ON THE UPWARD PATH
Kate's last sentence, "You'll love me yet, David!" recurred to him
constantly during the next two days. He would not, of course--yet he
could but muse upon the possibility. We are all creatures of change. Our
views of to-day may not be our views of to-morrow, our dislikes of this
year may be our desires of next. Since, as Kate had said, Helen Chambers
did not live for him, might there not take place within him such a
change as would make him yearn for the love he now could not accept?
David looked forward with dread to his next meeting with Kate. He feared
another such scene, so painful to them both, as the one they had just
passed through. But his fear was needless. Kate's nature was an
impetuous one, little schooled to control, but her will was strong and
she was capable of restraint as well as of abandon. She knew enough of
character to see that David could be eventually won to be more than
friend only by now asking and giving no more than friendship; and she
was strong enough to hold herself to this course.
When she came in three evenings later, both manner and dress were sober,
though her eyes showed what was behind her self-control. They greeted
each other with constraint; but she at once said abruptly, "I'm going
to behave," and went on to tell David that, after two days' searching,
she had found a position in a department store and had begun work that
morning.
"I'm a soap saleslady," she said. "Lace-box soap, a three-cake box for
nine cents, takes off skin and all--you know the kind. I get five
dollars a week. That's two hundred and sixty dollars for a year's work.
I've made that, and more, in a night. Oh, it pays to be honest!"
She had broken the constraint, but nevertheless David was grateful for
the entrance of Rogers who just then chanced in. David introduced the
two, and after a few moments of chat Rogers invited David and Kate to
dine with him at the Mayor's café, where he had all his meals; and a
little later they set out for the Pan-American.
The restaurant was filled with diners--fair Germans sitting behind big
glass steins, olive-skinned Jews and Hungarians, and women in plenty of
both hues. Most were more or less Americanised, but many announced by
the queer cut of their clothes that they were recent pilgrims. Some
tables were quiet with a day's weariness, some buzzed with business,
some (and most of these were Jewish) were eager with discussion on
music, literature, politics, religion. Above the buzz of four tongues
rose a wild, wailing air of the Carpathians that the orchestra, in red
velvet jackets, were setting free with excited hands from their guitar,
mandolin, xylophone and two violins.
The Mayor, in vest of effulgent white, was circulating among his
guests, joking, wishing good appetites, radiating hospitality from his
glowing face. His well-organised kitchen and dining-room apparently ran
themselves, so during the dinner hours there was nothing to interrupt
his being merely host. He beckoned Rogers's party, who had paused at the
door, toward him with a grand wave of his jewelled hand, and led them to
a table at the rear of the room.
"Well, friends, if your appetites are as good as my dinner, you've
certainly got a good time comin'," he said, and moved on to other
guests.
On the way over Kate had announced that she was going to do some
studying at home--reading was one of David's interests, so she had
decided it must be one of hers--and had asked for advice; and this now
led to a discussion upon books between David and Rogers. David
discovered that his employer had no use for poetry, had a fair
acquaintance with fiction, and in history and philosophy was much better
read than himself.
Rogers, in his unexcitable way, talked well. At times his remarks were
brilliant in their analysis, and at times there came those quick,
caustic thrusts of wit that pierce like a sword to the heart of pretense
and false ideas. He expressed himself with ease in a wide vocabulary,
though many of the less common words he mispronounced--a fault that to
David was elusively familiar. He spoke always in a quiet, even tone,
that would have led a casual hearer to believe that he was merely a cold
mentality, that he had not the fire of a soul. But David had the feeling
now, as he had had before and as he was often to have again, that in
looking into those glowing eyes he was looking into the crater of a
volcano.
During this play of wits Kate could only look silently on. She had known
that David was in education above the level of her friends, but the side
of himself he was now showing she had not before seen. His richness
where she had nothing seemed to remove him to an impossible distance.
Her face became drawn with sharp pain.
