CHAPTER I_Arms and the Woman

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ARMS AND THE WOMAN

A Romance

HAROLD MacGRATH

New York

Doubleday Page & Company

1905

S. S. Mcclure Co.

Doubleday and Mcclure Co.

To her, that is to say, to the hand that rocked the cradle.

ARMS AND THE WOMAN

CHAPTER I

The first time I met her I was a reporter in the embryonic state and

she was a girl in short dresses. It was in a garden, surrounded by

high red brick walls which were half hidden by clusters of green vines,

and at the base of which nestled earth-beds, radiant with roses and

poppies and peonies and bushes of lavender lilacs, all spilling their

delicate ambrosia on the mild air of passing May. I stood, straw hat

in hand, wondering if I had not stumbled into some sweet prison of

flowers which, having run disobedient ways in the past, had been placed

here by Flora, and forever denied their native meadows and

wildernesses. And this vision of fresh youth in my path, perhaps she

was some guardian nymph. I was only twenty-two--a most impressionable

age. Her hair was like that rare October brown, half dun, half gold;

her eyes were cool and restful, like the brown pools one sees in the

heart of the forests, and her lips and cheeks cozened the warm

vermilion of the rose which lay ever so lightly on the bosom of her

white dress. Close at hand was a table upon which stood a pitcher of

lemonade. She was holding in her hand an empty glass. As my eyes

encountered her calm, inquiring gaze, my courage fled precipitately,

likewise the object of my errand. There was a pause; diffidence and

embarrassment on my side, placidity on hers.

"Well, sir?" said she, in a voice the tone of which implied that she

could readily understand her presence in the garden, but not mine.

As I remember it, I was suddenly seized with a great thirst.

"I should like a glass of your lemonade," I answered, bravely laying

down the only piece of money I possessed.

Her stern lips parted in a smile, and my courage came back cautiously,

that is to say, by degrees. She filled a glass for me, and as I gulped

it down I could almost detect the flavor of lemon and sugar.

"It is very good," I volunteered, passing back the glass. I held out

my hand, smiling.

"There isn't any change," coolly.

I flushed painfully. It was fully four miles to Newspaper Row. I was

conscious of a sullen pride. Presently the object of my errand

returned. Somewhat down the path I saw a gentleman reclining in a

canvas swing.

"Is that Mr. Wentworth?" I asked.

"Yes. Do you wish to speak to him? Uncle Bob, here is a gentleman who

desires to speak to you."

I approached. "Mr. Wentworth," I began, cracking the straw in my hat,

"my name is John Winthrop. I am a reporter. I have called to see if

it is true that you have declined the Italian portfolio."

"It is true," he replied kindly. "There are any number of reasons for

my declining it, but I cannot make them public. Is that all?"

"Yes, sir; thank you;" and I backed away.

"Are you a reporter?" asked the girl, as I was about to pass by her.

"Yes, I am."

"Do you draw pictures?"

"No, I do not."

"Do you write novels?"

"No," with a nervous laugh.

There is nothing like the process of interrogation to make one person

lose interest in another.

"Oh; I thought perhaps you did," she said, and turned her back to me.

I passed through the darkened halls of the house and into the street.

I never expected to see her again, but it was otherwise ordained. We

came together three years later at Block Island. She was eighteen now,

gathering the rosy flowers of her first season. She remembered the

incident in the garden, and we laughed over it. A few dances, two or

three evenings on the verandas, watching the sea, moon-lit, as it

sprawled among the rocks below us, and the even tenor of my way ceased

to be. I appreciated how far she was above me; so I worshipped her

silently and from afar. I told her my ambitions, confidences so

welcome to feminine ears, and she rewarded me with a small exchange.

She, too, was an orphan, and lived with her uncle, a rich banker, who,

as a diversion, consented to represent his country at foreign courts.

