There was only one shadow on Constance's present happiness, for she was
happy in her independence and her work. She had demonstrated her
ability to support herself and to defy the blow of fate which had
deprived her of a husband's aid and protection. It was the growing
perception that she might not be able to do all she desired for her
children. This sprang from her own keener appreciation of the value
not only of the best educational advantages, but of refined personal
surroundings in the development of character. She could inculcate
noble morals; she could teach her children to be truthful, brave, and
simple; she could provide them with public school instruction, and she
was resolved to give them, if her health remained good, the opportunity
to continue their education longer than was the wont with parents whose
offspring had their own way to make in life unaided. But her ambition,
or rather her perception of what she desired for them, did not stop
here. There were present demands which must be neglected solely
because of her straitened circumstances; and she beheld ahead a long
and widening vista of privileges from which, perforce, they would be
debarred during the formative years for a similar reason. Henrietta's
teeth were disconcertingly crooked, and should have the continuous
attention of a skilful dentist, and her voice had already that nasal
twang which, if unchecked, is sure to result in feminine inelegance of
speech. She wished that both the children, especially the girl, might
have thorough instruction in French and music, and be sent to dancing
school. Little Emil was giving signs of marked talent for drawing, and
the thought of how that gift could be developed, was already causing
her concern. It was obvious to her that each of the next ten years had
more insistent instances in store for her. She knew that she could
give her children what the democratic world delights to call a solid
foundation, but she was eager to equip them with stimulating mental
ideals and bodily graces, to put them within reach of excellence and
culture.
She was too grateful to repine or to allow this shadow to oppress her
spirit. Its sole effect was to stimulate her energies, to make her
fertile in resources to counteract this disability, and painstaking in
attention to her duties in the hope of a small increase in salary. She
kept a close watch on Henrietta's voice, and put her on her own guard
against its piercing quality; she organized a small dancing class from
among the children in Lincoln Chambers for one evening in the week, and
from her own past experience essayed their instruction in waltzing and
social decorum. Also, on Sunday afternoons, she would often lure Emil
and Henrietta to the new Art Museum and give them the opportunity which
her own youth had lacked to discern artistic form and color, and to
acquire inspiration from world-famous or exemplary paintings and
sculpture. Then there suddenly came to her as treasure-trove a new
fund to be drawn on for such purposes. Her employer, scanning the
field of philanthropy by the light of his own professional experience,
had realized that there was need in Benham of a legal aid society--that
is, of an organization which would defray the charges of a firm of
attorneys to whom people in utter distress, without means, and with
petty but desperate grievances in which busy lawyers could not afford
to interest themselves, could apply for succor. When it appeared that
the clerical duties incident to the fund collected for this charity
must be performed by some suitable person, it occurred to Gordon
Perry--he had been seeking some such occasion--that Mrs. Stuart would
make an admirable secretary and treasurer, especially as he intended
that the society should pay two hundred dollars for the annual service.
Constance's heart throbbed with delight at the announcement, and the
first fifty dollars was devoted by her to the treatment of Henrietta's
irregular front teeth. Would she be able some day to send Emil to
college? Might she hope that her daughter would grow to be thoroughly
a lady, not merely a smart, self-sufficient woman, but a gracious,
refined, exquisite spirit like Mrs. Randolph Wilson? In her outlook
for her children's future, she had become aware that she had set up two
individuals for emulation: the woman whose æsthetic Christianity had
enriched her life, and the man whose unaffected intelligence and vigor
offered to her daily observation an example of honorable modern living.
To lift her own flesh and blood above the rut of mediocre aims and
attainments was now the ambition of her soul, and she was ready to
strain every nerve to bring this to pass.
[Illustration: Constance would find her in possession at Lincoln
Chambers]
Her acquaintance with Mrs. Perry had ripened into intimacy. The old
lady had taken a strong fancy to her, and the liking was cordially
reciprocated. This meant increasing friendliness on both sides. Not
infrequently, on her return from the office, Constance would find her
in possession at Lincoln Chambers with the room warm, five o'clock tea
ready, Henrietta in her lap and Emil beside her, listening to absorbing
reading or stories, each of which had a pungent, personal flavor, with
a not too obtrusive moral. On the other hand, Constance was asked to
dine every now and then in the new house, and after dinner, sometimes
it happened that they went to the theatre with Mr. Perry, or on
evenings when he was busy, the two women would sit cosily with their
work, and conversation never flagged. Women, when sympathetically
attached to each other, seem to be inexhaustible reservoirs of speech,
which flow with a bubbling copiousness bewildering to masculine ears.
