the making of copy. Edna Willard was never one-half so attractive as
when absorbed in a thing which someone was showing her how to do. Her
hazel eyes would widen and glisten with the joy of comprehending; her
cheeks would flush a deeper pink with the coming of new light, her mouth
would part in a child-like way it had forgotten to outgrow, her head
would nod gleefully in token that she understood, and she had a way
of pulling at her wavy hair and making it more wavy than it had been
before. The man at the next table was a long time in explaining the
making of a dictionary. He spoke in low tones, often looking at the
figure of the man in the skull cap, who was sitting with his back to
them, looking over copy. Once she cried, excitedly: “Oh--I _see_!” and
he warned, “S--h!” explaining, “Let him think you got it all from him.
It will give you a better stand-in.” She nodded, appreciatively, and
felt very well acquainted with this kind man whose voice made her think
of something--called to something--she did not just know what.
After that she became so absorbed in lexicography that when the men
began putting away their things it was hard to realise that the morning
had gone. It was a new and difficult game, the evasion of the copyright
furnishing the stimulus of a hazard.
The man at the next table had been watching her with an amused
admiration. Her child-like absorption, the way every emotion from
perplexity to satisfaction expressed itself in the poise of her head and
the pucker of her face, took him back over years emotionally barren to
the time when he too had those easily stirred enthusiasms of youth. For
the man at the next table was far from young now. His mouth had never
quite parted with boyishness, but there was more white than black in his
hair, and the lines about his mouth told that time, as well as forces
more aging than time, had laid heavy hand upon him. But when he looked
at the girl and told her with a smile that it was time to stop work,
it was a smile and a voice to defy the most tell-tale face in all the
world.
During her luncheon, as she watched the strange people coming and going,
she did much wondering. She wondered why it was that so many of the men
at the dictionary place were very old men; she wondered if it would be a
good dictionary--one that would be used in the schools; she wondered if
Dr. Bunting had made a great deal of money, and most of all she wondered
about the man at the next table whose voice was like--like a dream which
she did not know that she had dreamed.
When she had returned to the straggling old building, had stumbled down
the narrow, dark hall and opened the door of the big bleak room, she saw
that the man at the next table was the only one who had returned from
luncheon. Something in his profile made her stand there very still. He
had not heard her come in, and he was looking straight ahead, eyes
half closed, mouth set--no unsurrendered boyishness there now. Wholly
unconsciously she took an impulsive step forward. But she stopped, for
she saw, and felt without really understanding, that it was not just
the moment's pain, but the revealed pain of years. Just then he began
to cough, and it seemed the cough, too, was more than of the moment. And
then he turned and saw her, and smiled, and the smile changed all.
As the afternoon wore on the man stopped working and turning a little in
his chair sat there covertly watching the girl. She was just typically
girl. It was written that she had spent her days in the happy ways of
healthful girlhood. He supposed that a great many young fellows had
fallen in love with her--nice, clean young fellows, the kind she would
naturally meet. And then his eyes closed for a minute and he put up his
hand and brushed back his hair; there was weariness, weariness weary of
itself, in the gesture. He looked about the room and scanned the faces
of the men, most of them older than he, many of them men whose histories
were well known to him. They were the usual hangers on about newspaper
offices; men who, for one reason or other--age, dissipation, antiquated
methods--had been pitched over, men for whom such work as this came as
a godsend. They were the men of yesterday--men whom the world had rushed
past. She was the only one there, this girl who would probably sit here
beside him for many months, with whom the future had anything to do.
Youth!--Goodness!--Joy!--Hope!--strange things to bring to a place
like this. And as if their alienism disturbed him, he moved restlessly,
almost resentfully, bit his lips nervously, moistened them, and began
putting away his things.
As the girl was starting home along Dearborn Street a few minutes later,
she chanced to look in a window. She saw that it was a saloon, but
before she could turn away she saw a man with a white face--white with
the peculiar whiteness of a dark face, standing before the bar drinking
from a small glass. She stood still, arrested by a look such as she had
never seen before: a panting human soul sobbingly fluttering down into
something from which it had spent all its force in trying to rise.
