DON EXPLAINS
It seemed that, in spite of her business training and the unsentimental
outlook on life upon which she had rather prided herself, Sally
Winthrop did not differ greatly from other women. Shut up in her
room, a deep sense of humiliation overwhelmed her. He had asked this
other girl to marry him, and when she refused he had come to her! He
thought as lightly of her as that--a mere second choice when the first
was made impossible. He had no justification for that. This other had
sent him to her--doubtless with a smile of scorn upon her pretty lips.
But what was she crying about and making her nose all red? She should
have answered him with another smile and sent him back again. Then he
would have understood how little she cared--would have understood that
she did not care enough even to feel the sting of such an insult as
this. For the two days she had been here awaiting the announcement of
his marriage she had said over and over again that she did not
care--said it the first thing upon waking and the last thing upon
retiring. Even when she woke up in the night, as she did many times,
she said it to herself. It had been a great comfort to her, for it was
a full and complete answer to any wayward thoughts that took her
unaware.
She did not care about him, so what was she sniveling about and making
her nose all red? She dabbed her handkerchief into her eyes and sought
her powder-box. If he had only kept away from her everything would
have been all right. Within the next ten or eleven days she would have
readjusted herself and been ready to take up her work again, with
another lesson learned. She would have gone back to her room wiser and
with still more confidence in herself. And now he was downstairs,
waiting for her. There was no way she could escape him. She must do
all those things without the help of seclusion. She must not care,
with him right before her eyes.
She began to cry again. It was not fair. It was the sense of
injustice that now broke her down. She was doing her best, and no one
would help her. Even he made it as hard for her as possible. On top of
that he had added this new insult. He wished a wife, and if he could
not have this one he would take that one--as Farnsworth selected his
stenographers. He had come to her because she had allowed herself to
lunch with him and dine with him and walk with him. He had presumed
upon what she had allowed herself to say to him. Because she had
interested herself in him and tried to help him, he thought she was to
be as lightly considered as this. He had not waited even a decent
interval, but had come to her direct from Frances--she of the scornful
smile.
Once again Sally stopped crying. If only she could hold that smile
before her, all might yet be well. Whenever she looked into his eyes
and thought them tender, she must remember that smile. Whenever his
voice tempted her against her reason, she must remember that--for
to-night, anyhow; and to-morrow he must go back. Either that or she
would leave. She could not endure this very long--certainly not for
eleven days.
"Sally--where are you?"
It was Mrs. Halliday's voice from downstairs.
"I'm coming," she answered.
The supper was more of an epicurean than a social success. Mrs.
Halliday had made hot biscuit, and opened a jar of strawberry
preserves, and sliced a cold chicken which she had originally intended
for to-morrow's dinner; but, in spite of that, she was forced to sit
by and watch her two guests do scarcely more than nibble.
"I declare, I don't think young folks eat as much as they useter in my
days," she commented.
Don tried to excuse himself by referring to a late dinner at Portland;
but Sally, as usual, had no excuse whatever. She was forced to endure
in silence the searching inquiry of Mrs. Halliday's eyes as well as
Don's. For the half-hour they were at table she heartily wished she
was back again in her own room in New York. There, at least, she would
have been free to shut herself up, away from all eyes but her own.
Moreover, she had to look forward to what she should do at the end of
the meal. For all she saw, she was going to be then in even a worse
plight than she was now. For he would be able to talk, and she must
needs answer and keep from crying. Above all things else, she must
keep from crying. She did not wish him to think her a little fool as
well as other things.
She was forced to confess that after the first five minutes Don did
his best to relieve the tension. He talked to Mrs. Halliday about one
thing and another, and kept on talking. And, though it was quite
evident to her that he had no appetite, he managed to consume three of
the hot biscuit. After supper, when she rose to help her aunt in the
kitchen, he wished also to help. But Mrs. Halliday would have neither
of them. That made it bad for her again, for it left her with no
alternative but to sit again upon the front porch with him. So there
they were again, right back where they started.