But presently the talk shifted from books to life, and she forgot her
despair. Here she was at home. She knew life, her impressions were
distinct and decided, and her sentences seemed pieces of her own vivid
personality. The presence of the two men inspired her. David, who
thought he knew her, found himself being surprised at the quickness and
keenness of her mind, and Rogers watched her little sparkling face with
more and more interest. She was surprised at herself, too; talking on
subjects of broader interest than personalities was a new experience to
her, and she discovered in herself powers never before called out.
As they were sipping their coffee to the frenzied music of a gypsy
waltz, Tom, who had spied them from the kitchen, darted in to their
table. His appearance was much improved by a haircut and a complete new
outfit which a small amount in David's cash, and a larger amount in the
Mayor's credit, had enabled him to purchase on the instalment plan. He
shook hands all around, unabashed by Rogers's habitual reserve.
"How'd you like de feed?" he demanded eagerly. "If anyt'ing's wrong,
I'll fix it. Nuttin'? O' course not. Say, de grub here's swell, ain't
it? T'irty cents is a lot for a dinner, but it's wort' it. We buys only
de best, we cooks it right, an' we serves it proper, wid table-clot' an'
napkins. D'you take notice o' dem? It ain't many places you gits
table-clot' an' napkins!
"Was your waiter all right? Shall I call him down for anyt'ing? No.
Well, I'm glad I don't have to say nuttin' to him, for he's a friend o'
mine. Say, mebbe you t'ink it's easy to run a place like dis. T'ink
again! First, dere's what're we goin' to have to-day, den dere's gettin'
it ready, den dere's servin' it, an' de dishes, an' washin' 'em, an'
everyt'ing. It's hustle, an' worry, an' t'ink from when you gets up till
when you goes to bed."
And on he went, picturing the responsibility under which he tottered,
till they told him goodnight and went out.
Kate was in a glow of spirits when David and Rogers left her at her
door. She whispered appealingly to David as they parted, "Please talk
with me this way again, David." It had been in his mind that, under the
circumstances, it would be better for Kate if they should cease to meet;
but he frankly realised he was the only link which held her to her new
honesty, and to break their friendship would be to snap that link. And
so he answered, "Yes--often;" and this was in fact the first of many
such hours spent together, in which they were often joined by Rogers. It
seemed to David that Kate's cynicism and sharpness were beginning slowly
to wear away.
Since his talk with Helen David's hope of conquering the future had been
constantly high. He did not underestimate the struggle before him, but
strength and courage had been flowing into him since food and shelter
had ceased to be worries, and he now felt that under Helen's inspiration
he could do anything. One of his aims he had already achieved, Helen's
respect, though how still seemed to him a miracle. His heart yearned
even more eagerly than ever for something higher than friendship, but he
knew this desire to be, as always, unattainable. He could not hope for a
second miracle, and one that would sink the first to a commonplace.
Her suggestion that he should write a story of the man-making of a boy
whom surroundings had forced toward destruction, laid immediate and
powerful hold upon him. He saw, as she had said, that a story of the
right kind might contribute in some degree to awakening the public's
sympathy for, and responsibility toward, the hundreds of thousands of
children that are going to waste. And he saw, too, that such a book
might lift him toward the world's respect, where he would be happier,
more effective. Selfishly, altruistically, the story was the thing for
him to do.
During the days after their talk, all his spare time, and even while he
went about his work, his imagination was impassionedly shaping
characters and plot. He had a note from Helen saying she wanted to see
him the following Friday, and he could hardly wait for it to come, he
was that eager to ask her judgment on his story's outline. When Friday
afternoon did finally arrive, he began to look for her an hour before
she could be expected, excitedly pacing his room, and every minute
glancing through his window up to the sidewalk.
* * * * *
When Helen, after leaving her club of schoolgirls that afternoon,
entered the reception room on her way out, she found Mr. Allen waiting
for her in the Flemish oak settle.
"You were not expecting me, but I hope you're not displeased," he said
in his grave, pleasant voice, and with the ease of long-accustomed
welcome.
