Wolf walked with her to the omnibus. He had come in tired with the heat
of the long day, but Norma thought him his sweetest self, brotherly,
good, unsuspicious, and unaffected. He complimented her on her
appearance; he had a kind word for Harry Redding, for the baby; he told
Norma that he and his mother had gone to Portland by water a few weeks
before and had a great spree. Norma, tired and excited, loved him for
his very indifference to her affairs and her mood, for the simplicity
with which he showed her the book he was reading, and the amusement he
found all along the dry and dusty and dirty street. Everything was
interesting to Wolf, and he made no apologies for the general wiltedness
and disorder of the neighbourhood.
Norma looked down at him, from the top of the omnibus, and thought that
he was a friendly and likable big young man, with his rumpled bare head
shining reddish-brown in the streaming, merciless sunlight. She had no
idea that his last look at her was like some precious canvas that a
collector adds to his treasures, that to the thousands of little-girl
Normas, and bookshop Normas, and to the memorable picture of a débutante
Norma at her first opera, Wolf carried away with him to-night one more
Norma: a brown, self-possessed, prettier-than-ever Norma, in a wide
English hat and a plain linen suit, and transparent green silk stockings
that matched her green silk parasol.
She got down from the omnibus, a few blocks farther away, and walked
slowly along the shady side of the burning cross-streets, thinking,
thinking, thinking. It was the hottest hour of the afternoon; there
would be a storm to-night, but just now the air hung motionless, and the
shadows were almost as dazzling, in their baking dimness, as the
sunshine. Houses were closed and silent, show windows bare; the
omnibuses creaked by loaded with passengers, trying to get cool. There
was an odour of frying potatoes; other odours, stale and lifeless, crept
through the stale and lifeless air.
Norma was entirely familiar with this phase of city life, for, except
for Sundays at Coney Island, or picnicking on some beach or in some
meadow or wood of Connecticut, she and the Sheridans had weathered two
successive hot seasons very comfortably within two hundred yards of
Broadway. It held no particular horrors for her; she reflected that in
another hour or two the sun would quite have died away, and then every
flight of old brownstone steps would hold its chatting group, and every
street its scores of screaming and running children.
Wherever her thoughts carried her, they began and ended with
Christopher. He had never kissed her again after the night of his return
from Miami; he had hardly touched even her hand, and he had said no word
of love. But, as the summer progressed, these two had grown steadily to
live more and more for each other, for just the casual friendly looks
and words of ordinary intercourse in the presence of other persons, and
for the chance hours that Fate now and then permitted them alone.
Norma, in every other relationship grown more whimsical and more
restless, showing new phases of frivolity and shallowness to the world,
had deepened and developed, under Chris's eyes, into her own highest
possibility of womanhood. To him she was earnest, honest, only anxious
to be good and to be true. He knew the viewpoint of that wiser self that
was the real Norma; he knew how wide open those blue eyes were to what
was false and worthless in the world around her.
And Norma had seen him change, too, or perhaps more truly become
himself. Still apparently the old Chris, handsome, poised, cynical, and
only too ready to be bored, he went his usual course of golf and polo,
gave his men's dinners, kissed Alice good-bye and departed for yachting
or motoring trips. Even Alice, shut away from reality in her own world
of music and sweet airs, flowers and friendship, saw no change.
But Norma saw it. She knew that Chris was no longer ready to respond to
every pretty woman's idle challenge to a flirtation; she knew that there
was a Chris of high ideals, a Chris capable even of heroism, a Chris who
loved simplicity, who loved even service, and who was not too spoiled
and too proud to give his time as well as his money, to give himself
gladly where he saw the need.
Their hours alone together were hours of enchanting discovery. Memories
of the little boy that had been Chris, the little girl that had been
Norma, their hopes and ambitions and joys and sorrows, all were
exchanged. And to them both every word seemed of thrilling and absorbing
interest. To Norma life now was a different thing when Chris merely was
in the room, however distant from her, however apparently interested in
someone, or something, else. She knew that he was conscious of her,
thinking of her, and that presently she would have just the passing
word, or smile, or even quiet glance that would buoy her hungry soul
like a fresh and powerful current.