"What did you run into the house for?" he demanded.
"Please let's not talk any more, of that," she pleaded.
"But it's the nub of the whole matter," he insisted.
"I went in because I did not want to talk any more."
"Very well. Then you needn't talk. But you can listen, can't you?"
"That's the same thing."
"It's exactly the opposite thing. You can listen, and just nod or
shake your head. Then you won't have to speak a word. Will you do
that?"
It was an absurd proposition, but she was forced either to accept it
or to run away again. Somehow, it did not appear especially dignified
to keep on running away, when in the end she must needs come back
again. So she nodded.
"Let's go back to the beginning," he suggested. "That's somewhere
toward the middle of my senior year. I'd known Frances before that,
but about that time she came on to Boston, and we went to a whole lot
of dances and things together."
He paused a moment.
"I wish I'd brought a picture of her with me," he resumed thoughtfully,
"because she's really a peach."
Miss Winthrop looked up quickly. He was apparently serious.
"She's tall and dark and slender," he went on, "and when she's all
togged up she certainly looks like a queen. She had a lot of friends
in town, and we kept going about four nights a week. Then came the
ball games, and then Class Day. You ever been to Class Day?"
Miss Winthrop shook her head with a quick little jerk.
"It's all music and Japanese lanterns, and if you're sure of your
degree it's a sort of fairyland where nothing is quite real. You just
feel at the time that it's always going to be like that. It was then I
asked her to marry me."
Miss Winthrop was sitting with her chin in her hands, looking intently
at the brick path leading to the house.
"You listening?"
She nodded jerkily.
"It seemed all right then. And it seemed all right after that.
Stuyvesant was agreeable enough, and so I came on to New York. Then
followed Dad's death. Dad was a queer sort, but he was square as a
die. I'm sorry he went before he had a chance to meet you. I didn't
realize what good pals we were until afterward. But, anyway, he died,
and he tied the property all up as I've told you. Maybe he thought if
he didn't I'd blow it in, because I see now I'd been getting rid of a
good many dollars. I went to Frances and told her all about it, and
offered to cancel the engagement. But she was a good sport and said
she'd wait until I earned ten thousand a year. You listening?"
She nodded.
"Because it's right here you come in. I was going to get it inside a
year, and you know just about how much chance I stood. But it looked
easy to her, because her father was pulling down about that much a
month, and not killing himself either. I didn't know any more about it
than she did; but the difference between us was that as soon as I was
on the inside I learned a lot she didn't learn. I learned how hard it
is to get ten thousand a year; more than that, I learned how
unnecessary it is to get it. That's what you taught me."
"I--I didn't mean to," she interrupted.
"You're talking," he reminded her.
She closed her lips firmly together.
"Whether you meant to or not isn't the point. You did teach me that
and a lot of other things. I didn't know it at the time, and went
plugging ahead, thinking everything was just the same when it wasn't
at all. Frances was headed one way and I was headed another. Then she
went abroad, and after that I learned faster than ever. I learned what
a home can be made to mean, and work can be made to mean, and life can
be made to mean. All those things you were teaching me. I didn't know
it, and you didn't know it, and Frances didn't know it. That ten
thousand grew less and less important to me, and all the while I
thought it must be growing less and less important to her. I thought
that way after the walks in the park and the walks in the country and
that night at Coney."
She shuddered.
"I thought it even after she came back--even after my talk with
Stuyvesant. He told me I was a fool and that Frances wouldn't listen
to me. I didn't believe him and put it up to her. And then--for the
first time--I saw that what I had been learning she had not been
learning."
Don turned and looked at the girl by his side. It was growing dark
now, so that he could not see her very well; but he saw that she was
huddled up as he had found her that day in the little restaurant.