She could not wholly restrain a little air of vexation as she gave him
her hand. "Of course I'm glad. But I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint
you if you've come to go home with me. I've promised to make a call--in
the neighbourhood. Of course you can walk with me there, if you like."
"Oh, the neighbourhood!" He gave a humorous groan of mock complaint, but
down in his heart the complaint was very real. The neighbourhood was
coming too often between her and his desire to be with her. "Very well.
I'll take what I can get."
She threw her sable scarf about her throat and they stepped forth into
the narrow street, paved with new snow that the day had trodden to a
dirty glaze. He had talked with her before about his ambitions, for his
future had been part of his offering when he had offered himself. He now
told her that he had just been appointed chief counsel of the committee
of the legislature for investigating impure foods. She knew how great a
distinction this was, how great a token of the future, and she
congratulated him warmly.
"If these good things you see really do come, you know I don't want to
share them alone," he said in a low voice, when she had finished.
She shook her head slowly. "The more I think, the more I see how
unsuited I am for you. Our ideas are so different. You face one pole, I
another. We would never pull together; we could only achieve the
deadlock of two joined forces that struggle in opposite directions."
"But you know my hope is that we shall not always face in opposite
directions."
She turned upon him a smile that was touched with irony. "You mean you
expect some day to look toward my pole?"
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "You know I mean you will some
day see the futility of such work as you are doing, and the wrongness of
many of your ideas--and then you will turn to the true pole."
"Your pole? No. I do not believe, as you do, that only the fit should
survive. I do not believe, as you do, that the hard conditions of life
are necessary as a kind of sieve, or a kind of civil service
examination, to separate the fit from the unfit. I do not believe, as
you do, that the great mass who have failed to pass the meshes of this
test, who are down, have by the mere fact of their being down proved
their unfitness, shown that they are worthy to be neglected. Your
belief, summed up, is that the world is made for the strong--for the
rich man born to opportunities, and for the poor man born with the
superior brains and energy to create them. To that belief I can never
come. I believe the world is made also for the weak. Rather, I believe
all should be made strong."
With a sweep of her hand she indicated the two rows of tenements whose
dingy red walls stretched away and away till they and the narrow street
disappeared into the wintry twilight.
"All these people here--they are weak because they have never had a
chance to be otherwise. Give them a fair chance and they will become
strong--or most of them. That is what I believe--a fair chance for all
to become strong."
"And I believe the same. Only I believe that chance exists at present
for all who are worthy. If there is good stuff in a man, he rises; if
not, he belongs where he is. The struggle is selective, it develops.
Make it easier and you lower the quality of your people."
"Ah, yes, I know you are an unalterable individualist," she sighed.
"When I realise the great part you are going to have during the next
twenty or thirty years in shaping the conditions under which we all must
live, I wish you could be brought to a broader concept of the human
relationship."
"If I am to play such a part, my own concept is quite broad enough."
"But in ways it is so hopeless! It consigns all these people to outer
darkness. It holds no chance for the man whom circumstances are pressing
down, no chance for any of those helpless people who are reaching vainly
upward, or those who would be reaching upward if their consciousness
were roused." They were drawing near to David's house, and the sight of
it prompted a specific instance. "No chance for the man who has stolen,
who repents, who struggles to reform."
"The repentant thief!" He gave a low laugh. "The one that repented on
the cross is the eternal type of the thief that repents. If he repents,
it's at the last minute--when he can steal no more!"
His words half angered her. "I wish you could talk with the one I'm
going to see now!"
He looked at her in surprise. "That Aldrich fellow you were telling
about!" he ejaculated.
He felt a further astonishment--that she should be calling upon a man,
and evidently in his room. He did not put this into words, but she read
it in his face. It angered her more, and she answered his look sharply:
"To have him call at my house or to see me at the Mission would be
embarrassing to him. I feel that I can be of some service, and since I
must choose between an uptown convention and helping save a man, I have
decided to sacrifice convention. It seems strange, doesn't it?"