Her given name was Phyllis. I had seen the name a thousand times in

print; the poets had idealised it, and the novelists had embalmed it in

tender phrases. It was the first time I had ever met a woman by the

name of Phyllis. It appealed to my poetic instinct. Perhaps that was

the cause of it all. And then, she was very beautiful. In the autumn

of that year we became great friends; and through her influence I began

to see beyond the portals of the mansions of the rich. Matthew Prior's

Chloes and Sir John Suckling's Euphelias lost their charms. Henceforth

my muse's name became Phyllis. I took her to the opera when I didn't

know where I was going to breakfast on the morrow. I sent her roses

and went without tobacco, a privation of which woman knows nothing.

Often I was plunged into despair at my distressed circumstances. Money

to her meant something to spend; to me it meant something to get. Her

income bothered her because she could not spend it; my income was

mortgaged a week in advance, and did not bother me at all. This was

the barrier at my lips. But her woman's intuition must have told her

that she was a part and parcel of my existence.

I had what is called a forlorn hope: a rich uncle who was a planter in

Louisiana. His son and I were his only heirs. But this old planter

had a mortal antipathy to my side of the family. When my mother, his

sister, married Alfred Winthrop in 1859, at the time when the North and

South were approaching the precipice of a civil war, he considered all

family ties obliterated. We never worried much about it. When mother

died he softened to the extent of being present at the funeral. He

took small notice of my father, but offered to adopt me if I would

assume his name. I clasped my father's hand in mine and said nothing.

The old man stared at me for a moment, then left the house. That was

the first and last time I ever saw him. Sometimes I wondered if he

would remember me in his will. This, of course, was only when I had

taken Phyllis somewhere, or when some creditor had lost patience. One

morning in January, five years after my second meeting with Phyllis, I

sat at my desk in the office. It was raining; a cold thin rain. The

window was blurred. The water in the steam-pipes went banging away. I

was composing an editorial which treated the diplomatic relations

between this country and England. The roar of Park Row distracted me.

Now and then I would go to the window and peer down on the living

stream below. A dense cloud of steam hung over all the city. I swore

some when the copy boy came in and said that there was yet a column and

a half to fill, and that the foreman wanted to "close up the page

early." The true cause of my indisposition was due to the rumors rife

in the office that morning. Rumors which emanate from the managing

editor's room are usually of the sort which burden the subordinate ones

with anxiety. The London correspondent was "going to pieces." He had

cabled that he was suffering from nervous prostration, supplementing a

request for a two months' leave of absence. For "nervous prostration"

we read "drink." Our London correspondent was a brilliant journalist;

he had written one or two clever books; he had a broad knowledge of men

and affairs; and his pen was one of those which flashed and burned at

frequent intervals; but he drank. Dan's father had been a victim of

the habit. I remember meeting the elder Hillars. He was a picturesque

individual, an accomplished scholar, a wide traveller, a diplomatist,

and a noted war correspondent. His work during the Franco-Prussian war

had placed him in the front rank. After sending his son Dan to college

he took no further notice of him. He was killed while serving his

paper at the siege of Alexandria, Egypt. Dan naturally followed his

father's footsteps both in profession and in habits. He had been my

classmate at college, and no one knew him better than I, except it was

himself. The love of adventure and drink had ended the life of the

one; it might end the life of the other.

The foreman in the composing room waited some time for that required

column and a half of editorial copy. I lit my pipe; and my thoughts

ran back to the old days, to the many times Dan had paid my debts and

to the many times I had paid his. Ah, me! those were days when love

and fame and riches were elusive and we went in quest of them. The

crust is hyssop when the heart is young. The garret is a palace when

hope flies unfettered. The most wonderful dreams imaginable are dreamt

close to the eaves. And when a man leaves behind him the garret, he

also leaves behind the fondest illusions. But who--who would stay in

the garret!

And as my thoughts ran on, the question rose, Whom would they send in

his place--Dan's? I knew London. It was familiar ground. Perhaps

they might send me. It was this thought which unsettled me. I was

perfectly satisfied with New York. Phyllis lived in New York. There

would be time enough for London when we were married. Then I began to

build air castles. A newspaper man is the architect of some splendid

structures, but he thoughtlessly builds on the sand when the tide is

out. Yes, foreign corresponding would be all well enough, I mused,

with Phyllis at my side. With her as my wife I should have the envy of

all my fellow craftsmen. We should dine at the embassies and the

attachés would flutter about us, and all London would talk of the

beautiful "Mrs. Winthrop." Then the fire in my pipe-bowl went out.

