THE LONG FAREWELL
Not until Adelaide told Arthur and saw the expression that succeeded his
first blank stare of incredulity did she realize what the world, her
"world," would think of her engagement to Theodore Hargrave. It was
illuminative of her real character and of her real mind as to Ross, and
as to Dory also, that, instead of being crushed by her brother's look of
downright horror, she straightway ejected the snobbish suggestions with
which her vanity had been taunting her, and called her heart, as well as
her pride, to the defense of Dory.
"You're joking," said Arthur, when he was able to articulate; "and a
mighty poor joke it is. Dory! Why, Del, it's ridiculous. And in place of
Ross Whitney!"
"Be careful what you say, Artie," she warned in a quiet, ominous tone,
with that in her eyes which should in prudence have halted him. "I am
engaged to Dory, remember."
"Nonsense!" cried Arthur. "Why, he hasn't a cent, except his beggarly
salary as professor at that little jay college. And even if he should
amount to something some day, he'll never have anything or any standing
in society. I thought you had pride, Del. Just wait till I see him! I'll
let him know what I think of his impudence. Of course, I don't blame him.
Naturally, he wants to get up in the world. But _you_--" Arthur's laugh
was a sneer--"And I thought you were _proud_!"
From Del's eyes blazed that fury which we reserve for those we love when
they exasperate us. "Shame on you, Arthur Ranger!" she exclaimed. "Shame
on you! See what a snob you have become. Except that he's poor, Dory
Hargrave has the advantage of any man we know. He's got more in his head
any minute than you or your kind in your whole lives. And he is honorable
and a gentleman--a _real_ gentleman, not a pretender. You aren't big
enough to understand him; but, at least, you know that if it weren't for
your prospects from father, you wouldn't be in the same class with him.
_He_ is somebody in himself. But you--and--and your kind--what do _you_
amount to, in yourselves?"
Arthur lowered at her. "So this is what you've been leading up to,
with all the queer talk you've been giving me on and off, ever since
we came home."
That remark seemed to Adelaide for an instant to throw a flood of light
in amazing revelation upon her own innermost self. "I believe it is!" she
exclaimed, as if dazed. Then the light seemed to go, seemed to have been
only imaginary. It is not until we are much older than Del then was, that
we learn how our acts often reveal us to ourselves.
"So you're in love with Dory," scoffed Arthur. "You're a wonder--you are!
To go about the world and get education and manners and culture, and then
to come back to Saint X and take up with a jay--a fellow that's never
been anywhere."
"Physically, he hasn't traveled much," said Del, her temper curiously
and suddenly restored. "But mentally, Artie, dear, he's been distances
and to places and in society that your poor brain would ache just at
hearing about."
"You've lost your senses!"
"No, dear," replied Del sweetly; "on the contrary, I've put myself in the
way of finding them."
"You needn't 'bluff' with me," he retorted. He eyed her suspiciously.
"There's some mystery in this."
Del showed that the chance shot had landed; but, instantly recovering
herself, she said: "It may interest you to know that a while ago, when
I told you I was engaged to him, I felt a little uneasy. You see, I've
had a long course at the same school that has made such a gentleman of
you. But, as the result of your talk and the thoughts it suggested, I
haven't a doubt left. I'd marry Dory Hargrave now, if everybody in the
world opposed me. Yes, the more opposition, the prouder I'll be to be
his wife!"
"What's the matter, children?" came in their mother's voice. "What are
you quarreling about?" Mrs. Ranger was hurrying through the room on her
way to the kitchen; she was too used to heated discussions between them
to be disturbed.
"What do you think of this, mother?" almost shouted Arthur. "Del here
says she's engaged to Dory Hargrave!"
Mrs. Ranger stopped short. "Gracious!" she ejaculated.
She felt for her "specs," drew them down from her hair, and hastily
adjusted them for a good look, first at Arthur, then at Del. She looked
long at Del, who was proudly erect and was at her most beautiful best,
eyes glittering and cheeks aglow. "Have you and Ross had a falling out,
Del?" she asked.