In their case, the hands of the clock set the only limit to their
mutual enjoyment. The hour of departure brought the single
uncomfortable moments of the evening for Constance--that is, for the
first two evenings. Her apartment was a full mile distant, but her
friends' house was not more than two hundred yards from a line of
electric cars which passed within a block from her own door. Until
Gordon Perry, who came out of his library to say good-night, announced
his intention of accompanying her home, the idea had never occurred to
her that it was necessary, or that he would offer his escort. Yet such
are the inconsistencies of the feminine mind that the moment he did so
she became aware that, if he had not offered it, she would have felt a
trifle hurt. At the same time she did not wish him to accompany her.
It would be obviously a superfluous piece of politeness; there was no
risk of any kind in going home in the cars alone. She told him this in
a few words of clear remonstrance. But he smilingly put on his
overcoat, said it was a beautiful moonlight night, and assured her that
he was anxious for a walk before going to bed. The idea of his walking
only made the situation worse. Constance turned to his mother for
support, but Mrs. Perry cordially seconded his assertion that it would
do him good, so there was no escape from acceptance. The thought of
having dragged a busy man--and her employer--out of his house at night
disturbed her equinamity all the way home, so that although she
delighted in having him as a companion in the exhilarating autumn air,
under a glorious moon, she determined to prevent its recurrence. Yet,
as she approached her destination, the fear of seeming ungracious
supervened, and she had almost decided to postpone her protest until
the next time, when he unwittingly gave her an opportunity to speak by
remarking that he hoped that this was only one of many evenings which
she would spend with them during the winter. "You must know," he
added, "that my mother has taken a great fancy to you, and that it will
not suit her at all if you are niggardly in your visits."
Constance smiled acquiescingly. "I love your mother," she said, "and
it will be a pleasure to me to come as often as she wishes." At the
same instant she said to herself, "Now for it!" Whereupon she began
sturdily, "Only, Mr. Perry----"
Why did she pause? She was at a loss to know. It was the reverse of
her custom to begin a sentence and leave it dangling in this unfinished
manner. She accused herself of being a goose, and, simultaneously she
took a new breath to go on, only to be met by her companion's blithe
sally:
"Only what, Mrs. Stuart?" She could see that his eyes were laughing.
Did he divine what was choking her?
"Only this: if I come to your mother, you must let me go home by
myself. The electric cars are a stone's throw from your house, and run
close to mine, so there is not the slightest necessity for your
incommoding yourself." She paused, troubled. The last turn of the
sentence, though it expressed her meaning, had not the felicitous sound
she desired.
"I came because I knew it would give me pleasure," he answered,
quickly, still with a laughing light in his eyes, under which she let
her own fall quite unnecessarily, as it seemed to her. She was
provoked with herself. The dialogue had acquired the aspect of social
give and take, which was entirely remote from her intention.
"I have enjoyed it, too." She felt that this was the least she could
say. "But there is no need; besides, Mr. Perry, you are my employer,
and--and--" (she was halting again, but she bit her lip and plunged
forward, seeking only to make herself clear) "that does make a
difference--it should make a difference. If I were--if I were not your
stenographer, I should probably go home in a carriage, but I can't
afford one, and--and the cars are perfectly safe and comfortable. I am
used to looking after myself."
Her cheeks were burning. She had said what she meant to say, but it
sounded crude and almost harsh. She wondered now why it had seemed
necessary to her to make such a pother. As no immediate answer came
from Mr. Perry, she stole a glance at his face. It had grown almost
grave, and there was a different light in his eyes--a curious
expression which puzzled her. "I hope you understand," she said, "and
that I do not seem ungracious."
"I understand perfectly. I was admiring your sense--your sanity. Such
things do make a difference--must make a difference, so long as human
nature is constituted as it is; but every woman has not the hardihood
to accept the limitations of her social lot. As you say, you are used
to looking after yourself. I should not have been guilty of a breach
of manners, had I allowed you to go home in a car as you came--put you
into one, perhaps, at the street corner, if I were not occupied. That
would have been the natural course under all the circumstances,
although it might have been equally natural to treat another woman with
more ceremony. I came with you to-night because it gave me pleasure,
as I told you, and because I wished you to understand that the
relations between us are not those of employer and employee, but social
in every sense. You are my mother's friend and mine."
Constance's nerves tingled pleasantly at the apostrophe. "You are very
good. You have always been kindness itself to me. I have felt that
you both were my friends." She put out her hand shyly and gratefully
to bid him good-night, and at the same time to indicate the warmth in
her heart. "But now that I do understand," she added, "you must be
sensible, too, and realize that I do not need an escort." She was
rather appalled by her own boldness. His plea had only strengthened
her feeling that his politeness was superfluous.
"Do you forbid it?" he asked, with an inflection of gayety.
She could not help smiling. "I cannot do that, you know. But if you
wish to make me feel entirely at home, you will limit yourself at most
to seeing me safely on a car at your street corner." She felt that she
had touched firmer ground--that she was making her claim as a friend of
the family, not being forced against her will into the pose of a
coquette.