It was not strange to her that she should have come to feel him the most
vital and most admirable of all the persons about her, for many of the
men and women who loved Chris shared this view. Norma had not been in
the Melrose house a month before she had heard him called "wonderful",
"inimitable", "the only Chris", a hundred times. Even, she told herself
sometimes, even the women that Chris quite openly disliked would not
return coldness for coldness. And how much less could she, so much
younger, resist the generous friendship he offered to her ignorance, and
awkwardness, and strangeness?
That he saw in her own companionship something to value she had at first
been slow to believe. Sheer pride had driven her to reluctance, to
shyness, to unbelief. But that was long ago, months ago. Norma knew now
that he truly liked her, that the very freshness and unconventionality
of her viewpoint delighted him, and that he gave her a frankness, a
simpleness, and an ardour, in his confidences, that would have
astonished Alice herself.
Alice! Norma was thinking of Alice, now. Just where did Alice come in?
Alice had always been the most generous of wives. But she could not be
generous here; no human woman could. She liked Norma, in a sense she
needed Norma, but Chris was all her world.
"But, good heavens!" Norma mused, as she walked slowly along, "isn't
there to be any friendship for a man but his men friends, or any for a
woman except unmarried men? Isn't there friendship at all between the
sexes? Must it always be sneaking and subterfuge, unless it's marriage?
I don't want to marry Chris Liggett----"
She stopped short, and the blood left her heart suddenly, and rushed
back with a pounding that almost dizzied her.
"_I don't want to marry Chris Liggett_," she whispered, aloud. And then
she widened her eyes at space, and walked on blindly for a little way.
"Oh, Chris, Chris, Chris!" she said. "Oh, what shall I do?"
An agony almost physical in its violence seized her, and she began to
move more rapidly, as if to wear it out, or escape it.
"No, no, no; I can't care for him in that way," said Norma, feeling her
throat dry and her head suddenly aching. "We can't--we cannot--like each
other that way!"
The rest of the walk was a blank as far as her consciousness was
concerned. She was swept far away, on a rushing sea of memories,
memories confused and troubled by a vague apprehension of the days to
come. That was it; that was it; they loved each other. Not as
kinspeople, not as friends, not as the Chris and Norma of Alice's and
Leslie's and Annie's lives, but as man and woman, caught at last in the
old, old snare that is the strongest in life.
Bewildered and sick, she reached the cool, great colonnaded doorway of
the hotel. And here she and Christopher came face to face.
He was coming out, was indeed halfway down the stone steps. They stood
still and looked at each other.
Norma thought that he looked tired, that perhaps the hot week in
streets and offices had been hard for him. He was pale, and the smile he
gave her was strained and unnatural. They had not seen each other for
ten days, and Norma, drinking in every expression of the firm mouth, the
shrewd, kindly eyes, the finely set head, felt sudden confidence and
happiness flood her being again. It was all nonsense, this imagining of
hers, and she and Chris would always be the best friends in the world!
"Alice is perfectly splendid," Norma said, in answer to his first
questions, "and Leslie's baby is much less fat and solid looking, and
getting to be so cunning. Where is Aunt Marianna?"
"Upstairs," he answered with a slight backward inclination of his head.
"We had a most satisfactory day, and you and she can get off to Great
Barrington to-morrow without any trouble."
"She and I?" Norma said, distressed by something cold and casual in his
manner. "But aren't you coming, too? Alice depends upon your coming!"
"I can't, I'm sorry to say. I may get up on Friday night," Chris said,
with an almost weary air of politeness.
"Friday! Why, then--then I'll persuade Aunt Marianna to wait," Norma
decided, eagerly. "You must come with us, Chris; it's quite lovely up
through Connecticut!"
"I'm very sorry," the man repeated, glancing beyond her as if in a hurry
to terminate the conversation. "But I may not get up at all this week.
And I've arranged with Aunt Marianna that Poole drives you up to-morrow.
You'll find her," he added, lightly, "enthusiastic over the baby's
pictures. They're really excellent, and I think Leslie will be
delighted. And now I have to go, Norma----"
"But you're coming back to have dinner with us?" the girl interrupted,
thoroughly uneasy at the change in him.
"Not to-night. I have an engagement! Good-bye. I'll see you very soon.