"Frances didn't have the nerve to come with me," he said. "Her father
stood in the way, and she couldn't get by him. I want to be fair about
this. At the beginning, if she'd come with me I'd have married
her--though Lord knows how it would have worked out. But she didn't
dare--and she's a pretty good sport, too. There's a lot in her she
doesn't know anything about. It would do her good to know you."
Again he paused. It was as if he were trying hard to keep his
balance.
"I want her to know you," he went on. "Because, after all, it was she
who made me see you. There, in a second, in the park, she pointed you
out to me, until you stood before me as clear as the star by the Big
Dipper. She said, 'It's some other girl you're seeing in me--a girl
who would dare to go hungry with you.' Then I knew. So I came right to
you."
She was still huddled up.
"And here I am," he concluded.
There he was. He did not need to remind her of that. Even when she
closed her eyes so that she might not see him, she was aware of it.
Even when he was through talking and she did not hear his voice, she
was aware of it. And, though she was miserable about it, she would
have been more miserable had he been anywhere else.
"I'm here, little girl," he said patiently.
"Even after I told you to go away," she choked.
"Even after you told me to go away."
"If you only hadn't come at all!"
"What else was there for me to do?"
"You--you could have gone to that camp with her. She wanted you to
go."
"I told her I couldn't go there--long before I knew why."
"You could have gone--oh, there are so many other places you could go!
And this is the only place I _could_ go."
"It's the only place I could go, too. Honest, it was. I'd have been
miserable anywhere else, and--well, you aren't making it very
comfortable for me here."
It seemed natural to have him blame her for his discomfort when it was
all his own fault. It seemed so natural, in the midst of the confusion
of all the rest of the tangle, that it was restful.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"That's something," he nodded.
"I--I guess the only thing for me to do is to go away myself."
"Where?"
"Back to New York. Oh, I wish I hadn't taken a vacation!"
"We'll go back if you say so; but it seems foolish after traveling all
this distance."
"I meant to go back alone," she hastened to correct him.
"And leave me with Mrs. Halliday?"
"Please don't mix things all up!"
"It's you who are mixing things all up," he said earnestly. "That
isn't like you, little girl. It's more like you to straighten things
out. There's a straight road ahead of us now, and if you'll only take
it we'll never leave it again. All we've got to do is to hunt up a
parson and get married, and then we'll go anywhere you say, or not go
anywhere at all. It's as simple as that. Then, when our vacation is
up, I'll go back to Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and I'll tell Farnsworth
he'll have to get a new stenographer. Maybe he'll discharge me for
that, but if he doesn't I'll tell him I want to get out and sell. And
then there's nothing more to it. With you to help--"
He tried to find her hands, but she had them pressed over her eyes.
"With you back home to help," he repeated--"there's not anything in
the world we won't get."
And the dream woman in Sally answered to the woman on the steps:--
"There's not anything more in the world we'll want when we're home."
But Don did not hear that. All he heard was a sigh. To the dream woman
what he said sounded like music; but the woman on the steps answered
cynically:--
"All he is saying to you now he said to that other. There, where the
music was playing and the Japanese lanterns were bobbing, he said it
to her. That was a fairy world, as this is a fairy night; but back in
New York it will all be different. There are no fairies in New York.
Every time you have thought there were, you have been disappointed."
She rose swiftly to her feet.
"Oh, we mustn't talk about it!" she exclaimed.
He too rose, and he placed both his hands upon her shoulders.
"I don't understand," he said quickly. "What is it you don't
believe?"
"I don't believe in fairies," she answered bitterly.
"Don't you believe that I love you?"
"To-night--perhaps," she answered.
Her eyes were not meeting his.
"You don't believe my love will last?"
"I--I don't know."
"Because of Frances?"
"Everything is so different in New York," she answered.
"Because of Frances?"
She was not sure enough herself to answer that. She did not wish to be
unfair. He removed his hands from her shoulders and stood back a
little.
"I thought you'd understand about her. I thought you were the one
woman in the world who'd understand."
She looked up quickly.
