Celia Howard had been, in a way, Philip's inspiration ever since the days
when they quarreled and made up on the banks of the Deer field. And a
fortunate thing for him it was that in his callow years there was a woman
in whom he could confide. Her sympathy was everything, even if her
advice was not always followed. In the years of student life and
preparation they had not often met, but they were constant and
painstaking correspondents. It was to her that he gave the running
chronicle of his life, and poured out his heart and aspirations.
Unconsciously he was going to school to a woman, perhaps the most
important part of his education. For, though in this way he might never
hope to understand woman, he was getting most valuable knowledge of
himself.
As a guide, Philip was not long in discovering that Celia was somewhat
uncertain. She kept before him a very high ideal; she expected him to be
distinguished and successful, but, her means varied from time to time.
Now she would have him take one path and now another. And Philip learned
to read in this varying advice the changes in her own experience. There
was a time when she hoped he would be a great scholar: there was no
position so noble as that of a university professor or president. Then
she turned short round and extolled the business life: get money, get a
position, and then you can study, write books, do anything you like and
be independent. Then came a time--this was her last year in college
--when science seemed the only thing. That was really a benefit to
mankind: create something, push discovery, dispel ignorance.
"Why, Phil, if you could get people to understand about ventilation, the
necessity of pure air, you would deserve a monument. And, besides--this
is an appeal to your lower nature--science is now the thing that pays."
Theology she never considered; that was just now too uncertain in its
direction. Law she had finally approved; it was still respectable; it
was a very good waiting-ground for many opportunities, and it did not
absolutely bar him from literature, for which she perceived he had a
sneaking fondness.
Philip wondered if Celia was not thinking of the law for herself.
She had tried teaching, she had devoted herself for a time to work in a
College Settlement, she had learned stenography, she had talked of
learning telegraphy, she had been interested in women's clubs, in a civic
club, in the political education of women, and was now a professor of
economics in a girl's college.
It finally dawned upon Philip, who was plodding along, man fashion, in
one of the old ruts, feeling his way, like a true American, into the
career that best suited him, that Celia might be a type of the awakened
American woman, who does not know exactly what she wants.
To be sure, she wants everything. She has recently come into an open
place, and she is distracted by the many opportunities. She has no
sooner taken up one than she sees another that seems better, or more
important in the development of her sex, and she flies to that.
But nothing, long, seems the best thing. Perhaps men are in the way,
monopolizing all the best things. Celia had never made a suggestion of
this kind, but Philip thought she was typical of the women who push
individualism so far as never to take a dual view of life.
"I have just been," Celia wrote in one of her letters, when she was an
active club woman, "out West to a convention of the Federation of Women's
Clubs. Such a striking collection of noble, independent women!
Handsome, lots of them, and dressed--oh, my friend, dress is still a part
of it! So different from a man's convention! Cranks? Yes, a few left
over. It was a fine, inspiring meeting. But, honestly, I could not
exactly make out what they were federating about, and what they were
going to do when they got federated. It sort of came over me,
I am such a weak sister, that there is such a lot of work done in this
world with no object except the doing of it."
A more recent letter:--"Do you remember Aunt Hepsy, who used to keep the
little thread-and-needle and candy shop in Rivervale? Such a dear,
sweet, contented old soul! Always a smile and a good word for every
customer. I can see her now, picking out the biggest piece of candy in
the dish that she could afford to give for a little fellow's cent. It
never came over me until lately how much good that old woman did in the
world. I remember what a comfort it was to go and talk with her. Well,
I am getting into a frame of mind to want to be an Aunt Hepsy. There is
so much sawdust in everything--No, I'm not low-spirited. I'm just
philosophical--I've a mind to write a life of Aunt Hepsy, and let the
world see what a real useful life is."
And here is a passage from the latest:--"What an interesting story your
friend--I hope he isn't you friend, for I don't half like him--has made
out of that Mavick girl! If I were the girl's mother I should want to
roast him over the coals. Is there any truth in it?
"Of course I read it, as everybody did and read the crawl out, and looked
for more. So it is partly our fault, but what a shame it is, the
invasion of family life! Do tell me, if you happen to see her--the girl
--driving in the Park or anywhere--of course you never will--what she
looks like. I should like to see an unsophisticated millionaire-ess!
But it is an awfully interesting problem, invented or not I'm pretty deep
in psychology these days, and I'd give anything to come in contact with
that girl. You would just see a woman, and you wouldn't know. I'd see a
soul. Dear me, if I'd only had the chance of that Scotch woman! Don't
you see, if we could only get to really know one mind and soul, we should
know it all. I mean scientifically. I know what you are thinking, that
all women have that chance. What you think is impertinent--to the
subject."
Indeed, the story of Evelyn interested everybody. It was taken up
seriously in the country regions. It absorbed New York gossip for two
days, and then another topic took possession of the mercurial city; but
it was the sort of event to take possession of the country mind. New
York millionaires get more than their share of attention in the country
press at all times, but this romance became the subject of household talk
and church and sewing-circle gossip, and all the women were eager for
more details, and speculated endlessly about the possible character and
career of the girl.
Alice wrote Philip from Rivervale that her aunt Patience was very much
excited by it. "'The poor thing,' she said, 'always to have somebody
poking round, seeing every blessed thing you do or don't do; it would
drive me crazy. There is that comfort in not having anything much--you
have yourself. You tell Philip that I hope he doesn't go there often.
I've no objection to his being kind to the poor thing when they meet, and
doing neighborly things, but I do hope he won't get mixed up with that
set.' It is very amusing," Alice continued, "to hear Patience
soliloquize about it and construct the whole drama.
"But you cannot say, Philip, that you are not warned (!) and you know that
Patience is almost a prophet in the way she has of putting things
together. Celia was here recently looking after the little house that
has been rented ever since the death of her mother. I never saw her look
so well and handsome, and yet there was a sort of air about her as if she
had been in public a good deal and was quite capable of taking care of
herself. But she was that way when she was little.
"I think she is a good friend of yours. Well, Phil, if you do ever happen
to see that Evelyn in the opera, or anywhere, tell me how she looks and
what she has on--if you can."
The story had not specially interested Philip, except as it was connected
with Brad's newspaper prospects, but letters, like those referred to,
received from time to time, began to arouse a personal interest. Of
course merely a psychological interest, though the talk here and there at
dinner-tables stimulated his desire, at least, to see the subject of
them. But in this respect he was to be gratified, in the usual way
things desired happen in life--that is, by taking pains to bring them
about.
When Mr. Brad came back from his vacation his manner had somewhat
changed. He had the air of a person who stands on firm ground.
He felt that he was a personage. He betrayed this in a certain
deliberation of speech, as if any remark from him now might be important.
In a way he felt himself related to public affairs.
In short, he had exchanged the curiosity of the reporter for the
omniscience of the editor. And for a time Philip was restrained from
intruding the subject of the Mavick sensation. However, one day after
dinner he ventured:
"I see, Mr. Brad, that your hit still attracts attention." Mr. Brad
looked inquiringly blank.