When she recalled herself and passed on, a mist which she could neither
account for nor banish was dimming the clear hazel of her eyes.
The next day was a hard one at the dictionary place. She told herself
it was because the novelty of it was wearing away, because her fingers
ached, because it tired her back to sit in that horrid chair. She did
not admit of any connection between her flagging interest and the fact
that the place at the next table was vacant.
The following day he was still absent. She assumed that it was
nervousness occasioned by her queer surroundings made her look around
whenever she heard a step behind her. Where was he? Where had that look
carried him? If he were in trouble, was there no one to help him?
The third day she did an unpremeditated thing. The man in the skull cap
had been showing her something about the copy. As he was leaving, she
asked: “Is the man who sits at the next table coming back?”
“Oh yes,” he replied grimly, “he'll be back.”
“Because,” she went on, “if he wasn't, I thought I would take his
shears. These hurt my fingers.”
He made the exchange for her--and after that things went better.
He did return late the next morning. After he had taken his place
he looked over at her and smiled. He looked sick and shaken--as if
something that knew no mercy had taken hold of him and wrung body and
soul.
“You have been ill?” she asked, with timid solicitude.
“Oh no,” he replied, rather shortly.
He was quiet all that day, but the next day they talked about the work,
laughed together over funny definitions they found. She felt that he
could tell many interesting things about himself, if he cared to.
As the days went on he did tell some of those things--out of the way
places where he had worked, queer people whom he had known. It seemed
that words came to him as gifts, came freely, happily, pleased, perhaps,
to be borne by so sympathetic a voice. And there was another thing about
him. He seemed always to know just what she was trying to say; he never
missed the unexpressed. That made it easy to say things to him; there
seemed a certain at-homeness between his thought and hers. She accounted
for her interest in him by telling herself she had never known any one
like that before. Now Harold, the boy whom she knew best out at
the university, why one had to _say_ things to Harold to make him
understand! And Harold never left one wondering--wondering what he had
meant by that smile, what he had been going to say when he started to
say something and stopped, wondering what it was about his face that one
could not understand. Harold never could claim as his the hour after
he had left her, and was one ever close to anyone with whom one did not
spend some of the hours of absence? She began to see that hours spent
together when apart were the most intimate hours of all.
And as Harold did not make one wonder, so he did not make one worry.
Never in all her life had there been a lump in her throat when she
thought of Harold. There was often a lump in her throat when the man at
the next table was coughing.
One day, she had been there about two months, she said something to him
about it. It was hard; it seemed forcing one's way into a room that had
never been opened to one--there were several doors he kept closed.
“Mr. Clifford,” she turned to him impetuously as they were putting away
their things that night, “will you mind if I say something to you?”
He was covering his paste-pot. He looked up at her strangely. The
closed door seemed to open a little way. “I can't conceive of 'minding'
anything you might say to me, Miss Noah,”--he had called her Miss Noah
ever since she, by mistake, had one day called him Mr. Webster.
“You see,” she hurried on, very timid, now that the door had opened a
little, “you have been so good to me. Because you have been so good to
me it seems that I have some right to--to--”
His head was resting upon his hand, and he leaned a little closer as
though listening for something he wanted to hear.
“I had a cousin who had a cough like yours,”--brave now that she could
not go back--“and he went down to New Mexico and stayed for a year, and
when he came back--when he came back he was as well as any of us. It
seems so foolish not to”--her voice broke, now that it had so valiantly
carried it--“not to--”
He looked at her, and that was all. But she was never wholly the same
again after that look. It enveloped her being in a something which left
her richer--different. It was a look to light the dark place between two
human souls. It seemed for the moment that words would follow it, but
as if feeling their helplessness--perhaps needlessness--they sank back
unuttered, and at the last he got up, abruptly, and walked away.
One night, while waiting for the elevator, she heard two of the men
talking about him. When she went out on the street it was with head
high, cheeks hot. For nothing is so hard to hear as that which one has
half known, and evaded. One never denies so hotly as in denying to one's
self what one fears is true, and one never resents so bitterly as in
resenting that which one cannot say one has the right to resent.
