THIS sudden decision to terminate my newspaper life in Chicago involved
the problem of what to do about Alice. During these spring and summer
days I had been amusing myself with her, imagining sometimes, because of
her pretty face and figure and her soft clinging ways, that I was in
love with her. By the lakes and pagodas of Chicago’s parks, on the lake
shore at Lincoln Park where the white sails were to be seen, in Alice’s
cozy little room with the windows open and the lights out, or of a
Sunday morning when her parents were away visiting and she was preparing
my breakfast and flouring her nose and chin in the attempt—how happy we
were! How we frivoled and kissed and made promises to ourselves
concerning the future! We were like two children at times, and for a
while I half decided that I would marry her. In a little while we were
going everywhere together and she was planning her wedding trousseau,
the little fineries she would have when we were married. We were to live
on the south side near the lake in a tiny apartment. She described to me
the costume she would wear, which was to be of satin of an ivory shade,
with laces, veils, slippers and stockings to match.
But as spring wore on and I grew so restless I began to think not so
much less of Alice as more of myself. I never saw her as anything but
beautiful, tender, a delicate, almost perfect creature for some one to
love and cherish. Once we went hand-in-hand over the lawns of Jackson
Park of a Sunday afternoon. She was enticing in a new white flannel
dress and dark blue hat. The day was warm and clear and a convoy of
swans was sailing grandly about the little lake. We sat down and watched
them and the ducks, the rowers in green, blue and white boats, with the
white pagoda in the center of the lake reflected in the water. All was
colorful, gay.
“Oh, Dorse,” she said at one place, with a little gasping sigh which
moved me by its pathos, “isn’t it lovely?”
“Beautiful.”
“We are so happy when we are together, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I wish we were married! If we just had a little place of our own!
You could come home to me, and I could make you such nice things.”
I promised her happy days to come, but even as I said it I knew it would
not be. I did not think I could build a life on my salary ... I did not
know that I wanted to. Life was too wide and full. She seemed to sense
something of this from the very beginning, and clung close to me now as
we walked, looking up into my eyes, smiling almost sadly. As the hours
slipped away into dusk and the hush of evening suggested change and the
end of many things she sighed again.
“Oh, Dorse,” she said as we reached her doorstep, “if we could just be
together always and never part!”
“We will be,” I said, but I did not believe my own words.
It was on this spring night that she attempted to persuade me, not by
words or any great craft but merely by a yielding pressure, to take her
and make her fully mine. I fancy she thought that if she yielded to me
physically and found herself with child my sympathy would cause me to
marry her. We in her own home threw some pillows on the floor, and there
in my arms she kissed and hugged me, begging me to love her; but I had
not the wish. I did not think that I ought to do that thing, then.
It was after this that the upward turn of my fortunes began. I was
involved in the mock auction war for over three weeks and for two weeks
following that with my buzzing dreams of leaving Chicago. In this rush
of work, and in paying some attentions to Miss Winstead, I neglected
Alice shamefully, once for ten days, not calling at her house or store
or writing her a note. One Sunday morning, troubled about me and no
doubt heartsick, she attended the ethical culture lecture in the Grand
Theater, where I often went. On coming out she met me and I greeted her
affectionately, but she only looked at me with sad and reproachful eyes
and said: “Oh, Dorse, you don’t really care any more, do you? You’re
just a little sorry when you see me. Well, you needn’t come any more.
I’m going back to Harry. I’m only too glad that I can.”
She admitted that, misdoubting me, she had never dropped him entirely
but had kept him calling occasionally. This angered me and I said to
myself: “What is she that I should worry over her?” Imagine. And this
double-dealing, essential as it was then, cut me to the quick, although
I had been doing as much and more. When I thought it out I knew that she
was entitled to protect herself against so uncertain a love as mine.
Even then I could have taken her—she practically asked me to—but I
offered reasons and excuses for delay. I went away both angry and sad,
and the following Sunday, having received the telegram from St. Louis, I
left without notifying her. Indeed I trifled about on this score
debating with myself until Saturday night, when McEnnis asked me to go
to dinner with him; afterwards when I hurried to her home she was not
there. This angered me groundlessly, even though I knew she never
expected me any more of a Saturday night. I returned to my room,
disconsolate and gloomy, packed my belongings and then decided that I
would go back after midnight and knock at her door. Remembering that my
train left at seven-thirty next morning and having no doubt that she was
off with my rival, I decided to punish her. After all, I could come back
if I wished, or she could come to me. I wrote her a note, then went to
bed and slept fitfully until six-thirty, when I arose and hurried to
make my train. In a little while I was off, speeding through those wide
flat yards which lay adjacent to her home, and with my nose pressed
against the window, a driving rain outside, I could see the very windows
and steps by which we had so often sat. My heart sank and I ached. I
decided at once to write her upon my arrival in St. Louis and beg her to
come—not to become my wife perhaps but my mistress. I brooded gloomily
all day as I sped southward, picturing myself as a lorn youth without
money, home, family, love, anything. I tried to be sad, thinking at the
same time what wonderful things might not be going to befall me. But I
was leaving Alice! I was leaving Chicago, my home, all that was familiar
and dear! I felt as though I could not stand it, as though when I
reached St. Louis I should take the next train and return.
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