The copy boy was at my elbow again.

"Hang you!" said I.

"The foreman says he's coming down with an axe," replied the boy.

It was like churning, but I did manage to grind the copy. I was

satisfied that the United States and Great Britain would not go to war

over it.

The late afternoon mail brought two letters. I opened the one from

Phyllis first. It said:

"DEAR JACK--Uncle Bob has a box for the opera to-night, but he has been

suddenly called to Washington; politics, possibly, but he would not

say. Aunty and I want you to go with us in his stead. Ethel and her

fiancé, Mr. Holland, will be together, which means that Aunty and I

will have no one to talk to unless you come. Carmen is to be sung.

Please do not fail me.

"PHYLLIS."

Fail her! I thought not.

Then I read the second letter. I read it three or four times, and even

then I was not sure that I was not dreaming. I caught up my pipe

again, filled it and lit it. I read the letter once more. I was

solemnly informed that my uncle was dead and that I was mentioned in

the will, and that if I would kindly call at the Hoffman House the

following morning a certain sum of money would be given to me. I

regretted that I had reached that age when a man's actions must be

dignified, although alone; otherwise I dare say I should have danced

the pas seul. Whatever my uncle's bequest might be, I believed that it

would make me independently rich. I am ashamed to admit that I did not

feel sorry at the news of his sudden departure from this life. It is

better to be rich than to be ambitious. It is better to have at hand

what you want than to work for it, and then not get it. Phyllis was

scarcely an arm's length away now. I whistled as I locked up my desk,

and proceeded down stairs and sang a siren song into the waxen ears of

the cashier.

"You have only twenty coming this week, Mr. Winthrop," said he.

"Never mind," I replied; "I'll manage to get along next week." It was

only on very rare occasions that I drew my full pay at the end of the

week.

I dined at a fashionable restaurant. As I sipped my wine I built one

of my castles, and Phyllis reigned therein. There would be a trip to

Europe every summer, and I should devote my time to writing novels. My

picture would be the frontispiece in the book reviews, and wayside

paragraphs would tell of the enormous royalties my publishers were

paying me. I took some old envelopes from my pocket and began figuring

on the backs of them as to what purposes the money should be put. It

could not be less than $50,000, perhaps more. Of course my uncle had

given a harbor to a grudge against me and mine, but such things are

always forgotten on the death bed. It occurred to me that I never had

known before what a fine world it was, and I regretted having spoken

ill of it. I glanced across the way. The sky had cleared, and the

last beams of the sun flamed in the windows of the tall buildings.

Fortune, having buffeted me, was now going to make me one of her

favorite children. I had reached the end of the long lane.

As I left the restaurant I decided to acquaint Phyllis with my good

luck and also my desire that she should share of it. I turned into a

florist's and had a dozen roses sent up to her. They were American

Beauties. I could afford it now.

I found Phyllis thrumming on the piano. She was singing in a low voice

the aria from "Lucia." I stood on the threshold of the drawing-room

and waited till she had done. I believed her to be unaware of my

presence. She was what we poets call a "dream of loveliness," a

tangible dream. Her neck and shoulders were like satin, and the head

above them reminded me of Sappho's which we see in marble. From where

I stood I could catch a glimpse of the profile, the nose and firm chin,

the exquisite mouth, to kiss which I would gladly have given up any

number of fortunes. The cheek had that delicate curve of a rose leaf,

and when the warm blood surged into it there was a color as matchless

as that of a jack-rose. Ah, but I loved her. Suddenly the music

ceased.

"There is a mirror over the piano, Jack," she said, without turning her

head.

So I crossed the room and sat down in the chair nearest her. I vaguely

wondered if, at the distance, she had seen the love in my eyes when I

thought myself unobserved.

"I thank you for those lovely roses," she said, smiling and permitting

me to press her hand.

