As she reached the landing upon which her own apartment opened,
Constance noticed that there was a light in Loretta Davis's room.
Loretta was now a full-fledged nurse. That is, she had completed her
course at the hospital, and was taking cases of her own. She had
already obtained two or three through the patronage of Mrs. Wilson, but
she happened to be out of work at the moment. It occurred to Constance
that she would impart her information to her neighbor. Loretta was
deeply interested in everything which concerned their benefactress.
Loretta had seen what was in the newspapers, and, since it was true,
why should not she know? This was a plausible excuse for gratifying
that strong desire to share her knowledge which assails every woman who
has something to tell. Had it been a real secret, Constance would have
been adamant. As it was, she did not appreciate until too late that
this was just the sort of subject which she and Loretta could not
discuss sympathetically. She was sorry for her; she did her best to
befriend and encourage her, and tried to like her; but though they got
on pleasantly, their point of view was apt to be radically different.
Loretta opened the door. "Oh, it's you, Constance. I'd made up my
mind that someone had sent for me."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Loretta. But I've something to tell
you--something you'll be distressed to hear. What you read in the
newspaper about Mrs. Wilson's daughter--the Waldos--is true."
Then she repeated briefly what she knew, omitting reference to Mrs.
Wilson's visit to the office. Loretta listened with parted lips and an
expression in her usually matter-of-fact face curiously compounded of
solicitude and knowingness, as though commiseration and the glamor of
the scandal were contending forces.
"I knew it was true; the newspapers wouldn't have printed it unless
there'd been something in it. My! but she'll feel bad, won't she?"
"It will wound her terribly."
"How did your boss find out?"
Constance winced. Somehow the epithet jarred worse than usual, and she
felt that she could not stand it. The experiences of the evening were
on her nerves, though sympathy for Mrs. Wilson had thrust her personal
emotions to the back of her mind for more leisurely inspection.
"You mustn't call him that, Loretta. It doesn't express him at all."
Loretta looked surprised and laughed. "What's the matter? He is your
boss, isn't he?" she asserted. "Oh, well--your employer, Mr. Gordon
Perry, Esq., counsellor-at-law, if that'll suit you. My! but you're
getting red."
Constance was annoyed with herself for having protested. Indeed, she
was biting her tongue for having brought on the interview. Now that
she had told the facts she shrank from further discussion. Yet it was
patent that Loretta had every intention of discussing the episode with
her.
"There's no doubt about the truth of the matter, unfortunately," she
said, by way of answer to the original question.
Loretta's large eyes began to rove. Then they suddenly fixed Constance
with the gleam of a transporting idea.
"I'm going to see her, right off--to-morrow, I mean," she added, noting
the swift, barometric sign of disapproval which her words evoked,
though it was no more than a contraction of the eyelids. But,
suspicious as she was, she assumed that the only criticism had been
that she was going forthwith.
From the moment Gordon Perry had spoken, Constance had been yearning to
hasten to Mrs. Wilson's side and offer the sympathy which she felt.
This had been her first impulse too, but a moment's reflection had
proved to her that to do so was out of the question; that it would be
an intrusion--a violation of that subtle code of nicety which governed
her benefactress's life. Mrs. Wilson was the last woman to betray to
the every-day world that she was sorely wounded. Was not endurance of
suffering without plaint and with an unruffled countenance one of the
tenets of her friend's æsthetic creed? So what right had a person like
herself to invade her privacy? No, she must remain dumb until Mrs.
Wilson gave her the opportunity to speak or publicity offered an excuse
for flowers or some token of affection. Thus she had reasoned, and
hence her involuntary challenge to Loretta's confident announcement.