That night she lay in her bed with wide open eyes, going over and over
the things they had said. “_Cure?_”--one of them had scoffed, after
telling how brilliant he had been before he “went to pieces”--“why all
the cures on earth couldn't help him! He can go just so far, and then
he can no more stop himself--oh, about as much as an ant could stop a
prairie fire!”
She finally turned over on her pillow and sobbed; and she wondered
why--wondered, yet knew.
But it resulted in the flowering of her tenderness for him. Interest
mounted to defiance. It ended in blind, passionate desire to “make it
up” to him. And again he was so different from Harold; Harold did not
impress himself upon one by upsetting all one's preconceived ideas.
She felt now that she understood better--understood the closed doors. He
was--she could think of no better word than sensitive.
And that is why, several mornings later, she very courageously--for
it did take courage--threw this little note over on his desk--they
had formed a habit of writing notes to each other, sometimes about the
words, sometimes about other things.
“IN-VI-TA-TION, _n._ That which Miss Noah extends to Mr. Webster for
Friday evening, December second, at the house where she lives--hasn't
she already told him where that is? It is the wish of Miss Noah to
present Mr. Webster to various other Miss Noahs, all of whom are
desirous of making his acquaintance.”
She was absurdly nervous at luncheon that day, and kept telling herself
with severity not to act like a high-school girl. He was late in
returning that noon, and though there seemed a new something in his
voice when he asked if he hadn't better sharpen her pencils, he said
nothing about her new definition of invitation. It was almost five
o'clock when he threw this over on her desk:
“AP-PRE-CI-A-TION, _n._ That sentiment inspired in Mr. Webster by the
kind invitation of Miss Noah for Friday evening.
“RE-GRET, _n._ That which Mr. Webster experiences because, for reasons
into which he cannot go in detail, it is impossible for him to accept
Miss Noah's invitation.
“RE-SENT-MENT, _n._ That which is inspired in Mr. Webster by the
insinuation that there are other Miss Noahs in the world.”
Then below he had written: “Three hours later. Miss Noah, the world is
queer. Some day you may find out--though I hope you never will--that it
is frequently the things we most want to do that we must leave undone.
Miss Noah, won't you go on bringing me as much of yourself as you can
to Dearborn Street, and try not to think much about my not being able
to know the Miss Noah of Hyde Park? And little Miss Noah--I thank you.
There aren't words enough in this old book of ours to tell you how
much--or why.”
That night he hurried away with never a joke about how many words she
had written that day. She did not look up as he stood there putting on
his coat.
It was spring now, and the dictionary staff had begun on W.
They had written of Joy, of Hope and Life and Love, and many other
things. Life seemed pressing just behind some of those definitions,
pressing the harder, perhaps, because it could not break through the
surface.
For it did not break through; it flooded just beneath.
How did she know that he cared for her? She could not possibly have
told. Perhaps the nearest to actual proof she could bring was that he
always saw that her overshoes were put in a warm place. And when one
came down to facts, the putting of a girl's rubbers near the radiator
did not necessarily mean love.
Perhaps then it was because there was no proof of it that she was most
sure. For some of the most sure things in the world are things which
cannot be proved.
It was only that they worked together and were friends; that they
laughed together over funny definitions they found, that he was kind to
her, and that they seemed remarkably close together.
That is as far as facts can take it.
And just there--it begins.
For the force which rushes beneath the facts of life, caring nothing for
conditions, not asking what one desires or what one thinks best, caring
as little about a past as about a future--save its own future--the force
which can laugh at man's institutions and batter over in one sweep what
he likes to call his wisdom, was sweeping them on. And because it could
get no other recognition it forced its way into the moments when he
asked her for an eraser, when she wanted to know how to spell a word.
He could not so much as ask her if she needed more copy-paper without
seeming to be lavishing upon her all the love of all the ages.
And so the winter had worn on, and there was really nothing whatever to
tell about it.
She was quiet this morning, and kept her head bent low over her work.
For she had estimated the number of pages there were between W and Z.
