THE UNFORESEEN
"C'est toujours l'imprévu qui arrive."
The ruling thought in Flint's mind as he emerged from the crowded room
and made his way down the shaky stairs to the outer door, was of the
physical delight of inhaling fresh air. He drew in two or three deep,
lung-filling breaths, then he opened his coat and shook it to the air
as he had seen doctors do after coming out of a sick-room.
"Decidedly," he said to himself, "slumming is not my vocation. If I
were drafted into the Salvation Army, I should plead to be permitted
to join the open-air brigade. My sympathy with the poor in general,
and drunkards in particular, is in inverse proportion to the nearness.
Poor Brady! I wonder how he will endure being unequally yoked together
with a believer. Suppose Nora Costello refuses him. No, he is safe
enough, if it is being safe to have her return his love. I saw her
look up as we came in, and though she never glanced in our direction
again till the cry of 'Fire!' came, I saw her look of appeal then,
and his response. Oh, there is no doubt about her accepting him; but
the question is, not how does she feel now, but how will she feel a
year or two years from now? As I grow older, I grow more conservative
on these things. There is such an amount of wear and tear in the
ordinary strain of married life that I hate to see cruel and unusual
ones added. If Winifred Anstice should ever or could ever-- There, I
will not allow myself even to think about it, for it would be so much
harder to give it up afterward if I am compelled to, and, after all,
what chance is there that a girl like Winifred would be willing to
spend her whole life with a man whose nature and character are so
different from hers!"
Flint had been walking rapidly, and his musings had so filled his mind
that he saw with surprise that he had reached the corner where the
Sixth Avenue elevated and surface cars curve together for their
straight-away race to the Park at the end of the course. He was
conscious of a certain added rush of spirits at finding himself once
more on the edge of a familiar world,--a world where the sin was at
least conventionalized and the misery went about well dressed. Already
the scene at the slum post had taken on in his mind a distance which
enabled him to regard it humorously, and he amused himself in
rehearsing the scene as he would set it forth to Brooke when he
reached "The Chancellor."
As he turned a corner, he noticed just in front of him in the side
street leading toward Fifth Avenue a young woman carrying a paper
parcel, and looking up a little nervously at one number after another.
She wore a Canada seal jacket, and a wide felt hat topped with nodding
plumes which made a large effect for the investment. Over the jacket
hung a gilt chain holding a coin purse, the latest fad of the
fashionable world.
As Flint's footsteps quickened behind her, she turned her head a
little timorously. At last she stopped, and as he caught up with her
she began, "Could you tell me--" Then she stopped short.
"Miss Marsden!" exclaimed Flint, in amazement. "What in the world
brings you here?"
"To see New York," the girl began a little flippantly, but ended more
tremulously, "and to see you."
"But where are you staying?"
"Nowhere--that is, I came down on the train this afternoon, and I
thought I'd go to a hotel, and then I meant to write you a note
to-morrow and ask you to come and see me; but a lady I met on the
cars, she was real kind, and she said she guessed I'd find it cost
more 'n I reckoned on to go to a hotel, and so she gave me this
address where a friend of hers lived. She said she was a perfect lady,
and would take good care of me. Not that I need anybody to do that!"
This last with that curious mixture of innocence, ignorance, and
sophistication, incredible outside America, where the self-dependent
girl so early becomes sufficient for herself and too much for every
one else.
Flint took the address from her hand, and studied it for a minute.
"That will not do at all," he said quietly, as he threw the bit of
paper into the gutter. Then he took out his watch. "Half-past nine.
You have just time to catch the night train for South East."
The girl's face fell. "I'm not going to South East," she said
sullenly. "I wrote Pa that I was going off for Thanksgiving, with a
friend from Boxbury."
"Then why not go back to Boxbury? That's still an easier trip, and I
can let you have the money."
Flint's tone, which was always low, had dropped still deeper; but the
earnestness of his manner made itself felt, and a casual passer-by,
catching the word "money," slowed up his walk, and turned his head for
an instant's inspection of the couple. Flint raged inwardly at the
vulgarity of the situation thus thrust upon him. To his companion,
however, the glance of the passer-by conveyed nothing more than a
recognition of her good looks, to which she was not averse. She stood
still a moment, rubbing her ringed and ungloved hand back and forward
over the sanded iron imitation brownstone fence by which she had
paused. Then, as Flint, feeling the conspicuousness of their
stationary attitude, made a movement to walk on, she broke out with a
note of genuine feeling,--
"It's no question of money. I came away because I couldn't stand it
any longer. I wanted so to see you and to tell you what a lot I cared
about you, and I thought perhaps--"
"Don't go on!" said Flint, a trifle sternly. "You are a silly little
fool; but you ought to know better than to say things like that to a
man who never did and never could care anything for you."
"Then you despise me and my love!" said Tilly, with passion half real,
half premeditated for effect. She had rehearsed this scene many times
in her own mind.
"Despise you? Not I," Flint answered; "and as for your love, a real,
genuine affection is about the last thing in the world to be despised.