"She'll expect me to be sorry for her, and I am," pursued Loretta,
complacent over her project. "I'll ask her all about it. Won't it
make a stir in the newspapers! There'll be a new picture of her,
sure." Thus reminded, she opened a table drawer and produced a large
scrap-book, which she exhibited to Constance with an air of
satisfaction. It was made up of newspaper illustrations and clippings
relative to the object of adoration--pictures of Mrs. Wilson in a
variety of poses, of her house, of her equipages, and of everything
which the reportorial artist had been able to reproduce; also scores of
allusions to her in print culled from the social columns. It was a
current, but a thorough collection, for Loretta had purchased back
issues in order to possess the newspaper features of the wedding
ceremonies. It was to these she now turned, staying her hand at a page
where the bride and her mother looked forth, ranged side by side in
festal attire. Loretta surveyed them contemplatively. "I never laid
eyes on the daughter. They're not much alike, are they? Perhaps
she'll be at home when I go. I'd give anything to see her."
The scrap-book was not new to Constance, but it had been considerably
amplified since she had seen it last. She had never been able to
understand why Loretta had undertaken or prized it. Nevertheless, it
was a symptom of hero-worship in line with collections of the
photographs of adored actors by matinee girls, and was not to be
despised too heartily if she wished to remain sympathetic. But just
now Constance's mind was otherwise busy. She, too, adored Mrs. Wilson,
and she painfully depicted to herself the annoyance which this visit
with its threatened frankness would cause her divinity.
"Don't you think, Loretta, that it would be better to wait a little
before you call?" she said, in gentle appeal.
"Better? Why better?"
"More appropriate. Mrs. Wilson will not feel like discussing the
matter just yet. If her daughter is with her, so much the more reason.
She must be very unhappy, and, if either of us were to visit her now to
offer sympathy, I'm sure she would regard it as an intrusion."
Loretta bridled. "If I were unhappy, she'd come to see me. If my baby
were to die, wouldn't she come gliding down here to make me feel
resigned? Two can play at that game. She's been nice to me; why
shouldn't I let her know that I'm sorry for her? Besides," she added,
with a shrug of her shoulders and a bold look, "I'd like to see how
she'd behave--how she'd take it. I want to see the house again, too."
Appalled as Constance was, she said to herself that she must not let
the shock of this lack of taste palsy her own effectiveness. To
upbraid Loretta would only confirm her in her intention.
"Let us hope that there will be no publicity; that the matter will be
kept very quiet. If Mrs. Wilson is desirous of concealing it, surely
she would not be pleased to know that we had heard of it. I told you
because I know how fond you are of her, and that her secret would be
safe in your hands."
"Publicity? Of course there'll be publicity." The suggestion of
concealment was obviously distasteful to her. "Why, I read it to you
in the newspaper. The reporters are certain to get wind of it in a few
days, see if they don't. And when they do, look out for head-lines and
half-page illustrations. The public have a right to know what's going
on, haven't they?" she asked in the assertive tone of one vindicating a
vested privilege.
"Not things of this kind--private concerns, surely." Constance sighed,
realizing that it was only too probable that the newspapers, alert as
bloodhounds for the trail of a new social scandal, would come upon this
shortly and blazon it to the world.
"Private concerns! Suppose a multi-millionaire's daughter tires of her
husband and runs away to South Dakota to get a divorce as quick as the
law allows, do you call that a private concern? I guess not,
Constance. The public--meaning such as you and me--naturally take an
interest, and object to its being hushed up. The multi-millionaires
have the money; we have the newspapers. We don't get any too much
that's interesting in our lives."
"We don't know any of the facts; we mustn't prejudge Mrs. Waldo until
we hear what they are," said Constance, ignoring the philosophy of this
tirade in her dismay at the assumption.
"That's why I'm going to see her. I want to find out the facts," said
Loretta, triumphantly. "I was only supposing. Like as not her
daughter has been ill-treated, and is running away because she has to.
If so, there's not much to worry about. She'll get her divorce, and be
able to marry again as soon as she has the chance."
"But even so, Loretta, her mother must necessarily regard it as a
family misfortune, which she would not like to talk about. As to
marrying again, that would only make the matter worse for Mrs. Wilson."
"Worse? Why worse?"
