THE VISITOR
"Are you Miss Winifred Bartlett?" asked Mrs. Carshaw the next afternoon
in that remote part of East Twenty-seventh Street which for the first
time bore the rubber tires of her limousine.
"Yes, madam," said Winifred, who stood rather pale before that large and
elegant presence. It was in the front room of the two which Winifred
occupied.
"But--where have I seen you before?" asked Mrs. Carshaw suddenly, making
play with a pair of mounted eye-glasses.
"I cannot say, madam. Will you be seated?"
"What a pretty girl you are!" exclaimed the visitor, wholly unconscious
of the calm insolence which "society" uses to its inferiors. "I'm
certain I have seen you somewhere, for your face is perfectly familiar,
but for the life of me I cannot recall the occasion."
Mrs. Carshaw was not mistaken. Some dim cell of memory was stirred by
the girl's likeness to her mother. For once Senator Meiklejohn's
scheming had brought him to the edge of the precipice. But the
dangerous moment passed. Rex's mother was thinking of other and more
immediate matters. Winifred stood silent, scared, with a foreboding of
the meaning of this tremendous visit.
"Now, I am come to have a quiet chat with you," said Mrs. Carshaw, "and
I only hope that you will look on me as a friend, and be perfectly at
your ease. I am sorry the nature of my visit is not of a quite pleasant
nature, but no doubt we shall be able to understand each other, for you
look good and sweet. Where have I seen you before? You are a sweetly
pretty girl, do you know? I can't altogether blame poor Rex, for men
are not very rational creatures, are they? Come, now, and sit quite
near beside me on this chair, and let me talk to you."
Winifred came and sat, with tremulous lip, not saying a word.
"First, I wish to know something about yourself," said Mrs. Carshaw,
trying honestly to adopt a motherly tone. "Do you live here all alone?
Where are your parents?"
"I have none--as far as I know. Yes, I live here alone, for the
present."
"But no relatives?"
"I have an aunt--a sort of aunt--but--"
"You are mysterious--'a sort of aunt.' And is this 'sort of aunt' with
you here?"
"No. I used to live with her, but within the last month we
have--separated."
"Is that my son's doings?"
"No--that is--no."
"So you are quite alone?"
"Yes."
"And my son comes to see you?"
"He comes--yes, he comes."
"But that is rather defiant of everything, is it not?"
A blush of almost intense carmine washed Winifred's face and neck. Mrs.
Carshaw knew how to strike hard. Every woman knows how to hurt another
woman.
"Miss Goodman, my landlady, usually stays in here when he comes," said
she.
"All the time?"
"Most of the time."
"Well, I must not catechise you. No one woman has the right to do that
to another, and you are sweet to have answered me at all. I think you
are good and true; and you will therefore find it all the easier to
sympathize with my motives, which have your own good at heart, as well
as my son's. First of all, do you understand that my son is very much in
love with you?"
"I--you should not ask me--I may have thought that he liked me.
Has--he--told you so?"
"He has never mentioned your name to me. I never knew of your existence
till yesterday. But it is so; he is fond of you, to such an unusual
extent, that quite a scandal has arisen in his social set--"
"Not about me?"
"Yes."
"But there is nothing----"
"Yes; it is reported that he intends to marry you."
"And is that what the scandal is about? I thought the scandal was when
you did not marry, not when you did."
Mrs. Carshaw permitted herself to be surprised. She had not looked for
such weapons in Winifred's armory. But she was there to carry out what
she deemed an almost sacred mission, and the righteous can be horribly
unjust.
"Yes, in the middle classes, but not in the upper, which has its own
moral code--not a strictly Biblical one, perhaps," she retorted glibly.
"With us the scandal is not that you and my son are friends, but that he
should seriously think of marrying you, since you are on such different
levels. You see, I speak plainly."
Winifred suddenly covered her face with her hands. For the first time
she measured the great gulf yawning between her and that dear hope
growing up in her heart.
"That is how the matter stands before marriage," went on Mrs. Carshaw,
sure that she was kind in being merciless. "You can conceive how it
would be afterwards. And society is all nature--it never forgives; or,
if it forgives, it may condone sins, but never an indiscretion. Nor must
you think that your love would console my son for the great social loss
which his connection with you threatens to bring on him. It will console
him for a month, but a wife is not a world, nor, however beloved, does
she compensate for the loss of the world. If, therefore, you love my
son, as I take it that you do--do you?"
Winifred's face was covered. She did not answer.
"Tell me in confidence. I am a woman, too, and know--"
A sob escaped from the poor bowed head. Mrs. Carshaw was moved. She had
not counted on so hard a task. She had even thought of money!
"Poor thing! That will make your duty very hard. I wish--but there is no
use in wishing! Necessity knows no pity. Winifred, you must summon all
your strength of mind, and get out of this false position."
"What am I to do? What can I do?" wailed Winifred. She was without means
or occupation, and could not fly from the house.
"You can go away," said Mrs. Carshaw, "without letting him know whither
you have gone, and till you go you can throw cold water on his passion
by pretending dislike or indifference--"
"But could I do such a thing, even if I tried?" came the despairing cry.
"It will be hard, certainly, but a woman should be able to accomplish
everything for the man she loves. Remember for whose sake you will be
doing it, and promise me before I leave you."
"Oh, you should give me time to think before I promise anything," sobbed
Winifred. "I believe I shall go mad. I am the most unfortunate girl that
ever lived. I did not seek him--he sought me; and now, when I--Have you
no pity?"
"You see that I have--not only pity, but confidence. It is hard, but I
feel that you will rise to it. I, and you, are acting for Rex's sake,
and I hope, I believe, you will do your share in saving him. And now I
must go, leaving my sting behind me. I am so sorry! I never dreamed that
I should like you so well. I have seen you before somewhere--it seems to
me in an old dream. Good-by, good-by! It had to be done, and I have done
it, but not gladly. Heaven help us women, and especially all mothers!"
Winifred could not answer. She was choked with sobs, so Mrs. Carshaw
took her departure in a kind of stealthy haste. She was far more
unhappy now than when she entered that quiet house. She came in
bristling with resolution. She went out, seemingly victorious, but
feeling small and mean.
When she was gone Winifred threw herself on a couch with buried head,
and was still there an hour later when Miss Goodman brought up a letter.
It was from a dramatic agent whom she had often haunted for work--or
rather it was a letter on his office paper, making an appointment
between her and a "manager" at some high-sounding address in East
Orange, New Jersey, when, the writer said, "business might result."
She had hardly read it when Rex Carshaw's tap came to the door.
About that same time Steingall threw a note across his office table to
Clancy, who was there to announce that in a house in Brooklyn a fine
haul of coiners, dies, presses, and other illicit articles, human and
inanimate, had just been made.
"Ralph V. Voles and his bad man from the West have come back to New York
again," said the chief. "You might give 'em an eye."
"Why on earth doesn't Carshaw marry the girl?" said Clancy.
"I dunno. He's straight, isn't he?"
"Strikes me that way."
"Me, too. Anyhow, let's pick up a few threads. I've a notion that
Senator Meiklejohn thinks he has side-stepped the Bureau."
Clancy laughed. His mirth was grotesque as the grin of one of those
carved ivories of Japan, and to the effect of the crinkled features was
added a shrill cackle. The chief glanced up.
"Don't do that," he said sharply. "You get my goat when you make that
beastly noise!"
These two were beginning again to snap at each other about the Senator
and his affairs, and their official quarrels usually ended badly for the
other fellow.