Maltby's visit came to an end, and for the first time I did not regret
his departure. For some reason, which perhaps purposely I left
unanalyzed, Maltby was beginning to get a trifle on my nerves. But let
that pass. Once he was gone, Phil Farmer drew a long breath and plunged
with characteristic thoroughness into his comprehensive scheme for the
education of Susan. Her enthusiasm for this scheme was no less
contagious than his own, and I soon found myself yielding to her wish to
stay on in New Haven through the summer, and let in for daily lessons at
regular hours--very much to my astonishment, the role of schoolmaster
being one which I had always flattered myself I was temperamentally
unfitted to sustain.
I soon discovered, however, that teaching a mentally alert, whimsically
unexpected, stubbornly diligent, and always grateful pupil is among the
most stimulating and delightful of human occupations. My own psychic
laziness, which had been long creeping upon me, vanished in this new
atmosphere of competition--competition, for that is what it came to,
with the unwearying Phil. It was a real renascence for me. Forsaken
gods! how I studied--off hours and on the sly! My French was excellent,
my Italian fair; but my small Latin and less Greek needed endless
attention. Yet I rather preen myself upon my success; though Phil has
always maintained that I overfed Susan with aesthetic flummery, thus
dulling the edge of her appetite for his own more wholesome daily bread.
In one respect, at least, I disagreed fundamentally with Phil, and
here--through sheer force of conviction--I triumphed. Phil, who lived
exclusively in things of the mind, would have turned this sensitive
child into a bemused scholar, a female bookworm. This, simply, I would
not and did not permit. If she had a soul, she had a body, too, and I
was determined that it should be a vigorous, happy body before all else.
For her sake solely--for I am too easily an indolent man--I took up
riding again, and tennis, and even pushed myself into golf; with the
result that my nervous dyspepsia vanished, and my irritability along
with it; with the more excellent result that Susan filled and bloomed
and ate (for her) three really astonishing meals a day.
It was a busy life--a wonderful life! Hard work--hard
play--fun--travel.... Ah, those years!
But I am leaping ahead----!
Yet I have but one incident left to record of those earliest days with
Susan--an incident which had important, though delayed,
results--affecting in various ways, for long unforeseen, Susan's career,
and the destiny of several other persons, myself among them.
Sonia, Susan's little Russian maid, was at the bottom of it all; and
the first hint of the rather sordid affair came to me, all unprepared,
from the lips of Miss Goucher. She sought me out in my private study,
whither I had retired after dinner to write a letter or two--a most
unusual proceeding on her part, and on mine--and she asked at once in
her brief, hard, respectful manner for ten minutes of my time. I rose
and placed a chair for her, uncomfortably certain that this could be no
trivial errand; she seated herself, angularly erect, holding her
feelings well in hand.
"Mr. Hunt," she began, "have I your permission to discharge Sonia?"
My face showed my surprise.
"But Susan likes her, doesn't she, Miss Goucher? And she seems
efficient?"
"Yes. A little careless perhaps; but then, she's young. It isn't her
service I object to."
"What is the trouble?"
"It is a question of character, Mr. Hunt. I have reason to think her
lacking in--self-respect."
"You mean--immoral?" I asked, using the word in the restricted sense
which I assumed Miss Goucher, like most maiden ladies, exclusively
attached to it. To my astonishment Miss Goucher insisted upon more
definition.
"No, I shouldn't say that. She tells a good many little fibs, but she's
not at heart dishonest. And I'm by no means certain she can be held
responsible for her weakness in respect to men." A slight flush just
tinged Miss Goucher's prominent cheek bones; but duty was duty, and she
persevered. "She has a bad inheritance, I think; and until she came
here, Mr. Hunt, her environment was always--unfortunate. If it were not
for Susan, I shouldn't have spoken. I should have felt it my duty to try
to protect the child and---- However," added Miss Goucher, "I doubt
whether much can be done for Sonia. So my first duty is certainly to
Miss Susan, and to you."
Susan's quiet admiration for Miss Goucher had more or less puzzled me
hitherto, but now my own opinion of Miss Goucher soared heavenward. Why,
the woman was remarkable--far more so than I had remotely suspected! She
had a mind above her station, respectable though her station might well
be held to be.
"My dear Miss Goucher," I exclaimed, "it is perfectly evident to me
that my interests are more than safe in your keeping. Do what you think
best, by all means!"
"Unfortunately, Mr. Hunt," said Miss Goucher, "that is what I cannot
do."
"May I ask why?"
"Society would not permit me," answered Miss Goucher.
"Please explain," I gasped.
"Sonia will cause a great deal of suffering in the world," said Miss
Goucher, the color on her cheek bones deepening, while she avoided my
glance. "For herself--and others. In my opinion--which I am aware is not
widely shared--she should be placed in a lethal chamber and painlessly
removed. We are learning to 'swat the fly,'" continued Miss Goucher,
"because it benefits no one and spreads many human ills. Some day we
shall learn to swat--other things." Calmly she rose to take her leave.
Excitedly eager, I sprang up to detain her.
"Don't go, Miss Goucher! Your views are really most interesting--though,
as you say, not widely accepted. Certainly not by me. Your plan of a
lethal chamber for weak sisters and brothers strikes me as--well,
drastic. Do sit down."
Again Miss Goucher perched primly upright on the outer edge of the chair
beside my own. "I felt bound to state my views truthfully," she said,
"since you asked for them. But I never intrude them upon others. I'm not
a social rebel, Mr. Hunt. I lack self-confidence for that. When I differ
from the received opinion I always suspect that I am quite wrong.