"It would distress her, I'm certain. It would be contrary to her ideas
of the eternal fitness of things."
Constance recognized her own sententiousness, which was due to the
perception that she had allowed herself to speak by the card without
sufficient authority. She had never discussed the subject or anything
analogous to it with Mrs. Wilson, and to put arguments in her mouth
would be surely a liberty. Yet her heart told her that the conclusion
which she had uttered, both in its substance and phraseology, stated
correctly Mrs. Wilson's position. What suddenly interested her was the
wonder whether it expressed her own convictions.
Loretta lost no time in bringing this to an issue. "Supposing Mrs.
Waldo has been miserable and without fault, do you mean to tell me
she'd object to her daughter marrying the right man if he came along?
Why, wouldn't you be glad, after all you've been through, if the right
person came along--some decent man with a little money who could look
after your children?"
"I?" To the ears of Constance the sound of her own voice resembled a
wail. Why should Loretta be so unfeeling as to make her personal
experiences the test of such a text?
"Yes, you."
Constance gathered her forces for a display of proper dignity. She
wished to be kind still, but conclusive.
"Mine is not a case at all in point. I am not divorced from my
husband."
Loretta plainly regarded this argument as flimsy, for she snapped her
fingers. "Pooh!" she said. "You could get a divorce any day you
like." She stared at Constance a moment, then rose from her chair,
planted her palms on the table and bent forward by way of emphasis with
an air both determined and a little diabolical.
"Supposing your--your employer, Gordon Perry, Esq., counsellor-at-law,
was to make you an offer of his hand and heart to-morrow, do you mean
to tell me, Constance Stuart, that you wouldn't snap him up in a jiffy?"
"It isn't a supposable case," replied poor Constance. One can slam a
door in an intruder's face; there is no such buffer for impertinent
speeches.
"But supposing costs nothing. Of course it's supposable, why not?
You're the sort of woman who's twice as good looking now that you've
filled out as you were at nineteen. You know well enough you're
growing handsomer and more fetching every day. Only a blind man
couldn't see that."
"That would have nothing to do with it even if it were true."
"You may bet a man like that wouldn't marry you if you were plain. But
just supposing? I do believe you're getting red again."
The victim, conscious of the fact, sought relief in merriment. She
jumped at the impulse to treat this indelicate effrontery jocosely as
the only possible attitude. "It's because you're so absurd, Loretta.
But since you seem to wish an answer to your ridiculous question----"
The sharp note of the electric bell broke in upon the slight pause
which she made to weigh her words.
"Someone for me!" cried Loretta, and she ran to the tube. But she
looked over her shoulder to say "Continued in our next! The offer is
good for a week."
Constance felt the inclination to throw the scrapbook at her head. The
next moment she was vexed with herself for allowing her equanimity to
be disturbed, and began to rehabilitate the interrupted sentence. What
had she been going to say? It dawned upon her that, curiously enough,
she had not formulated the conclusion. Meantime Loretta was going
through the functions of whistling down the tube and receiving the
message. The surprising import of her next words roused Constance from
a brown study.
"Talk of the devil! It's a messenger from Mr. Perry's. Somebody's ill
and I'm wanted. The boy's coming up."
Somebody ill! It must be Mrs. Perry. The few moments of suspense
which elapsed before the district messenger-boy arrived seemed
interminable to Constance. Loretta had opened the door and the tramp
of his ascent sounded leisurely. When he appeared he thrust his hand
into his breast-pocket and produced a letter.
"It's for Mrs. Stuart," he said, guardedly.
"I'm Mrs. Stuart," said Constance.
"I was told to ring at your bell first, and if you was asleep or didn't
answer the tube to try the other lady."
Constance read the brief contents of the note with perturbation. It
was from Mr. Perry, informing her that on his return home he had found
his mother stricken with paralysis, that the doctor was in attendance,
and that a trained nurse was necessary. He had thought of Loretta;
would Constance send her if disengaged?