He did not reply to her sarcasm, but he still disapproved. There were so
many things of which he disapproved that even had he been free to
criticise he would have felt the futility of striking at any single
fault. He prayed for the eradication of all this part of her life, and
her restoration to normal views; first, because he honestly disbelieved
in the work that interested her; second, because he reasoned that while
she gave so much interest to the poor she was likely to have little
interest left to give to his suit.
They paused before David's window. David, glancing out, saw Allen not
ten feet away and heard Helen say, "I wish so much you would talk with
Mr. Aldrich." For a moment his heart stood still. Then he sprang toward
the door, intending to escape the back way, but it occurred to him that
perhaps Allen might not come in, and that to avoid him by running away
was also to miss Helen. He left the door ajar, to aid a quick flight if
Allen started in, and peered through the window at the couple, as alert
as a "set" runner waiting the pistol-shot.
They were a splendid pair, David had to admit to himself--both tall, she
with the grace of perfect womanhood, he with the poise and dignity of
power and success. She was a woman to honour any man's life; he--David
now knew of Allen's brilliant achievements and brilliant future--had a
life worth any woman's honouring. Yes, they were a splendid pair.
Presently Allen bowed and went away, and the next moment David opened
the door for Helen. He was grateful to the dusk for muffling his
agitation; and doubly grateful to it when she said, after giving him a
firm pressure from her hand:
"I've been trying to arrange with a friend--Mr. Allen--to have a talk
with you some day. I hope you may soon meet."
"Thank you," said David.
She suggested that they walk, and a few minutes later, David reciting
the outline of his story, they entered Second Avenue, the East Side's
boulevard, always thronged with business folk, shoppers, promenaders,
students. They forgot the crowds through which they wove their way,
forgot even that they walked, and it was a surprise to both when they
found themselves, just as David finished, before her home.
She looked at his erect figure, at his glowing, excited face. "I think
it's going to be splendid!" she cried.
"I think so myself," he returned, with an exultant little laugh. "So a
man always feels at first. But when the cold and clammy days have come,
when your fires have all gone out and there's nothing but ashes left in
your imagination----"
"Then," she broke in quickly, "you must just keep going.
'----tasks in hours of insight will'd,
Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.'
That's worth remembering. But let's walk on for a few minutes. There's
something I want to say."
She was silent for the greater part of a block. "One of our friends that
we see much of is a publisher. He tells me that, though a novel may not
sell enough to pay for the type-writing, it is pretty certain, if it has
any merit, to yield several hundred dollars. If it has an active sale it
may yield several thousand, and if it gets to the front of the big
sellers it may yield a small fortune. I was thinking that if your book
should go even moderately well, what a great deal it would
help--toward--I mean what a great deal it would help you."
She looked at him expectantly. Her voice and her manner had had a
background of constraint, and David vaguely felt that her meaning was
not in her words, but was lurking behind them.
"Yes?" he said, wonderingly.
The constraint was more marked as she continued, with an effort:
"Perhaps you might get--five thousand dollars for it."
"Yes?" he said, his wonderment rising.
The constraint and effort were even greater as she replied: "Well, that
would do so much toward clearing your name!"
Her meaning leaped forth from its lurking place. For a moment he was
completely stupefied.... She wanted him to repay the stolen money to St.
Christopher's!
He felt her eyes upon him, waiting. "Yes--it would help," he said,
mechanically.
They turned back. She saw he was far away. She did not speak. First came
to him the absurdity of his trying to repay with his present
earnings--fifty years of utmost saving. But he pressed down the bitter
laugh that rose. She was right; if he was ever to clear his name he must
refund the money to the Mission. Perhaps the book would repay it;
perhaps years and years of work would be required. But repay it he must.
There was no other way.
He looked up as they paused again before her house. "Yes--I will repay,"
he said.
She reached out her hand. Its grasp was warm, tight.
"I knew it," she said, with a directness, a simplicity, that thrilled
him. "I'm so glad!"