But the chances she had taken at that time! The restless and yet dreamy
mood in which she had been and moved and which eventually had prompted
her to write Mr. Barclay, feeling very doubtful as to whether he would
be interested in her and yet drawn to him because of the life he had
pictured. Her thought had been that if he could take enough interest in
a girl like the one in the book to describe her so truly he might be
a little interested in her real life. Only her thought at first had
been not to entice him; she had not believed that she could. Rather, it
was more the feeling that if he would he might be of some help to her,
since he had written so sympathetically of Lila, the heroine. She was
faced by the problem of what to do with her life, as Lila had been, but
at that she hadn’t expected him to solve it for her—merely to advise
her.
But afterwards, when he had written to thank her, she feared that
she might not hear from him again and had thought of that picture of
herself, the one Dr. Realk had taken of her laughing so heartily, the
one that everybody liked so much. She had felt that that might entice
him to further correspondence with her, since his letters were so
different and interesting, and she had sent it and asked him if his
heroine looked anything like her, just as an excuse for sending it.
Then had come that kindly letter in which he had explained his point of
view and advised her, unless she were very unhappy, to do nothing until
she should be able to look after herself in the great world. Life was
an economic problem. As for himself, he was too much the rover to be
more than a passing word to any one. His work came first. Apart from
that, he said he drifted up and down the world trying to make the best
of a life that tended to bore him. However if ever he came that way he
would be glad to look her up and advise her as best he might, but that
she must not let him compromise her in any way. It was not advisable in
her very difficult position.
Even then she had not been able to give him up, so interested had she
been by all he had written. And besides, he had eventually come to
U—— only a hundred and fifty miles away, and had written from there
to know if he might come over to see her. She couldn’t do other than
invite him, although she had known at the time that it was a dangerous
thing to do. There was no solution, and it had only caused trouble—and
how much trouble! And yet in the face of her mood then, anything had
been welcome as a relief. She had been feeling that unless something
happened to break the monotony she would do something desperate. And
then something did happen. He had come, and there was nothing but
trouble, and very much trouble, until he had gone again.
You would have thought there was some secret unseen force attending her
and Gil at that time and leading him to wherever she was at just the
time she didn’t want him to be there. Take for example, that matter of
Gil finding Mr. Barclay’s letters in the fire after she had taken such
care to throw them on the live coals behind some burning wood. He had
evidently been able to make out a part of the address, anyhow, for he
had said they were addressed to her in care of somebody he couldn’t
make out. And yet he was all wrong, as to the writer, of course.
He had the crazy notion, based on his having found that picture of
Raskoffsky inscribed to Alice, some months before, that they must be
from him, just because he thought she had used Alice to write and ask
Raskoffsky for his picture—which she had. But that was before she had
ever read any of Mr. Barclay’s books. Yet if it hadn’t been for Gil’s
crazy notion that it was Raskoffsky she was interested in she wouldn’t
have had the courage to face it out the way she had, the danger of
losing Tickles, which had come to her the moment Gil had proved so
suspicious and watchful, frightening her so. Those three terrible days!
And imagine him finding those bits of letters in the ashes and making
something out of them! The uncanniness of it all.
And then that time he saw her speeding through the gate into Briscoe
Park. They couldn’t have been more than a second passing there, anyhow,
and yet he had been able to pick her out! Worse, Mr. Barclay hadn’t
even intended coming back that way; they had just made the mistake of
turning down Ridgely instead of Warren. Yet, of course, Gil had to be
there, of all places, when as a rule he was never out of the office at
any time. Fortunately for her she was on her way home, so there was
no chance of his getting there ahead of her as, plainly, he planned
afterwards. Still, if it hadn’t been for her mother whom everybody
believed, and who actually believed that she and Alice had been to the
concert, she would never have had the courage to face him. She hadn’t
expected him home in the first place, but when he did come and she
realized that unless she faced him out then and there in front of her
mother who believed in her, that _she_ as well as he would know, there
was but one thing to do—brave it. Fortunately her mother hadn’t seen
her in that coat and hat which Gil insisted that she had on. For before
going she and Alice had taken Tickles over to her mother’s and then she
had returned and changed her dress. And before Gil had arrived Alice
had gone on home and told her mother to bring over the baby, which was
the thing that had so confused Gil really. For he didn’t know about the
change and neither did her mother. And her mother did not believe that
there had been any, which made her think that Gil was a little crazy,
talking that way. And her mother didn’t know to this day—she was so
unsuspecting.
And then that terrible night on which he thought he had seen her in
Bergley Place and came in to catch her. Would she ever forget that?
Or that evening, two days before, when he had come home and said that
Naigly had seen her coming out of the Deming. She could tell by his
manner that time that he thought nothing of that then—he was so used to
her going downtown in the daytime anyhow. But that Naigly should have
seen her just then when of all times she would rather he would not have!
To be sure it had been a risky thing—going there to meet Mr. Barclay in
that way, only from another point of view it had not seemed so. Every
one went through the Deming Arcade for one reason or another and that
made any one’s being seen there rather meaningless. And in the great
crowd that was always there it was the commonest thing for any one to
meet any one else and stop and talk for a moment anyhow. That was all
she was there for that day—to see Mr. Barclay on his arrival and make
an appointment for the next day. She had done it because she knew she
couldn’t stay long and she knew Gil wouldn’t be out at that time and
that if any one else saw her she could say that it was almost any one
they knew casually between them. Gil was like that, rather easy at
times. But to think that Naigly should have been passing the Deming
just as she was coming out—alone, fortunately—and should have run and
told Gil. That was like him. It was pure malice. He had never liked
her since she had turned him down for Gil. And he would like to make
trouble for her if he could, that was all. That was the way people did
who were disappointed in love.