"Oh, Loretta, dear Mrs. Perry is seriously ill--a stroke of paralysis.
Mr. Perry asks you to come to her at once."
"I'll be ready to start in a few minutes," answered Loretta, briskly.
"We will both go," added Constance, as though to herself. "There may
be something I can do." She turned to the messenger: "Return as
quickly as you can, and tell the gentleman that we--wait a moment."
She tore the sheet of note-paper apart and seating herself at the table
wrote hastily on the blank half in pencil: "Loretta will come at once,
and I shall accompany her. My heart grieves for you, my dear friend."
She folded it and bent down one corner. "Give him this," she said,
"and please make haste."
At this time in Benham the doctrine that sewage must be diverted from
the sources of water supply used for drinking purposes was firmly
established, and the doctrine that not every woman able to read and
write is qualified to teach school was being gradually, if grudgingly,
admitted to be not altogether un-American. So swift had been the
change of attitude toward special knowledge that there had even been a
revolution in regard to the theory advocated by the original board of
trustees of the Silas S. Parsons Free Hospital that every woman is a
born nurse, and is competent, after a fortnight's training at the
utmost, to take charge of the sickest patients. Those familiar with
affairs in Benham will recall that the original ruling spirit of that
institution was Mrs. Selma Lyons, wife of United States Senator Lyons.
She disapproved of special training and was a strong champion of the
principle that an American woman with aspirations is more likely to be
fettered than helped by conventional standards, and that individuality
should be given free play in order to attain brilliant results. Yet
though this principle was reverenced at first in the employment of
nurses for the hospital, progress, that stern derider even of the
American woman, gradually set it at naught during the period when Mrs.
Lyons was resident in Washington and unable to give that close personal
attention to the affairs of the institution which she desired. It so
happened that after her husband's defeat at the end of his first term
through the hostility of Horace Elton, one of the financial magnates of
that section of the country, who harbored a grudge against him for
alleged duplicity when Governor, the President of the United States
threw a sop to the defeated candidate in the form of the Spanish
mission. Selma, who was still engaged in the effort to chastise her
enemies and to reëstablish what she regarded as true American social
principles, was sorry to leave Washington, but she found some
consolation in the thought of introducing American ethical standards at
a foreign court, especially of dealing a death-blow to bull-fights by
her personal influence. She was obliged, however, to relax
considerably her vigilance in regard to the hospital; even, to consent
to an enlargement of the board of trustees. This in its new form
presently adopted what the members regarded as modern methods. Mrs.
Wilson had been one of the recent additions to the body. Yet, under
her regimen, though every applicant for a nurse's diploma was obliged
to serve a rigorous apprenticeship of two years at the hospital, the
idea of scrutinizing the antecedents and previous education of the
young women offering themselves was still novel. Selma would have
regarded an inquiry of this kind as aristocratic and hostile to the
free development of the individual. Now--but a few years later--such a
system of scrutiny is in vogue in Benham; but at the date of Loretta
Davis's admittance to the Silas S. Parsons Free Hospital, though it
doubtless occurred to Mrs. Wilson that her candidate was not ideal, she
had not demurred. On the contrary, she had welcomed the opportunity of
giving the girl a chance to redeem herself in this field of usefulness.
Similarly, though Constance might not have picked out her neighbor for
this particular service, she felt only thankfulness that Loretta was
disengaged, and that they were able to betake themselves at once to
Mrs. Perry's bedside. The old dame employed to look after the baby in
Loretta's absence was still available. Constance waked her, and
requested her to keep an eye on her own children in case she were away
all night. After their arrival at their destination, however, it was
soon clear to Constance that there was nothing she could do. Mrs.
Perry had not regained consciousness, and the physician in attendance
was non-committal as to the outcome. So Gordon informed them; briefly,
and Constance was left in the library to her own reflections while he
showed Loretta to her post. She was not sorry that she had come; but
much as she wished to remain, plainly she would be in the way. Loretta
was trained, and was the proper person to be in the sick-room. Yet she
would not go until Mr. Perry returned. He might have instructions for
the morrow concerning the changes in his plans consequent upon his
mother's illness. Besides, she wished to express more specifically her
desire to be of any possible service.