Soon they would be at Z;--and then? Then? Shyly she turned and looked
at him; he too was bent over his work. When she came in she had said
something about its being spring, and that there must be wild flowers in
the woods. Since then he had not looked up.
Suddenly it came to her--tenderly, hotly, fearfully yet bravely, that it
was she who must meet Z. She looked at him again, covertly. And she
felt that she understood. It was the lines in his face made it clearest.
Years, and things blacker, less easily surmounted than years--oh yes,
that too she faced fearlessly--were piled in between. She knew now that
it was she--not he--who could push them aside.
It was all very unmaidenly, of course; but maidenly is a word love and
life and desire may crowd from the page.
Perhaps she would not have thrown it after all--the little note she had
written--had it not been that when she went over for more copy-paper she
stood for a minute looking out the window. Even on Dearborn Street the
seductiveness of spring was in the air. Spring, and all that spring
meant, filled her.
Because, way beyond the voice of Dr. Bunting she heard the songs of
far-away birds, and because beneath the rumble of a printing press she
could get the babble of a brook, because Z was near and life was strong,
the woman vanquished the girl, and she threw this over to his desk:
“CHAFING-DISH, n. That out of which Miss Noah asks Mr. Webster to eat
his Sunday night lunch tomorrow. All the other Miss Noahs are going to
be away, and if Mr. Webster does not come, Miss Noah will be all alone.
Miss Noah does not like to be lonely.”
She ate no lunch that day; she only drank a cup of coffee and walked
around.
He did not come back that afternoon. It passed from one to two, from two
to three, and then very slowly from three to four, and still he had not
come.
He too was walking about. He had walked down to the lake and was
standing there looking out across it.
Why not?--he was saying to himself--fiercely, doggedly. Over and over
again--Well, _why_ not?
A hundred nights, alone in his room, he had gone over it. Had not life
used him hard enough to give him a little now?--longing had pleaded.
And now there was a new voice--more prevailing voice--the voice of her
happiness. His face softened to an almost maternal tenderness as he
listened to that voice.
Too worn to fight any longer, he gave himself up to it, and sat there
dreaming. They were dreams of joy rushing in after lonely years, dreams
of stepping into the sunlight after long days in fog and cold, dreams
of a woman before a fireplace--her arms about him, her cheer and her
tenderness, her comradeship and her passion--all his to take! Ah, dreams
which even thoughts must not touch--so wonderful and sacred they were.
A long time he sat there, dreaming dreams and seeing visions. The force
that rules the race was telling him that the one crime was the denial
of happiness--his happiness, her happiness; and when at last his fight
seemed but a puerile fight against forces worlds mightier than he, he
rose, and as one who sees a great light, started back toward Dearborn
Street.
On the way he began to cough. The coughing was violent, and he stepped
into a doorway to gain breath. And after he had gone in there he
realised that it was the building of Chicago's greatest newspaper.
He had been city editor of that paper once. Facts, the things he knew
about himself, talked to him then. There was no answer.
It left him weak and dizzy and crazy for a drink. He walked on slowly,
unsteadily, his white face set. For he had vowed that if it took the
last nerve in his body there should be no more of that until after they
had finished with Z. He knew himself too well to vow more. He was not
even sure of that.
He did not turn in where he wanted to go, but resistance took the last
bit of force that was in him. He was trembling like a sick man when he
stepped into the elevator.
She was just leaving. She was in the little cloak room putting on her
things. She was all alone in there.
He stepped in. He pushed the door shut, and stood there leaning against
it, looking at her, saying nothing.
“Oh--you are ill?” she gasped, and laid a frightened hand upon him.
The touch crazed him. All resistance gone, he swept her into his arms;
he held her fiercely, and between sobs kissed her again and again. He
could not let her go. He frightened her. He hurt her. And he did not
care--he did not know.
Then he held her off and looked at her. And as he looked into her eyes,
passion melted to tenderness. It was she now--not he; love--not
hunger. Holding her face in his two hands, looking at her as if getting
something to take away, his white lips murmured words too inarticulate
for her to hear. And then again he put his arms around her--all
differently. Reverently, sobbingly, he kissed her hair. And then he was
gone.