But the worst and the most curious thing of all was that last evening
in Bergley Place, the last time she ever saw Mr. Barclay anywhere. That
_was_ odd. She had known by then, of course, that Gil was suspicious
and might be watching her and she hadn’t intended to give him any
further excuse for complaint. But that was his lodge night and he had
never missed a meeting since they had been married—not one. Besides she
had only intended to stay out about an hour and always within range of
the house so that if Gil got off the car or any one else came she would
know of it. She had not even turned out the light in the dining-room,
intending to say if Gil came back unexpectedly or any one else called,
that she had just run around the corner in the next block to see Mrs.
Stofft. And in order that that statement might not be questioned, she
had gone over there for just a little while before Mr. Barclay was due
to arrive with his car. She had even asked Mr. Barclay to wait in the
shadow of the old Dalrymple house in Bergley Place, under the trees,
in order that the car might not be seen. So few people went up that
street, anyhow. And it was always so dark in there. Besides it was near
to raining which made it seem safer still. And yet he had seen her.
And just as she was about to leave. And when she had concluded that
everything had turned out so well.
But how could she have foreseen that a big car with such powerful
lights as that would have turned in there just then. Or that Gil would
step off the car and look up that way? Or that he would be coming home
an hour earlier when he never did—not from lodge meeting. And besides
she hadn’t intended to go out that evening at all until Mr. Barclay
called up and said he must leave the next day, for a few days anyhow,
and wanted to see her before he went. She had thought that if they
stayed somewhere in the neighborhood in a closed car, as he suggested,
it would be all right. But, no. That big car had to turn in there just
when it did, and Gil had to be getting off the car and looking up
Bergley Place just when it did, and she had to be standing there saying
good-bye, just as the lights flashed on that spot. Some people might be
lucky, but certainly she was not one of them. The only thing that had
saved her was the fact that she had been able to get in the house ahead
of Gil, hang up her cape and go in to her room and undress and see if
Tickles was still asleep. And yet when he did burst in she had felt
that she could not face him—he was so desperate and angry. And yet,
good luck, it had ended in his doubting whether he had really seen her
or not, though even to this day he would never admit that he doubted.
But the real reason why she hadn’t seen Mr. Barclay since (and that
in the face of the fact that he had been here in the city once since,
and that, as he wrote, he had taken such a fancy to her and wanted
to see her and help her in any way she chose), was not that she was
afraid of Gil or that she liked him more than she did Mr. Barclay
(they were too different in all their thoughts and ways for that) or
that she would have to give up her life here and do something else,
if Gil really should have found out (she wouldn’t have minded that at
all)—but because only the day before Mr. Barclay’s last letter she had
found out that under the law Gil would have the power to take Tickles
away from her and not let her see him any more if he caught her in
any wrongdoing. That was the thing that had frightened her more than
anything else could have and had decided her, then and there, that
whatever it was she was thinking she might want to do, it could never
repay her for the pain and agony that the loss of Tickles would bring
her. She had not really stopped to think of that before. Besides on
the night of that quarrel with Gil, that night he thought he saw her
in Bergley Place and he had sworn that if ever he could prove anything
he would take Tickles away from her, or, that he would kill her and
Tickles and himself and Raskoffsky (Raskoffsky!), it was then really
that she had realized that she couldn’t do without Tickles—no, not
for a time even. Her dream of a happier life would be nothing without
him—she knew that. And so it was that she had fought there as she had
to make Gil believe he was mistaken, even in the face of the fact
that he actually knew he had seen her. It was the danger of the loss
of Tickles that had given her the courage and humor and calmness, the
thought of what the loss of him would mean, the feeling that life would
be colorless and blank unless she could take him with her wherever she
went, whenever that might be, if ever it was.
And so when Gil had burst in as he did she had taken up Tickles and
faced him, after Gil’s loud talk had waked him. And Tickles had put
his arms about her neck and called “Mama! Mama!” even while she was
wondering how she was ever to get out of that scrape. And then because
he had fallen asleep again, lying close to her neck, even while Gil was
quarreling, she had told herself then that if she came through that
quarrel safely she would never do anything more to jeopardize her claim
to Tickles, come what might. And with that resolution she had been able
to talk to Gil so convincingly and defiantly that he had finally begun
to doubt his own senses, as she could see. And so it was that she had
managed to face him out and to win completely.
And then the very next day she had called up Mr. Barclay and told him
that she couldn’t go on with that affair, and why—that Tickles meant
too much to her, that she would have to wait and see how her life would
work out. And he had been so nice about it then and had sympathized
with her and had told her that, all things considered, he believed
she was acting wisely and for her own happiness. And so she had been.
Only since he had written her and she had had to say no to him again.
And now he had gone for good. And she admired him so much. And she had
never heard from him since, for she had asked him not to write to her
unless she first wrote to him.
But with how much regret she had done that! And how commonplace and
humdrum this world looked at times now, even with the possession of
Tickles. Those few wonderful days.... And that dream that had mounted
so high. Yet she had Tickles. And in the novel the husband had gone
away and the architect had appeared.