"No, mother," replied Adelaide; "but we--we've broken our engagement,
and--What Artie says is true."
No one spoke for a full minute, though the air seemed to buzz with
the thinking and feeling. Then, Mrs. Ranger: "Your father mustn't
hear of this."
"Leave me alone with mother, Artie," commanded Adelaide.
Arthur went, pausing in the doorway to say: "I'm sorry to have hurt you,
Del. But I meant every word, only not in anger or meanness. I know you
won't do it when you've thought it over."
When Arthur had had time to get far enough away, Adelaide said: "Mother,
I want you to hear the whole truth--or as much of it as I know myself.
Ross came and broke off our engagement so that he could marry Theresa
Howland. And I've engaged myself to Dory--partly to cover it, but not
altogether, I hope. Not principally, I believe. I'm sick and ashamed of
the kind of things I've been so crazy about these last few years. Before
this happened, before Ross came, being with father and thinking over
everything had made me see with different eyes. And I--I want to try to
be--what a woman ought to be."
Ellen Ranger slowly rolled her front hair under her fingers. At length
she said: "Well--I ain't sorry you've broke off with Ross. I've been
noticing the Whitneys and their goings on for some time. I saw they'd got
clean out of _my_ class, and--I'm glad my daughter hasn't. There's a
common streak in those Whitneys. I never did like Ross, though I never
would have said anything, as you seemed to want him, and your father had
always been set on it, and thought so high of him. He laid himself out to
make your pa think he was a fine character and full of business--and I
ain't denying that he's smart, mighty smart--too smart to suit me." A
long reflective pause, then: "But--Dory--Well, my advice is to think it
over before you jump clear in. Of course, you'll have enough for both,
but I'd rather see you taking up with some man that's got a good
business. Teachin' 's worse than preachin' as a business. Still, there's
plenty of time to think about that. You're only engaged."
"Teachin' 's worse than preachin'"--Adelaide's new, or, rather, revived
democracy was an aspiration rather than an actuality, was--as to the part
above the soil, at least--a not very vigorous looking forced growth
through sordid necessity. In this respect it was like many, perhaps most,
human aspirations--and, like them, it was far more likely to wither than
to flourish. "Teachin' 's worse than preachin'"--Del began to slip
dismally down from the height to which Arthur's tactless outburst had
blown her. Down, and down, and down, like a punctured balloon--gently,
but steadily, dishearteningly. She was ashamed of herself, as ashamed as
any reader of these chronicles is for her--any reader with one standard
for judging other people and another for judging himself. To the credit
of her character must be set down her shame at her snobbishness. The
snobbishness itself should not be set down to her discredit, but should
be charged up to that class feeling, as old as property, and fostered
and developed by almost every familiar fact in our daily environment.
"I shouldn't be surprised but your father'd be glad, if he knew," her
mother was saying. "But it's no use to risk telling him. A shock
might--might make him worse." She started up. "I must go to him. I
came to send you, while I was looking after Mary and the dinner, and I
clean forgot."
She hurried away. Adelaide sat thinking, more and more forlorn, though
not a whit less determined. "I ought to admire him more than I did Ross,
and I ought to want to marry him--and I _will_!"
The birds had stopped singing in the noonday heat. The breeze had died
down. Outdoors, in the house, there was not a sound. She felt as if she
must not, could not breathe. The silence, like a stealthy hand, lifted
her from her chair, drew her tiptoeing and breathless toward the room in
which her father was sitting. She paused at its threshold, looked. There
was Hiram, in his chair by the window, bolt upright, eyes open and
gazing into the infinite. Beside that statue of the peace eternal knelt
Ellen, a worn, wan, shrunken figure, the hands clasped, the eyes closed,
the lips moving.
"Mother! Mother!" cried Del.
Her mother did not hear. She was moaning, "I believe, Lord, I believe!
Help Thou my unbelief!"