Whether it is returned or not, it does not matter; and besides," here
Flint paused a minute and then went on, "in that I have much sympathy
with you, for I too love some one who has refused to marry me."
It was with a sense of inward surprise that Flint heard himself
revealing the secrets of his inmost heart to this tawdry young girl;
but Brady's words were ringing in his ears: "I think I would try to
help save a soul, if I had to take off my kid gloves or even go down
in the gutter to do it."
Tilly Marsden had not enough nobleness of nature to take in the spirit
of his confidence. To her his words implied some hope for herself.
"Perhaps," she said brokenly, "if you couldn't get her you might take
me." As she looked up at him pleadingly, with real tears standing on
her long eyelashes and the flush of a genuine emotion on her cheeks,
Flint was conscious that she was very, very pretty.
Her prettiness would not at any time have held any temptation for him.
The inherited austerity of his blood and a fastidiousness of
temperament beyond the appeal of this chromo beauty would have
prevented it in any case, but just now he was under the spell of an
exaltation which lifted him above even the possibility of such danger.
He had stood on the Mount of Transfiguration and looked into the eyes
of spiritual love. Its light still shone above and around him, and
shed its influence over the whole world. All dark thoughts, all
basilar instincts shrank back abashed before that white light. The old
monogamous instinct of the Anglo-Saxon race, which has kept it sound
at the core in spite of a thousand vices, held this man as true to the
woman whom he wished to marry as if she were indeed his wife.
Tempted he was not, but most wofully disturbed in mind he certainly
was. Having destroyed the dubious address, he felt himself to have
assumed in a measure a responsibility for this foolish girl's future,
her immediate future at least. His mind traversed rapidly all the
possible courses open to him. He must take her somewhere. Hotels and
boarding-houses were alike impossible. He thought of Nora Costello;
but he could not bring himself to ask her to share the narrow limits
of her one room with this be-furbelowed young person, and then it
would involve so many awkward explanations. There was only one person
who would understand. By a process of exclusion, his thoughts were
driven more and more insistently toward seeking aid from Winifred
Anstice.
He felt to the full the delicacy and difficulty, not to say the
absurdity, of his position, in seeking to place the woman who loved
him under the protection of the woman he loved, but it was the only
course which seemed even possible.
"Come," he said suddenly to Tilly, with an authority which the girl's
will was powerless to resist. "Since you will not go home, you must be
cared for here. I will take you to a friend of mine, and you must do
as she tells you."
"And what if I won't go?" said the girl, with a feeble effort at
self-assertion.
"Then I will leave you here. Only never hold me responsible for the
ruin that lies before you clear as Hell."
The girl quailed before the energy of his words.
"Cab, sir?" called the driver of a hansom the lights of which had
twinkled from a judicious distance for some time past.
Flint raised his finger in acquiescence, and the hansom rattled up to
the curbstone. Flint handed Tilly Marsden into it with his habitual
deference, gave a street and number to the driver, and, jumping in
himself, slammed to the half doors with a clang which echoed along the
silent street. The driver cracked his whip over the horse's head as if
he were about to drive him at a desperate pace; but the animal,
familiar with the noisy demonstration and recognizing it as intended
for the encouragement of the passengers within the vehicle and not
conveying any special warning to himself, set off at his customary
jog-trot.
A man who had been standing in the shadow of a house moved out and
stood a moment under the quivering nimbus of the electric light. His
brow darkened as he looked after the retreating cab.
"Curse him!" he muttered.
Flint and his companion drove on unwitting of the vengeance-breeding
wrath behind them. For a time they kept silence, each absorbed in his
own thoughts. Flint was unpleasantly conscious that the girl was
crying behind her veil, but realizing that he had no consolation to
offer, he wisely let her alone, and before many minutes the novelty of
her surroundings began to tell upon Tilly's grief.
"Whose house is that?" she asked in a broken voice, as they passed a
brilliantly lighted hotel. She had read so much of the palaces of the
millionnaires that a fourteen-story private dwelling did not strike
her as at all unexpected.
"She will recover," Flint murmured cynically to himself. His mind was
working rapidly now. Like many contemplative men, once roused to
definite action he was capable of great energy and direct executive
ability. He planned every detail of the coming interview, met every
emergency, was prepared for every event.
As the cab drew up before the Anstice door, he noted with relief that
the lights above were bright and those on the parlor floor subdued.
"No company, thank Heaven! and the family upstairs," was his comment.
What he most dreaded now was Winifred's being out. He wondered if in
that event he should have courage to ask for Miss Standish, and had
almost persuaded himself that he would, when McGregor, to the comfort
of his soul, admitted that Miss Anstice was at home and without
visitors. Flint felt a little cut by McGregor's glance of suspicion at
his companion. It seemed to connote the opinion of the world, and to
make his position more difficult than ever. He determined, however, to
carry things with a high hand.
"Show this young woman into the dining-room, McGregor, and close the
doors. Then take this card to Miss Anstice, and ask if I may see her
for a moment on important business."
The old butler stumbled upstairs, murmuring, "Well, it's a queer
business, and I can't make it out; but he's the right sort, he is."
