the woods at Atholby, the park, with the dancers in the
pavilion--she choked back a sob. Once Arthur had come this way with
her on just such an evening as this, pressing her hand and saying how
wonderful she was. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! And now Barton was to take his
old place again--forever, no doubt. She could not trifle with her life
longer in this foolish way, or his. What was the use? But think of it!
Yes, it must be--forever now, she told herself. She must marry. Time
would be slipping by and she would become too old. It was her only
future--marriage. It was the only future she had ever contemplated
really, a home, children, the love of some man whom she could love as
she loved Arthur. Ah, what a happy home that would have been for her!
But now, now----
But there must be no turning back now, either. There was no other way.
If Arthur ever came back--but fear not, he wouldn’t! She had risked
so much and lost--lost him. Her little venture into true love had
been such a failure. Before Arthur had come all had been well enough.
Barton, stout and simple and frank and direct, had in some way--how,
she could scarcely realize now--offered sufficient of a future. But
now, now! He had enough money, she knew, to build a cottage for the two
of them. He had told her so. He would do his best always to make her
happy, she was sure of that. They could live in about the state her
parents were living in--or a little better, not much--and would never
want. No doubt there would be children, because he craved them--several
of them--and that would take up her time, long years of it--the sad,
gray years! But then Arthur, whose children she would have thrilled to
bear, would be no more, a mere memory--think of that!--and Barton, the
dull, the commonplace, would have achieved his finest dream--and why?
Because love was a failure for her--that was why--and in her life
there could be no more true love. She would never love any one again
as she had Arthur. It could not be, she was sure of it. He was too
fascinating, too wonderful. Always, always, wherever she might be,
whoever she might marry, he would be coming back, intruding between
her and any possible love, receiving any possible kiss. It would be
Arthur she would be loving or kissing. She dabbed at her eyes with a
tiny handkerchief, turned her face close to the window and stared out,
and then as the environs of Latonia came into view, wondered (so deep
is romance): What if Arthur should come back at some time--or now!
Supposing he should be here at the station now, accidentally or on
purpose, to welcome her, to soothe her weary heart. He had met her here
before. How she would fly to him, lay her head on his shoulder, forget
forever that Barton ever was, that they had ever separated for an hour.
Oh, Arthur! Arthur!
But no, no; here was Latonia--here the viaduct over her train, the
long business street and the cars marked “Center” and “Langdon Avenue”
running back into the great city. A few blocks away in tree-shaded
Bethune Street, duller and plainer than ever, was her parents’ cottage
and the routine of that old life which was now, she felt, more fully
fastened upon her than ever before--the lawn-mowers, the lawns, the
front porches all alike. Now would come the going to and fro of Barton
to business as her father and she now went to business, her keeping
house, cooking, washing, ironing, sewing for Barton as her mother now
did these things for her father and herself. And she would not be in
love really, as she wanted to be. Oh, dreadful! She could never escape
it really, now that she could endure it less, scarcely for another
hour. And yet she must, must, for the sake of--for the sake of--she
closed her eyes and dreamed.
She walked up the street under the trees, past the houses and lawns all
alike to her own, and found her father on their veranda reading the
evening paper. She sighed at the sight.
“Back, daughter?” he called pleasantly.
“Yes.”
“Your mother is wondering if you would like steak or liver for dinner.
Better tell her.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
She hurried into her bedroom, threw down her hat and gloves, and
herself on the bed to rest silently, and groaned in her soul. To think
that it had all come to this!--Never to see him any more!--To see only
Barton, and marry him and live in such a street, have four or five
children, forget all her youthful companionships--and all to save her
face before her parents, and her future. Why must it be? Should it
be, really? She choked and stifled. After a little time her mother,
hearing her come in, came to the door--thin, practical, affectionate,
conventional.
“What’s wrong, honey? Aren’t you feeling well to-night? Have you a
headache? Let me feel.”
Her thin cool fingers crept over her temples and hair. She suggested
something to eat or a headache powder right away.
“I’m all right, mother. I’m just not feeling well now. Don’t bother.
I’ll get up soon. Please don’t.”
“Would you rather have liver or steak to-night, dear?”
“Oh, anything--nothing--please don’t bother--steak will
do--anything”--if only she could get rid of her and be at rest!
Her mother looked at her and shook her head sympathetically, then
retreated quietly, saying no more. Lying so, she thought and
thought--grinding, destroying thoughts about the beauty of the past,
the darkness of the future--until able to endure them no longer she got
up and, looking distractedly out of the window into the yard and the
house next door, stared at her future fixedly. What should she do? What
should she really do? There was Mrs. Kessel in her kitchen getting her
dinner as usual, just as her own mother was now, and Mr. Kessel out on
the front porch in his shirt-sleeves reading the evening paper. Beyond
was Mr. Pollard in his yard, cutting the grass. All along Bethune
Street were such houses and such people--simple, commonplace souls
all--clerks, managers, fairly successful craftsmen, like her father and
Barton, excellent in their way but not like Arthur the beloved, the
lost--and here was she, perforce, or by decision of necessity, soon to
be one of them, in some such street as this no doubt, forever and--.
For the moment it choked and stifled her.
She decided that she would not. No, no, no! There must be some other
way--many ways. She did not have to do this unless she really wished
to--would not--only--. Then going to the mirror she looked at her face
and smoothed her hair.
“But what’s the use?” she asked of herself wearily and resignedly after
a time. “Why should I cry? Why shouldn’t I marry Barton? I don’t amount
to anything, anyhow. Arthur wouldn’t have me. I wanted him, and I am
compelled to take some one else--or no one--what difference does it
really make who? My dreams are too high, that’s all. I wanted Arthur,
and he wouldn’t have me. I don’t want Barton, and he crawls at my feet.
I’m a failure, that’s what’s the matter with me.”
And then, turning up her sleeves and removing a fichu which stood out
too prominently from her breast, she went into the kitchen and, looking
about for an apron, observed:
“Can’t I help? Where’s the tablecloth?” and finding it among napkins
and silverware in a drawer in the adjoining room, proceeded to set the
table.
A STORY OF STORIES
Take a smoky Western city. Call it Omaha or Kansas City or Denver,
only let the Mississippi flow past it. Put in it two rival morning
papers--two, and only two--the _Star_ and the _News_, the staffs
of which are rather keen to outwit each other. On the staff of the
_News_, slightly the better of the two newspapers, put Mr. David
Kolinsky, alias (yes, alias) David, or “Red” Collins (a little shift of
nomenclature due to the facts that, first: he was a South Russian Jew
who looked exactly like a red-headed Irishman--that is a peculiarity
of South Russian Jews, I believe--and secondly: that it was more
_distingué_, as it were, to be Irish in Omaha or Denver or Kansas
City than it was to be a South Russian Jew). Give him a slithery,
self-confident, race-track or tout manner. Put on him “loud” or showy
clothes, a diamond ring, a ruby pin in his tie, a yellowish-green
Fedora hat, yellow shoes, freckles, a sneering contemptuous “tough”
smile, and you have Mr. “Red” Collins as Mr.----
But wait.