The hat's charming, Norma, I think you may safely order more of them by
mail if you have to. Good-bye."
And with another odd smile, and his usually courteous bow, he was gone,
and Norma was left staring after him in a state almost of stupefaction.
What was the matter with him? The question framed itself indignantly in
Norma's mind as she automatically crossed the foyer of the hotel and
went upstairs. Mechanically, blindly, she took off the big hat, flung
aside the parasol, and went through the uniting bathroom into Mrs.
Melrose's room. What on earth had been the matter with Chris? What right
had he--how dared he--treat her so rudely?
Mrs. Melrose was in a flowered chair near a wide-opened window. She had
put on a lacy robe of thin silk, after the heat and burden of the day,
and her feet were in slippers. Beside her was a tall glass, holding an
iced drink, and before her, on a small table, Regina had ranged the
beautiful photographs of Leslie's baby that were to be the young
mother's birthday surprise next week.
"Hello, dear!" she said, in the pleasant, almost cooing voice with which
she almost always addressed the girls of the family, "isn't this just a
dreadful, dreadful day? Oh, my, so hot! Look here, Norma, just see my
little Patricia's pictures. Aren't they perfectly lovely? I'm _so_
pleased with them. I was just----Regina, will you order Miss Norma
something cool to drink, please. Tea, dear? Or lemonade, like your old
aunty?--I was just showing them to Chris. Yes. And he thought they were
just perfectly lovely; see the little fat hand, and how beautifully the
lace took! There--that one's the best. You'll see, Leslie will like that
one."
The topic, fortunately for Norma's agitation, was apparently
inexhaustible and all-absorbing. The girl could sink almost unnoticed
into an opposite chair, and while her voice dutifully uttered
sympathetic monosyllables, and her eyes went from the portraits of
little Patricia idly about the big room, noting the handsome old maple
furniture, and the costly old scrolled velvet carpet, and the aspect of
flaming roofs beyond the window in the sunset, her thoughts could turn
and twist agonizingly over this new mystery and this new pain. What had
been the matter with Chris?
Anger gave way to chill, and chill to utter heartsickness. The cause of
the change was unimportant, after all; it was the change itself that was
significant. Norma's head ached, her heart was like lead. She had been
thinking, all the way down in the car--all to-day--that she would meet
him to-night; that they would talk. Now what? Was this endless evening
to drag away on his terms, and were they to return to Newport to-morrow,
with only the memory of that cool farewell to feed Norma's starving,
starving soul?
"Chris couldn't stay and have dinner," Mrs. Melrose presently was
regretting, "but, after all, perhaps it's cooler up here than anywhere,
and I am so tired that I'm not going to change! You'll just have to
stand me as I am."
And the tired, heat-flushed, wrinkled old face, under its fringe of gray
hair, smiled confidently at Norma. The girl smiled affectionately back.
Five o'clock. Six o'clock. It was almost seven when Norma came forth
from a cold bath, and supervised the serving of the little meal. She
merely played with her own food, and the old lady was hardly more
hungry.
"Oh, no, Aunt Marianna! I think that Leslie was just terribly nervous,
after Patricia was born. But I think now, especially when they're back
in their own house, they'll be perfectly happy. No reason in the world
why they shouldn't be," Norma heard herself saying. So they had been
talking of Acton and Leslie, she thought. Leslie was spoiled, and Acton
was extravagant, and the united families had been just a little worried
about their attitudes toward each other. Mrs. Melrose was sure that
Norma was right, and rambled along the same topic for some time. Then
Norma realized that they had somehow gotten around to Theodore, Leslie's
father. This subject was always good for half hours together, she could
safely ramble a little herself. The deadly weight fell upon her spirit
again. What had been the matter with Chris?
At nine o'clock her tired old companion began preparations for bed, and
Norma, catching up some magazines, went into her own room. She could
hear Regina and Mrs. Melrose murmuring together, the running of water,
the opening and shutting of bureau drawers.
Norma went to her open window, leaned out into the warm and brilliant
night. There was a hot moon, moving between clouds that promised, at
last, a break in the binding heat. Down the Avenue below her omnibuses
wheeled and rumbled, omnibuses whose upper seats were packed with thinly
clad passengers, but otherwise there was little life and movement
abroad. A searchlight fanned the sky, fell and wavered upward again. A
hurdy-gurdy, in the side street, poured forth the notes of the
"Marseillaise."
