“Pretty tough,” Harry growled. Then abashed by the rudeness of his
tone, cleared his throat and stared at Roger Clements the Signer as if
he had never noticed him before.
“I was wondering,” said Betty, “if she could teach singing. You know
she has nothing.”
I became aware that Betty had not come for nothing to sit on a Sheraton
chair and drink tea. As usual she had “a basic idea”. So had Mrs.
Ashworth--two entirely dissimilar minds had converged to the same point.
“Roger and I were talking about her the other evening,” said Roger’s
sister, “and I suggested that there are a great many women teachers and
their standing is good, I hear.”
On the subject of the wage-earning woman Mrs. Ashworth is not well
informed. I fancy she has admitted the fact that there must be
wage-earning women with reluctance. It would be better for them all to
be in homes with worthy husbands. But it has penetrated even to Mrs.
Ashworth’s sheltered corner that these adjuncts are not always found.
“We could get her pupils,” said Betty with determination--she felt Mrs.
Ashworth’s quality sufficiently to subdue it--“pupils among the right
sort of people. And you and I, and some others I know, could give her a
proper start.”
They talked on outlining a career for Lizzie as a singing teacher of
the idle rich. They would put her on her feet, they would make her more
than self-supporting. Their combined social influence extended over
that narrow belt which passes up through Manhattan Island like a vein
of gold. Lizzie would be placed in a position to tap the vein.
If I had suddenly hurled the truth into that benevolent conspiracy,
what a transformation! All the interest now centered round that
pitiful figure would dissolve like a morning mist and float away to
collect about something more deserving and understandable. If I should
represent her case as sufficiently desperate they would give her money,
but that much more valuable thing they were giving now--the hand
extended in fellowship--would be withdrawn as from the contact of a
leper.
In _their_ case I felt no obligation to tell. What they were doing
would not hurt them and it was necessary for her. I came back to the
old starting point--to help her, to get her back to where she ought to
be, I must deceive and go on deceiving. Unquestionably something was
wrong with my world. If I could only have lived in Pippa’s or fitted
Pippa’s philosophy to mine! But could anybody? I wish Robert Browning
was in my place, sitting here to-night by the student lamp, half dead
trying to decide what is the right thing to do.
Oh, I’m so tired--and I can’t get away from it, I can’t stop thinking
of it. Why did they ever meet? Why did I go down-stairs that afternoon
and bring him up? Why did a man--cold and indifferent--suddenly catch
fire as he had done? Why couldn’t I be left in peace? Why was it he, my
man, who had come to bring me back to life and joy? Why? why? why?