He did not come out that Sunday afternoon, but Harold dropped in
instead, and talked of some athletic affairs over at the university. She
wondered why she did not go crazy in listening to him, and yet she could
answer intelligently. It was queer--what one _could_ do.
They had come at last to Z. There would be no more work upon the
dictionary after that day. And it was raining--raining as in Chicago
alone it knows how to rain.
They wrote no notes to each other now. It had been different since that
day. They made small effort to cover their raw souls with the mantle of
commonplace words.
Both of them had tried to stay away that last day. But both were in
their usual places.
The day wore on eventlessly. Those men with whom she had worked, the
men of yesterday, who had been kind to her, came up at various times for
little farewell chats. The man in the skull cap told her that she had
done excellent work. She was surprised at the ease with which she could
make decent reply, thinking again that it was queer--what one could do.
He was moving. She saw him lay some sheets of yellow paper on the desk
in front. He had finished with his “take.” There would not be another to
give him. He would go now.
He came back to his desk. She could hear him putting away his things.
And then for a long time there was no sound. She knew that he was just
sitting there in his chair.
Then she heard him get up. She heard him push his chair up to the table,
and then for a minute he stood there. She wanted to turn toward him; she
wanted to say something--do something. But she had no power.
She saw him lay an envelope upon her desk. She heard him walking away.
She knew, numbly, that his footsteps were not steady. She knew that he
had stopped; she was sure that he was looking back. But still she had no
power.
And then she heard him go.
Even then she went on with her work; she finished her “take” and
laid down her pencil. It was finished now--and he had gone.
Finished?--_Gone?_ She was tearing open the envelope of the letter.
This was what she read:
“Little dictionary sprite, sunshine vender, and girl to be loved, if I
were a free man I would say to you--Come, little one, and let us learn
of love. Let us learn of it, not as one learns from dictionaries, but
let us learn from the morning glow and the evening shades. But Miss
Noah, maker of dictionaries and creeper into hearts, the bound must not
call to the free. They might fittingly have used my name as one of the
synonyms under that word Failure, but I trust not under Coward.
“And now, you funny little Miss Noah from the University of Chicago,
don't I know that your heart is blazing forth the assurance that
you don't _care_ for any of those things--the world, people, common
sense--that you want just love? They made a grand failure of you out at
your university; they taught you philosophy and they taught you Greek,
and they've left you just as much the woman as women were five thousand
years ago. Oh, I know all about you--you little girl whose hair tried
so hard to be red. Your soul touched mine as we sat there writing
words--words--words, the very words in which men try to tell things, and
can't--and I know all about what you would do. But you shall not do
it. Dear little copy maker, would a man standing out on the end of a
slippery plank have any right to cry to someone on the shore--'Come out
here on this plank with me?' If he loved the someone on the shore,
would he not say instead--'Don't get on this plank?' Me get off the
plank--come with you to the shore--you are saying? But you see, dear,
you only know slippery planks as viewed from the shore--God grant you
may never know them any other way!
“It was you, was it not, who wrote our definition of happiness? Yes, I
remember the day you did it. You were so interested; your cheeks grew so
very red, and you pulled and pulled at your wavy hair. You said it was
such an important definition. And so it is, Miss Noah, quite the most
important of all. And on the page of life, Miss Noah, may happiness be
written large and unblurred for you. It is because I cannot help you
write it that I turn away. I want at least to leave the page unspoiled.
“I carry a picture of you. I shall carry it always. You are sitting
before a fireplace, and I think of that fireplace as symbolising the
warmth and care and tenderness and the safety that will surround you.
And sometimes as you sit there let a thought of me come for just a
minute, Miss Noah--not long enough nor deep enough to bring you any
pain. But only think--I brought him happiness after he believed all
happiness had gone. He was so grateful for that light which came after
he thought the darkness had settled down. It will light his way to the
end.
“We've come to Z, and it's good-bye. There is one thing I can give you
without hurting you,--the hope, the prayer, that life may be very, very
good to you.”