Gordon returned before long. He put out his hand as though they had
not met already. "I thank you heartily for your message of sympathy,"
he said.
"There is no change?"
"None. It is the beginning of the end."
"Yet----"
"Oh, yes, she may recover, thanks to the tireless methods of modern
science; but what would the only possible recovery mean to a woman like
her? Merely durance vile. No--one's natural impulse, of course, is to
hold on to one we love--to delay the parting at any price. The doctors
must have their way. But when I allow myself to think, I know it would
be best for her not to wake again. She would prefer it. You know
that."
"Yes, she would prefer it," Constance murmured. "I must not keep you
from her," she added.
"Please stay a little. I can do nothing. It hurts me to see her so
unlike herself, though the doctor says she is not suffering." He
glanced at the clock apprehensively. "It is getting late, I know; but
you must not go quite yet. I will telephone for a carriage presently.
I must give you directions as to what to do at the office to-morrow in
case I should not be there." Then, as though he divined what was in
her thoughts, he said, "I was glad when I knew you were coming. I said
to myself, 'if my mother should recover consciousness, the sight of
Constance at her bedside would do her more good than any medicine.'"
He had never before employed her Christian name in her presence. The
use of it now seemed to her to put a seal upon the bond of their
friendship. He was become, indeed, a wise older brother whom it
delighted her to serve.
"But you will come to-morrow?" he said.
"If I may. I should like to be near her. I hate to feel helpless
where she is concerned."
"We are both helpless. What a mother she has been to me! I owe
everything to her. Truth has been her divinity, truth--truth--and she
has had the courage to live up to what she believed." He paused.
Evidently his spirit quailed before the impending future. "And now she
is slipping away from me. The common destiny. But she is my mother.
I wonder where she is going--what is to become of all that energy and
clear-headedness. Modern science tells us that force never perishes.
It is as difficult to imagine my mother's individuality at an end as it
is to convince one's self in the presence of death that the grave is
not master." He sighed and turned to hide a tear.
"I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air,
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care."
The lines rose to Constance's lips and she repeated them. They were
not symbolic of her church; rather they were a text from the universal
hope of mankind. She felt instinctively that any more orthodox
definition would have jarred upon him.
"Thank you," he said, softly. "It is so easy in this age of
conscientious investigation to reject everything which will not bear
the test of human reason. Death is no greater a mystery than birth.
We know not whence we came, nor whither we go. But when the world
ceases to believe that there is some answer to it all worthy of our
aspirations, it will be time for this planet to become a frozen pole
again. You women are apt to bear that in mind more faithfully than
we," he added, lifting his eyes to hers. "Come," he said, "we must not
forget to-morrow; you have work to do. I must not be selfish."
A few minutes later he put her in a carriage. In the morning
Constance, imbued with his speech, half hoped that she might hear that
Mrs. Perry was dead. But Gordon appeared at the office about ten
o'clock, announcing that the night had brought a change for the better.
His mother had smiled at him recognizingly, and faintly pressed his
hand. Though she was unable to speak, the doctor had encouraged him to
believe that she would do so. Constance perceived that he was in
better spirits, showing that, despite his words, he was rejoicing that
the parting had been delayed.
The improvement in Mrs. Perry's condition continued for nearly three
weeks. One side of her body was completely paralyzed, but she regained
presently the power to utter a few occasional words, though her
enunciation was difficult to understand. At the end of the fourth day
from her seizure she was permitted to see Constance for a few minutes.