"A compromise!" he ejaculated. "And what a one-sided one."
"Life is made up of compromises, is it not? I thought I was being very
generous."
There was a gentle, plaintive cadence to her words which both charmed
his ear and touched his sensibilities. Was she about to strike her
flag in the last ditch out of sheer weariness at his bravado?
"My only wish would be to please you," he said with sudden earnestness.
Constance looked at him wonderingly, a little appalled at the change in
his manner and speech. What had called forth their intensity? She
became conscious that the blood was rising to her cheeks again, and
that she had lost her composure a second time. For an instant Gordon
gazed at her eagerly, as though he enjoyed her bewilderment, then with
a return of gayety, he exclaimed:
"But I promise nothing--nothing."
He raised his hat and Constance, who had already entered the vestibule
of her apartment-house, stood irresolute before ascending the stairs as
one in a trance. She was displeased with herself; for the first time
in her life it had seemed to her that her tongue and her wits were not
under the control of her will. Presently she reflected that she might
be working too hard and was run down, which on the whole, was
comforting, until she looked in her mirror and saw there the refutation
of this theory in her own hue of health. No, it could not be this, for
there was no blinking the fact that she had improved notably in her
appearance of late, which was comforting in a different way. She was
so struck by the fact that she stood for a moment surveying her face
and figure with contemplative surprise. But why had Mr. Perry been so
queer? She asked herself that question more than once before she fell
asleep, and in the morning ascribed it to her own social inaptness.
The next occasion when she spent the evening with Mrs. Perry was a
fortnight later. When she was ready to go home Gordon put on his
overcoat without a word and confronted her tantalizingly. She was
conscious of a little disappointment, for, in spite of his declaration
of independence, she had believed that he would not persist, but as he
opened the front door she heard the welcome words:
"To-night I am going to comply with your wish by putting you on a car
at the next corner."
"Thank you, very much." She forebore to add what was in her mind, that
it was the only sensible way. But her little triumph gave elasticity
to her steps.
For the first few moments the night seemed to set a seal upon his lips
as he walked beside her, so that his response had the effect of being
pondered. "My desire is to please you. But I shall reserve the right
of pleasing myself now and then as I did the other day."
"It pleased me, too," Constance said, amiably. "What I feared was that
it might become a custom--an unnecessary burden."
Gordon signalled an approaching car. "A burden? Mrs. Stuart, the
burden of walking home by moonlight with the wrong woman is one which
men generally manage to shift."
Constance laughed. "Perhaps I should have thought of that. But now
you will be protected at all events."
From her seat in the electric car she beheld him standing at the street
corner until his figure was lost in the shadows of the night. She felt
complacent. She had gained her point, and since it was on terms need
she feel otherwise than happy at the prospect of having him sometimes
as a companion on her journeys home? The more she could see of him
rightfully, without encroaching on his time, surely the better for her.
The discretion rested with him, not with her; she was simply the
fortunate beneficiary.
So it came to pass that once in three or four times Gordon would
exercise his privilege; and as another year slipped away and the spring
brought milder nights and more inviting sidewalks, the occasions became
more frequent, so that before either seemed to be aware of it, the
custom of riding was more honored in the breach than the observance,
and this without further discussion. They would simply start as though
she were to take an electric car, and before reaching the corner he
would casually interrupt their discourse to say, "It is a fine night;
shall we walk?" to which Constance would reply, "If you like." After a
while even this formula was dispensed with, and she was ready to take
for granted that they both preferred the exercise. One day he asked
permission to accompany her and her children on one of their Sunday
afternoon strolls into the country, a proposal which startled her, but
which she had no obvious excuse for refusing. On their return home
from the excursion Henrietta and little Emil were so enthusiastic over
this addition to the party that she felt reluctant on their account to
prevent its repetition. So the experience was renewed every now and
then, and, since he seemed to enjoy it, she accepted it as one of the
pleasures which Providence had thrown in her way.
Intimacy naturally resulted from this increasing association. It was a
constant comfort to Constance that Mr. Perry was such a natural person;
that he obviously liked her for herself, but did not affect to ignore
or gloss over the fact that her life was circumscribed and straitened
by her necessities; that, while assuming that she was interested in and
able to appreciate the finer aspirations and concerns of existence, he
let her perceive that he understood her predicament. Consequently she
felt at liberty and encouraged to speak to him from time to time on the
subject nearest her heart--the advancement of her children--and to ask
advice in relation thereto.