Probably I am in this case. But I think society would agree with me that
Sonia is not a fit maid for Susan."
"Beyond a shadow of doubt," I assented. "But may I ask on what grounds
you suspect Sonia?"
"It is certainly your right," replied Miss Goucher; "but if you insist
upon an answer I shall have to give notice."
"Then I shall certainly not insist."
"Thank you, Mr. Hunt," said Miss Goucher, rising once more. "I
appreciate this." And she walked from the room.
It was the next afternoon that Susan burst into my study without
knocking--a breach of manners which she had recently learned to conquer,
so the irruption surprised me. But I noted instantly that Susan's
agitation had carried her far beyond all thought for trifles. Never had
I seen her like this. Her whole being was vibrant with emotional stress.
"Ambo!" she cried, all but slamming the door behind her. "Sonia mustn't
go! I won't let her go! You and Miss Goucher may think what you
please--I won't, Ambo! It's wicked! You don't want Sonia to be like
Tilly Jaretski, do you?"
"Like Tilly Jaretski?" My astonishment was so great that I babbled the
unfamiliar name merely to gain time, collect my senses.
"Yes!" urged Susan, almost leaping to my side, and seizing my arm with
tense fingers. "She'll be just like Tilly was, along State Street--after
her baby came. Tilly wasn't a bit like Pearl, Ambo; and Sonia isn't
either! But she's going to have a baby, too, Ambo, like Tilly."
With a wrench of my entire nervous system I, in one agonizing second,
completely dislocated the prejudices of a lifetime, and rose to the
situation confronting me. O Hillhouse Avenue, right at both ends! How
little you had prepared me for this precocious knowledge of
life--knowledge that utterly degrades or most wonderfully saves--which
these children, out toward the wrong end of the Birch Streets of the
world, drink in almost with their mothers' milk! How far I, a grown
man--a cultured, sophisticated man--must travel, Susan, even to begin to
equal your simple acceptance of naked, ugly fact--sheer fact--seen,
smelt, heard, tasted! How far--how far!
"Susan," I said gravely, "does Miss Goucher know about Sonia?"
"I don't know. I suppose so. I haven't seen her yet. When Sonia came to
me, crying--I ran straight in here!"
"And how long have _you_ known?"
"Over a week. Sonia told me all about it, Ambo. Count Dimbrovitski got
her in trouble. She loved him, Ambo--her way. She doesn't any more.
Sonia can't love anybody long; he can't, either. That's why his wife
sent Sonia off. Sonia says she knows her husband's like that, but so
long as she can hush things up, she doesn't care. Sonia says she has a
lover herself, and Count Dim doesn't care much either. Oh, Ambo--how
_stuffy_ some people are! I don't mean Sonia. She's just pitiful--like
Tilly. But those others--they're different--I can feel it! Oh, how
_Artemis_ must hate them, Ambo!"
Susan's tense fingers relaxed, slipping from my arm; she slid down to
the floor, huddled, and leaning against the padded side of my chair
buried her face in her hands.
Very quietly I rose, not to disturb her, and crossing to the interphone
requested Miss Goucher's presence. My thoughts raced crazily on. In
advance of Miss Goucher's coming I had dramatized my interview with her
in seven different and unsatisfactory ways. When she at last entered, my
temple pulses were beating and my tongue was stiff and dry. Susan,
except for her shaken shoulders, had not stirred.
"Miss Goucher," I managed to begin, "shut the door, please.... You see
this poor child----?"
Miss Goucher saw. Over her harsh, positive features fell a sort of
transforming veil. It seemed to me suddenly--if for that moment
only--that Miss Goucher was very beautiful.
"If you wouldn't mind," she suggested, "leaving her with me?"
Well, I had not in advance dramatized our meeting in this way. In all
the seven scenes that had flashed through me, I had stood, an
unquestioned star, at the center of the stage. I had not foreseen an
exit. But I most humbly and gratefully accepted one now.
Precisely what took place, what words were said there, in my study,
following my humble exit, I have never learned, either from Miss Goucher
or from Susan. I know only that from that hour forth the bond between
them became what sentimentalists fondly suppose the relationship between
mother and daughter must always be--what, alas, it so rarely, but then
so beautifully, is.
I date from that hour Miss Goucher's abandonment of her predilection for
the lethal chamber; at least, she never spoke of it again. And Sonia
stayed with us. Her boy was born in my house, and there for three happy
years was nourished and shamelessly spoiled; at the end of which time
Sonia found a husband in the person of young Jack Palumbo,
unquestionably the pick of all our Hillhouse Avenue chauffeurs. Their
marriage caused a brief scandal in the neighborhood, but was soon
accepted as an authentic and successful fact.
Chance and change are not always villains, you observe; the
temperamental Sonia has grown stout and placid, and has increased the
world's legitimate population by three. Nevertheless, it is the
consensus of opinion that little Ivan, her first-born, is the golden
arrow in her quiver--an opinion in which Jack Palumbo delightedly, if
rather surprisingly, concurs.
And so much for Sonia.... Let the curtain quietly descend. When it rises
again, six years will have passed; good years--and therefore unrecorded.
Your scribe, Susan, is now nearing forty; and you---- Great heavens, is
it possible! Can you be "going on"--twenty?
Yes, dear---- You are.