IN THE DARK
An hour or so later Miss Winthrop lay in her bed, where, with the door
tight locked and the gas out, she could feel just the way she felt
like feeling and it was nobody's business. She cried because she
wished to cry. She cried because it was the easiest and most
satisfactory way she knew of relieving the tenseness in her throat.
She burrowed her face in the pillow and cried hard, and then turned
over on her pig-tails and sobbed awhile. It did not make any
difference, here in the dark, whether the tears made lines down her
face or not--whether or not they made her eyes red, and, worst of all,
her nose red.
From sobbing, Miss Winthrop dwindled to sniveling, and there she
stopped. She was not the kind to snivel very long--even by herself.
She did not like the sound of it. So she took her wadded handkerchief
and jammed it once into each eye and jabbed once at each cheek, and
then, holding it tight in her clenched fist, made up her mind to stop.
For a minute or two an occasional sob broke through spasmodically; but
finally even that ceased, and she was able to stare at the ceiling
quite steadily. By that time she was able to call herself a little
fool, which was a very good beginning for rational thinking.
There was considerable material upon which to base a pretty fair
argument along this line. Admitting that Don Pendleton was what she
had been crying about,--a purely hypothetical assumption for the sake
of a beginning,--she was able to start with the premise that a woman
was a fool for crying about any man. Coming down to concrete facts,
she found herself supplied with even less comforting excuses. If she
had been living of late in a little fool's paradise, why, she had made
it for herself. She could not accuse him of having any other part in
it than that of merely being there. If she went back a month, or three
months, or almost a year, she saw herself either taking the initiative
or, what was just as bad, passively submitting. Of course, her motive
had been merely to help him in an impersonal sort of way. She had
seen that he needed help, but she had not dreamed the reason for it.
She had no warning that he had been deserted by her who should have
helped him. She had no way of knowing about this other. Surely that
ignorance was not her fault.
Here is where she jabbed her handkerchief again into each eye and lay
back on her pig-tails long enough to get a fresh grip upon herself.
Her skin grew hot, then cold, then hot again. It really had all been
more the fault of this other than Mr. Pendleton's. She had no business
to go away and leave him for some one else to care for. She had no
business to leave him, anyway. She ought to have married him away back
when he first went to work to make a fortune for her. Why didn't she
take the money it cost to go to Europe and spend it on him? She had
let a whole year go wasted, when she had such an opportunity as this!
Here was a house waiting for her; here was Don waiting for her; and
she had gone to Europe!
To put one's self in another's place--in a place of so delicate a
nature as this--is a dangerous business, but Miss Winthrop did not do
it deliberately. Lying there in the dark, her imagination swept her
on. The thought that remained uppermost in her mind was the chance
this other girl had missed. She would never have it again. In the fall
Don would receive his raise and be sent out to sell, and after that
his career was assured. It remained only for him to hold steady--an
easy matter after the first year--and his income was bound to increase
by thousand-dollar jumps until he won his ten thousand and more. And
with that there was not very much left, as far as she could see, for a
woman to do. The big fight would be all over. A woman could no longer
claim a partnership; she would simply be bought.
If last fall she had had the chance of that other, she would have had
him out selling a month ago. Give her a year or two, and she would
have him in that firm or some other. She could do it. She felt the
power that minute.
This raised a new question. What was she to do from now on? Until now
she had had the excuse of ignorance; but there was still another month
before Don's fiancee would be back. And this month would count a
whole lot to him. It was the deciding month. Farnsworth had been
watching him closely, and had about made up his mind; but he was still
on the alert for any break. He had seen men go so far and then break.
So had she. It was common enough. She herself had every confidence in
Don, but she was doubtful about how long it was wise to leave even him
alone. Men could not stand being alone as well as women. They had not
the same experience. It took a special kind of nerve to be alone and
remain straight.
Well, supposing he did break, what was that to her, now that she knew
about this other? Here was a perfectly fair and just question. The man
had made his selection and given over his future into the care of the
woman of his choice, and she alone was responsible. There could be no
dispute about this. It was a fair question; and yet, as soon as she
framed it, she recognized it as unworthy of her. Furthermore, it led
to an extremely dangerous deduction--namely, that her interest, after
all, was not entirely impersonal; for if it were what difference did
one woman or twenty other women make in her relations with him? To
put the matter bluntly, she was acting exactly as if she were in love
with him herself!
When Miss Winthrop faced that astounding fact she felt exactly as if
her heart stopped beating for a full minute. Then it started again as
if trying to make up for the lapse in a couple of breaths. She gasped
for breath and, throwing off the bedclothes, jumped up and lighted the
gas. Here was something to be met in the light. But, as soon as she
caught sight of her flushed cheeks and her staring eyes, she hurriedly
turned out the gas again and climbed back into bed. Here she lay like
some trapped thing, panting and helpless. Over and over again she
whispered, "I'm not! I'm not!" as if some one were bending over her
and taunting her with the statement. Then she whispered, "It isn't
true! Oh, it isn't true!" She denied it fiercely--vehemently. She
threw an arm over her eyes even there in the dark.
It was such an absurd accusation! If she had been one of those silly,
helpless creatures with nothing else to do in life but fall in love,
it might have had some point; but here she was, a self-respecting,
self-supporting girl who had seen enough of men to know distinctly
better than to do anything so foolish. It had been the confidence born
of this knowledge that had allowed her from the start to take an
impersonal interest in the man. And the proof of this was that she had
so conducted herself that he had not fallen in love with her.
Then what in the world was she crying about and making such a fuss
about? She asked herself that, and, with her lips firm together,
determined that the best answer was to do no more crying and make no
more fuss. So she settled back again upon her pig-tails, and stared at
the ceiling and stared at the ceiling and stared at the ceiling.