On one of their evenings--a moonlight night, which rivalled in beauty
that when he had first accompanied her--she had been consulting him as
to the conditions of a free art school recently started in the new Art
Museum, having little Emil in mind. After a short silence she suddenly
said, "I admire your mother greatly, as you know. But sometimes I am
doubtful whether she does not discourage me even more than she gives me
hope; her example, I mean. She brought you up. She was almost as
friendless as I. I dare say she did not have so many friends.
Yet--yet you are you. She managed to give you everything."
"God bless her, yes, brave heart that she is."
"But----"
He cut her pensive conjunctive short. "I can guess what you are going
to say. Excuse me; go on."
"I cannot give my children everything. But everything, then, would not
be everything now."
"I divined your thought." The sympathy radiating from his sturdy tone
brought a pleasant light to her eyes.
"Yet you are you," she reasserted.
He laughed. "Logician and flatterer! But you are right. My mother
would have had a far harder struggle had she begun to-day. She might
not have been able to give me everything, for everything then was not
everything now, as you have said."
"Yet you have everything," she persisted, doughtily.
"Even if that were true, it would not signify. You are facing a
condition, not a theory. Flour and sugar and standard oil may be
cheaper to-day, but the demands of civilization on the individual are
so much greater--of civilization everywhere, but especially in this
country, where the growth of prosperity has been so prodigious and the
stress of competition has become so fierce."
"Oh, yes; oh, yes. You understand," she said, eagerly. "There are so
many things which I should like to give my children which I
cannot--which I know are beyond my reach, but which would be of
infinite service to them in the struggle to make the most of life. You
spoke to me once of the limitation of my social lot. That is nothing.
What is hard for a mother to bear is the consciousness that her
children will fall short of what she would wish them to become because
she has not the power to secure for them the best. Yet it must be
borne, and borne bravely."
"Yes, it is lamentably hard. The chief blot on the triumph of
individualism--on the American principle of the development of self--is
that the choicest privileges of civilization should hang beyond the
reach of those who are handicapped merely because they are handicapped.
The destruction of the poor is their poverty, as my old school-master
used to state, though I didn't know then what he meant. And it must be
borne, as you say. Even here, where everything is possible to the
individual, renunciation still stares the majority in the face as the
inexorable virtue."
"Surely," she answered, with simple pathos. "Thank you for
understanding me. I knew you would. If I struggle, it is because I am
so ambitious for my children to rise. I would not have them remain
mere hewers of wood and drawers of water--one of the majority you speak
of--as I have been."
He turned his face toward her. "You are far more than that, you are a
sweet woman. You must not underestimate character in your recognition
of the power of things. You can give your children that, and it is no
cant to say that character remains everlastingly the backbone of human
progress."
"Things!" she echoed, ignoring apparently both the tribute and the
consolation proffered. "That is the word." She hugged her thought in
silence for a moment as though fascinated. "When I was a girl there
were no things to speak of; now--" she paused and sighed; evidently the
vision which her spirit entertained disconcerted her powers of speech.
"It is not that I wish my children to be rich--merely rich, Mr. Perry.
You know that. It is that I wish them to be able to appreciate, to
feel, to enjoy what is best in life. You spoke of the power of
character just now. There is Mrs. Randolph Wilson. She has all the
virtues of plain character and so much more besides. Compare her with
a woman like me."
"Mrs. Randolph Wilson!" His tone revealed his surprise at the
antithesis. "I see. I see," he repeated, interested by the
completeness of the contrast.
"I owe so much to her," Constance murmured. "Before I knew her my
outlook was so narrow and colorless. She has taught me to enrich my
life, poor as it still is."
"She is a fine woman. And yet, in my opinion, you need not fear
comparison with Mrs. Wilson."
"Oh, Mr. Perry!" She stopped short for an instant in recoil. The
protesting astonishment of her exclamation showed him not only that he
had violated a temple by his words, but that, as a consequence, she
believed him insincere, which in her eyes would be a more grievous
fault.
"It is quite true," he said with decision. "You are very different;
but it is quite true. Your outlook was narrow, perhaps, but it was
clear and straight."
"Oh, no. You do not know her, then, nor me. I tried to see clearly
according to my lights, but that is just it--my lights were defective,
and I saw only half the truth until she revealed it to me."
"Mrs. Wilson has had great opportunities."
"Yes, indeed. And she has taken advantage of them. Great
opportunities!" she repeated with an exultant sigh. "They are what I
had in mind a few minutes ago; not for myself, you know, but for my
children. I envy--yes, I envy opportunities for them." Her voice had
a quiver as though she were daring a confession to the sphinx-like
stars.
She had changed the emphasis of the dialogue, but Gordon pursued his
tenor. "Her daughter has had every opportunity, yet her mother can
scarcely regard her with pride."
"I barely know Mrs. Waldo. It was just before her wedding that her
mother was so kind to to me. I saw her once or twice at the house, but
only for a moment."
"At least she has made a mess of her marriage."