"Don't mention it," I replied. It is so difficult for a man to say

original things in the presence of the woman he loves! "I have great

news for you. It reads like a fairy tale, you know; happy ever

afterward, and all that."

"Ah!"

"Yes. Do you remember my telling you of a rich uncle who lived in the

South?"

"Is it possible that he has left you a fortune?" she cried, her eyes

shining.

"You have guessed it."

"I am very glad for your sake, Jack. I was beginning to worry about

you."

"Worry about me?"

"Yes. I do not understand how a newspaper man can afford to buy roses

four or five times a week--and exist." She had the habit of being

blunt and frank to her intimate friends. I secretly considered it an

honor when she talked to me like this. "I have told you repeatedly to

send me flowers only once a week. I'd rather not have them at all.

Last week you spent as much as $30 on roses alone. Mr. Holland does

not do that for Ethel, and he has a million."

"I'm not Holland," I said. "He doesn't--that is--I do not think he--."

Then I foundered. I had almost said: "He doesn't care as much for

Ethel as I do for you."

Phyllis pretended not to note my embarrassment. The others came in

then, and conversation streamed into safer channels.

When we entered the box at the opera the curtain had risen. Phyllis

and I took the rear chairs. They were just out of the glare of the

lights.

"You are looking very beautiful to-night," I whispered lowly. I was

beginning business early. There was no barrier at my lips.

"Thank you," she replied. Then with a smile: "Supposing I were to say

that you are looking very handsome?"

"Oh," said I, somewhat disconcerted, "that would be rather

embarrassing."

"I do not doubt it."

"And then it would not be true. The duty we men owe to a beautiful

woman is constantly to keep telling her of it."

"And the duty we women owe to a fine-looking man?" a rogue of a dimple

in her cheeks.

"Is to explicitly believe all he says regarding your beauty," I

answered, evading the question. "A man may tell a woman that she is

beautiful, but a woman may not tell a man that he is fine-looking, that

is, in public."

"The terms are not fair."

"That may be true, but they make the wheels of the social organization

run smoother. For instance, if I met a strange woman and she told me

that I was handsome, I shouldn't be able to speak again the whole

evening. On the other hand, a beautiful woman, after you say that you

are delighted to meet her, expects the very next remark to concern her

good looks."

"Your insight is truly remarkable," she said, the dimple continuing its

elusive manoeuvres. "Hush; here comes Carmen."

And our voices grew faint in the swell of melody. Mrs. Wentworth was

entranced; her daughter was fondly gazing at the back of her fiancé's

head; Phyllis had turned her face from me to the stage. As for myself,

I was not particularly interested in the cigarette girl. It was

running through my head that the hour had arrived. I patted my gloves

for a moment, then I drew a long breath.

"Phyllis!" said I. There was a quaver in my voice. Perhaps I had not

spoken loud enough. "Phyllis!" said I again.

She turned quickly and gave me an inquiring and at the same time

nervous glance.

"What is it?"

"I want to tell you something I have never dared to tell you till now,"

I said earnestly. The voice on the stage soared heavenward. "I love

you. Will you be my wife?"

Ah, me! where were those drooping eyelids, that flush, that shy, sweet

glance of which I had so often dreamt? Phyllis was frowning.

"Jack, I have been afraid of this," she said. "I am so sorry, but it

cannot be."

"Oh, do not say that now," I cried, crushing my gloves. "Wait awhile;

perhaps you may learn to love me."

"Jack, I have always been frank to you because I like you. Do you

suppose it will take me five years to find out what my heart says to

any man? No. Had I loved you I should not have asked you to wait; I

should have said yes. I do not love you in the way you wish. Indeed,

I like you better than any man I know, but that is all I can offer you.

I should be unkind if I held out any false hopes. I have often asked

myself why I do not love you, but there is something lacking in you,

something I cannot define. Some other woman will find what I have

failed to find in you to love."

I was twisting my gloves out of all recognition. There was a singing

in my ears which did not come from the stage.