Suddenly, and almost without volition, the girl snatched the telephone,
and murmured a number. Thought and senses seemed suspended while she
waited.
"Is this the Metropolitan Club? Is Mr. Christopher Liggett there?... If
you will, please. Thank you. Say that it is a lady," said Norma, in a
hurried and feverish voice. The operator would announce presently, of
course, that Mr. Liggett was not there. The chance that he was there was
so remote----
"Chris!" she breathed, all the tension and doubt dropping from her like
a garment at the sound of his quiet tones. "Chris--this is Norma!"
A pause. Her soul died within her.
"What is it?" Chris asked presently, in a repressed voice.
"Well--but were you playing cards?"
"No."
"You've had your dinner, Chris?"
"No. Yes, I had dinner, of course. I dined with Aunt Marianna--no, that
was lunch! I dined here."
"Chris," Norma faltered, speaking quickly as her courage ebbed, "I
didn't want to interrupt you, but you seemed so--so different, this
afternoon. And I didn't want to have you cross at me; and I
wondered--I've been wondering ever since--if I have done something that
made you angry--that was stupid and--and----"
She stopped. The forbidding silence on his part was like a wall that
crossed her path, was like a veil that blinded and choked her.
"Not at all," he said, quickly. "Where did you get that idea?...
Hello--hello--are you there, Norma?" he added, when on her part in turn
there was a blank silence.
For Norma, strangled by an uprising of tears as sudden as it was
unexpected and overwhelming, could make no audible answer. Why she
should be crying she could not clearly think, but she was bathed in
tears, and her heart was heavy with unspeakable desolation.
"Norma!" she heard him say, urgently. "What is it? Norma----?"
"Nothing!" she managed to utter, in a voice that stemmed the flood for
only a second.
"Norma," Chris said, simply, "I am coming out. Meet me downstairs in ten
minutes. I want to see you!"
Both telephones clicked, and Norma found herself sitting blankly in the
sudden silence of the room, her brain filled with a confusion of shamed
and doubting and fearful thoughts, and her heart flooded with joy.
Five minutes later she stepped from the elevator into the lobby, and
selected a big chair that faced obliquely on the entrance doors. The
little stir in the wide, brightly lighted place always interested her
and amused her; women drifting from the dining-room with their light
wraps over their arms, messengers coming and going, the far strains of
the orchestra mingling pleasantly with the nearer sounds of feet and
voices.
To-night her spirit was soaring. Nothing mattered, nothing of her
doubts, nothing of his coldness, except that Chris was even now coming
toward her! Her mind followed the progress of his motor-car, up through
the hot, deserted streets.
Suddenly it seemed to her that she could not bear the emotion of
meeting. With every man's figure that came through the wide-open doors
her heart thumped and pounded.
His voice; she would hear it again. She would see the gray eyes, and
watch the firm, quick movement of his jaw.
Other men, meeting other women, or parting from other women, came and
went. Norma liked the big, homely boy in olive drab, who kissed the
little homely mother so affectionately.
She glanced at her wrist watch, twisted about to confirm its unwelcome
news by the big clock. Quarter to ten, and no Chris. Norma settled down
again to waiting and watching.
Ten o'clock. Quarter past ten. He was not coming! No, although her sick
and weary spirit rose whenever there was the rush of a motor-car to the
curb or the footstep of a man on the steps outside, she knew now that he
was not coming. Hope deferred had exhausted her, but hope dead was far,
far worse. He was not coming.
It was almost half-past ten when a bell-boy approached. Was it Miss
Sheridan? Mr. Christopher Liggett had been called out of town, and
would try to see Mrs. Melrose in a day or two.
Norma turned upon him a white face of fatigue.
"Is Mr. Liggett on the telephone?"
"No, Miss. He just telephoned a message."
The boy retired, and Norma went slowly upstairs, and slowly made her
preparations for sleep. But the blazing summer dawn, smiting the city at
four o'clock, found her still sitting at the window, twirling a tassel
of the old-fashioned shade in her cold fingers, and staring with haggard
eyes into space.