As Flint waited in the drawing-room, he was dimly conscious of the
perfume from the roses in the jar on the piano, conscious too that he
was standing on the very spot where he had kissed Winifred's hand
yesterday. Was it really only yesterday? It seemed an age ago.
The spell was broken by the sound of a light step on the stair, and
the appearance of Winifred herself in the doorway,--Winifred in her
gown of soft gray silk, with a bunch of his roses at her
belt,--Winifred as he had never seen her before, with the gladness of
unrestrained welcome in her eyes, with shy words of love almost
trembling on her lips.
Flint started forward, then thought of the girl behind the closed
door, and hesitated. Surely they could postpone happiness for a time
to bind up the bruises of that foolish wayfarer who was none the less
to be pitied that her wounds were self-inflicted.
Winifred's quick perception took in at once the agitation of his face
and manner.
"You are in trouble!" she said, coming close to him with swift
sympathy.
"Yes, in trouble and in perplexity. I have come to you for help."
"I am glad you have come to me," the girl said simply, and stood with
uplifted eyes waiting for him to go on.
"Don't look at me like that," Flint cried out; "when you do I can
think of nothing but you, and to-night we must both think about some
one else."
"Who is it? What is it? Tell me from the beginning."
Flint was profoundly moved by the instant putting aside of all
thoughts of self in the desire to be of service.
"How dared I ask her to marry me?" he thought. Aloud he said: "Listen,
Winifred, and know that I am trying to tell you the white truth
without reserve or evasion. I come to you because you are the only
person who will need no explanation of the past, to unravel the evil
of the present. I went with Brady this evening to a meeting of the
Salvation Army at a slum post down on Berry Hill, where Nora Costello
was to speak--"
"Oh, why didn't you let me go too?"
"You shall go if you like sometime; but I am glad you were not there
to-night, for there was a fire, and something near a panic--"
Winifred turned white and moved nearer to him.
"Don't be alarmed!" he said; "nothing happened. The fire was soon put
out, and people settled back in their seats. But I grew restless, and
concluded not to wait for Brady; so I started to walk up alone--"
"Alone?" echoed Winifred, "through that quarter! Why, Nora says it is
as bad as Whitechapel."
"Perhaps," said Flint, with a nervous laugh; "but my walk was entirely
uneventful till I reached our own highly respectable part of the city.
As I was turning into Fifth Avenue, out of one of the side streets
above Washington Square, I saw a girl looking up at the houses. As I
came along she stopped to speak to me, and to my amazement I found it
was Tilly Marsden."
"_Tilly Marsden?_"
"Yes, she had come down to spend Thanksgiving here in the city. She
had been expecting, it seems, to go to a hotel; but a woman on the
train gave her the address of some friend, and she was looking up this
unknown landlady when I came along."
"Little fool!" said Winifred, with finely feminine exasperation.
"She is--beyond a doubt she is; but still--"
"But still," said Winifred, with a vanishing smile, "you naturally
have more sympathy with her folly than I have." (At this moment
Winifred had forgotten the charge of lack of sympathy which she had
brought against the man before her three months ago.) "The question
is, of course, what is to be done with her?"
Flint felt an immense sense of relief at Winifred's practical words,
which seemed to remove the situation from the element of tragedy to
rather sordid commonplace.
"That's it exactly," he said helplessly. "I thought of taking her to
Nora Costello."
"That would not do at all," said Winifred, positively. "I am
disappointed in you. If you had trusted to my proffer of friendship
yesterday, you would have brought her to me."
"I--I did," hesitated Flint; "she is in the rear room there. But the
more I think of it, the more I feel as if I could not have her here
near you. She is--"
"You need not tell me what Tilly Marsden is," Winifred interrupted. "I
know her of old. She is silly and pert, and cheaply sensational; but
she is not vicious, and if she were, our duty would be the same. You
may leave her with Miss Standish and me. We will take care of her, and
try to make something of her."
"I suppose I ought to say 'Good-by' to her?"
"By no means. Go, and leave her to me."
"Have you no word for me at parting?"
"No, not now,--all that can wait."
"Good-night, then, since you will let me say nothing more."
Winifred answered with a farewell glance, full of confidence and of
love. Then the door closed after Flint, and Winifred threw open the
folding-doors into the dining-room.
"How do you do, Miss Marsden?" she said, taking Tilly's hand.
The girl looked at her, stupidly bewildered.
"You do not recognize me, I see, but I remember you from seeing you
with Leonard Davitt down at Nepaug."
Tilly blushed painfully, but Winifred took no notice of her
embarrassment.
"Mr. Flint said you were belated in your trip to the city, so he
brought you to us for the night," Winifred continued, as if it were
the most natural episode in the world.
"And did he tell you--"
"He told me nothing else. He was in a hurry, I suppose."
"Then he is gone?"
"Yes, he is gone, and I am glad, because it is time you went to bed
after you have had such a tiresome journey. Come upstairs. I am going
to give you the little room next Miss Standish's. You remember her
perhaps--she was at Nepaug too. To-morrow we will talk over anything
you wish to tell me. Come!"