"Look at it as I do, Jack. There is a man in this world whom I shall

love, and who will love me. We may never meet. Then he shall be an

ideal to me, and I to him. You believe you love me, but the love you

offer is not complete."

"Not complete?" I echoed.

"No. It would be if I returned it. Do you understand? There is in

this world a woman you will truly love and who will return your love in

its fulness. Will you meet? That is in the hands of your destinies.

Shall I meet my ideal? Who knows? But till I do, I shall remain an

old maid."

I nodded wearily. A dissertation on affinities seemed ill-timed.

"And now," she said, "this beautiful friendship of ours must come to an

end." And there were tears in her eyes.

"Yes," said I, twisting and untwisting the shreds of my gloves. It

seemed as though the world had slipped from under my feet and I was

whirling into nothingness. "My heart is very heavy."

"Jack, if you talk like that," hastily, "you will have me crying before

all these people."

Unfortunately Ethel turned and saw the tears in her cousin's eyes.

"Mercy! what is the matter?" she asked.

"Jack has been telling me a very pathetic story," said Phyllis, with a

pity in her eyes.

"Yes; something that happened to-night," said I, staring at the

programme, but seeing nothing, nothing.

"Well," said Ethel, "this is not the place for them," turning her eyes

to the stage again.

The concluding acts of the opera were a jangle of chords and discords,

and the hum of voices was like the murmur of a far-off sea. My eyes

remained fixed upon the stage. It was like looking through a broken

kaleidoscope. I wanted to be alone, alone with my pipe. I was glad

when we at last entered the carriage. Mrs. Wentworth immediately began

to extol the singers, and Phyllis, with that tact which is given only

to kind-hearted women, answered most of the indirect questions put to

me. She was giving me time to recover. The direct questions I could

not avoid. Occasionally I looked out of the window. It had begun to

rain again. It was very dreary.

"And what a finale, Mr. Winthrop!" cried Mrs. Wentworth,

"Yes, indeed," I replied. To have loved and lost, and such a woman,

was my thought.

"The new tenor is an improvement. Do you not think so?"

"Yes, indeed." No more to touch her hand, to hear her voice, to wait

upon her wishes.

"It was the most brilliant audience of the season."

"Yes, indeed," I murmured. Those were the only words I could

articulate.

The carriage rumbled on.

"Does Patti return in the fall?"

"Yes." Five years of dreaming, and then to awake!

And then the carriage mercifully stopped.

Mrs. Wentworth insisted that I should enter and have some coffee. I

had so few words at my command that I could not invent even a flimsy

excuse. So I went in. The coffee was tasteless. I put in four lumps

of sugar. I stirred and stirred and stirred. Finally, I swallowed the

contents of the cup. It was very hot. When the agony was past I rose

and made my adieu.

Phyllis came to the door with me.

"Forget what I have said," I began, fumbling the door-knob. "I suppose

I was an ass to think that you might love me. They say that it is a

malady. Very well. With a few prescribed remedies I shall recover."

"You are very bitter."

"Can you blame me," clicking the latch back and forth, "when all the

world has suddenly grown dark?"

"There are other eyes than mine," gently.

"Yes; but they will light other paths than those I shall follow."

"Jack, you are too manly to make threats."

"That was not a threat," said I. "Well, I shall go and laugh at myself

for my presumption. To laugh at yourself is to cure. There is no more

wine in the cup, nothing but the lees. I'll have to drink them. A wry

face, and then it will all be over. Yes, I am bitter. To have dreamed

as I have dreamed, and to awake as I have! Ah, well; I must go on

loving you till--"

"Till she comes," supplemented Phyllis.

"You wrong me. It is only in letters that I am versatile. Forgive my

bitterness and forget my folly."

"Oh, Jack, if you knew how sorry I am! I shall forgive the bitterness,

but I will not forget what you term folly. It's something any woman

might be proud of, the love of an honest, dear, good fellow. Good

night." She held her hand toward me.

"Good night," I said, "and God bless you!" I kissed the palm of her

hand, opened the door, and then stumbled down the steps.

I do not remember how I reached home.

It was all over.

My beautiful castle had fallen in ruins about my ears.