Soon after daily visits increasing gradually in length were sanctioned,
and Constance, after her duties at the office were over, was enabled to
spend an hour or more at the bedside of her friend before returning to
her own home. This was an agreeable arrangement to Loretta, for it
gave that young woman a breathing spell--the opportunity to take the
fresh air or to do whatever she pleased. Mrs. Perry evidently
delighted in Constance's attendance. She listened to reading with
satisfaction for a time, but later it seemed to suit her better to lie
quietly, her unmaimed hand resting in or near one of Constance's, while
the latter now and then broke the twilight silence by recounting the
news of the day. "I like the sound of your voice, my dear," she said
to Constance. "It is refreshing and musical as a brook." Occasionally
Gordon joined them, but he would never permit Constance to relinquish
her seat beside the bed in his favor.
"My turn comes later," he said. "I tuck my mother up for the night."
Mrs. Perry seemed to enjoy especially the days when they were there
together. She would turn her eyes from one to the other as though she
delighted in them equally. But only once did she make any reference to
what may have been in her thoughts concerning their joint presence. It
was in the third week of her illness, and what she said was spoken low
to Constance, though evidently intended to be audible to them both.
"You must take good care of him, dear, when I am gone."
It was one of her best days as regards articulation, so there was no
room for misunderstanding. The words were harmless enough and
Constance took them in the only sense in which they were applicable.
"I shall stay with him as long as he will keep me, you may rely on
that, Mrs. Perry," she responded, brightly.
A pleasant smile came over the old lady's face and she looked in the
direction of her son. Her mouth twitched. "Do you hear what she says,
Gordon?" There was a humorous twinkle in her voice, which doubtless
was not lost on him. His back was to the light, so that he had the
advantage of shadow to cover his mental processes.
"I regard it as impossible that Constance and I should ever drift
apart," he said.
His sphinx-like reply seemed to be reassuring to the invalid. She lay
like one serenely satisfied, and did not pursue the subject further.
As for Constance, she noticed the use by Mr. Perry of her Christian
name again, but it seemed to her only fitting and friendly. She did
not need his assurance to feel that they were not likely to drift
apart, but it was delightful to hear it from his lips.
When Mrs. Perry's seeming convalescence had reached a stage at which
the doctor was on the point of sending her out to drive, a second
attack of her malady occurred and brought the end. She became
unconscious at once, and passed away within a few hours. On the
afternoon after the funeral Constance returned to the house with
Loretta in order that the latter might collect and bring away her
belongings. Gordon was closeted in his library alone with his sorrow,
and the two women moving noiselessly through the silent house made but
a brief stay. While they were on their way to Lincoln Chambers a
newsboy entered the street-car crying the evening papers. Loretta
having bought one made an ejaculation. Absorbed in what she had
discovered, she paid no heed at first to Constance's glance of
interrogation, but read with an avidity which seemed breathless. Then
she thrust the sheet under her companion's eyes, and pointing to a
column bristling with large headlines, exclaimed:
"Here it is at last; a full account of the divorce proceedings with
their pictures, and a picture of her. It's a worse affair than anyone
imagined. It says Paul Howard and his wife are mixed up in it, and
there's something about a pistol going off at Newport. I haven't read
it all yet. But look--look!"
Loretta's demeanor suggested not merely excitement, but a sort of
saturnine glee, so that Constance turned from the printed page toward
her as though seeking to fathom its cause, then back to the newspaper,
the capitals of which told their sensational story with flaring
offensiveness.
"I won't read it now, Loretta. I'll wait until we get home. What a
cruel shame it is that the press has got hold of it."
Loretta gave a questioning jerk to her shoulders. "I don't know about
that. I knew she wouldn't be able to hush it up. How could she expect
to? Besides--" She did not finish her sentence. Instead, she wagged
her head, as one in possession of a secret and grinned knowingly.
"I'll tell you something, some day. But not now--not now." Then she
reassumed control of the newspaper, saying, "Well, if you don't care to
read it, I do. There are three columns." She uttered the last words
as though she were announcing treasure-trove.
But the ellipsis had left no doubt as to her attitude, which led
Constance to remark on the spur of the moment, "Neither of us would
like to have our misfortunes paraded before the world. I know what it
means; how it cuts and stings."