"Perhaps it's easier for men to understand those things than women,"
she said.
"There's so little to understand."
As he spoke, truly it seemed so. But it was always that way when she
was with him. Always, if she was not very careful, he made her see
exactly as he saw. It was so at Jacques'; it was so at Coney. But her
whole life was at stake now. If she made a mistake, one way or the
other, she must live it out--in New York. She must be by herself when
she reached her decision.
"In the morning," she gasped.
"All right," he answered.
He took her hand--catching her unawares.
"See," he said. "Up there is the star I gave you. It will always be
there--always be yours. And, if you can, I want you to think of me as
like that star."
Upstairs in her room that night, Miss Winthrop sat by her window and
tried to place herself back in New York--back in the office of Carter,
Rand & Seagraves. It was there, after all, and not up among the stars,
that she had gained her experience of men.
From behind her typewriter she had watched them come and go, or if
they stayed had watched them in the making. It was from behind her
typewriter she had met Don. She remembered every detail of that first
day: how he stood at the ticker like a boy with a new toy, waiting for
Farnsworth; how he came from Farnsworth's office and took a seat near
her, and for the next half-hour watched her fingers until she became
nervous. At first she thought he was going to be "fresh." Her mind was
made up to squelch him at the first opportunity. Yet, when it had
come lunch-time and he sat on, not knowing what to do, she had taken
pity on him. She knew he would sit on there until night unless some
one showed an interest in him. She was glad now that she had, because
he had been hungry. Had it not been for her, he would not have had
anything to eat all day--possibly not all that week. She would never
cease being glad that she had discovered this fact in time.
But she had intended that her interest should cease, once she had made
sure that he was fed and in receipt of his first week's salary. That
much she would do for any man, good, bad, or indifferent. That was all
she had intended. She could say that honestly. When he had appeared at
her lunch-place the second and third time, she had resented it. But
she had also welcomed his coming. And, when she had bidden him not to
come, she had missed him.
Right here she marked a distinction between him and the others. She
missed him outside the office--not only at noon, but at night. When
she had opened that absurd box of flowers, she brought him into her
room with her. She saw now that at the precise moment she opened that
box she had lost her point of view. If she had wished to maintain it,
she should have promptly done the box up again and sent it back to
him.
After this their relation had changed. There could be no doubt about
that. However, except for the initial fault of not returning the
roses, she could not see where it was distinctly her fault. She had
gone on day after day, unaware that any significant change was taking
place. There had been the dinner at Jacques', and then--
With her chin in her hands, she sat by the open window and lived over
again those days. Her eyes grew afire and her cheeks grew rosy and a
great happiness thrilled her. So--until they reached that night at
Coney and Frances smiled through the dark at her.
Then she sprang to her feet and paced the floor, with the color gone
from her cheeks. During all those glorious days this other girl had
been in the background of his thoughts. It was for her he had been
working--of her he had been thinking. She clenched her hands and
faced the girl.
"Why didn't you stay home with him, then?" she cried. "You left him to
me and I took care of him. He'd have lost his position if it hadn't
been for me.
"I kept after him until he made good," she went on. "I saw that he
came to work on time, I showed him what to learn. It was I, not you,
that made him."
She was speaking out loud--fiercely. Suddenly she stopped. She raised
her eyes to the window--to the little star by the Big Dipper. Gently,
as a mother speaks, she said again:--
"I made him--not you."
Sally Winthrop sank into a chair. She began to cry--but softly now.
"You're mine, Don," she whispered. "You're mine because I took care of
you."
A keen breeze from the mountains swept in upon her. She rose and stole
across the hall to Mrs. Halliday's room. That good woman awoke with a
start.
"What is it?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, I'm sorry if I woke you," answered the girl. "But it's turned
cold, and I wondered if Don--if Mr. Pendleton had enough bedclothes."
"Laws sake," answered Mrs. Halliday. "I gave him two extra comforters,
and if that ain't enough he deserves to freeze."