The collected stories of Elisabeth Sanxay Holding from Munsey's Magazine, 1920-1928 (part 5 of 5)
There was some curious quality about Charles, something vivid in him, which conjured up visions for the wanderer’s brother. He looked out of the window, and it seemed to him that he could see as Charles saw--the pleasant suburban street, lined with bare trees, and the comfortable houses, lighted now, here a window with a red-shaded lamp, here a bedroom light behind curtains, all of them so snug and safe from the wind and the cold rain. Men were coming home and dinners were being served, as men had been coming home to rest and eat since the dark beginning of things. A bitter thing, to have no home, no welcome or refuge!
“Yes, I see,” said Wickham.
At least Charles could share his home.
“Unless he marries,” thought Wickham. “No reason why he shouldn’t do well with Carrick--soon be in a position to marry and have a place of his own. No reason at all!”
A peculiar feeling of disquiet came over him, something shadowy and elusive. He felt abashed, as if some one had rebuked him. Well, perhaps it was a little hard to imagine Charles working in an office, making money, catching the five forty to go home to some cozy little house of his own; but it was not impossible.
“He’s only forty,” thought Wickham, “and I have influence enough to help him. No reason why it shouldn’t be like that!”
He glanced uneasily at his brother. The car was lighted, and he could see clearly that bold and arrogant profile.
“No reason at all!” he told himself once more.
But his disquiet persisted, like a warning of disaster.
“He didn’t want to come back with me to-night. He wants to get away, to go down there--to a climate that means the end of him. What’s the matter with him? Is it pride? Doesn’t he want to accept favors from me?”
Wickham knew it was not that, for Charles had asked him for a job.
“And I’ve been careful,” he thought. “I haven’t said a word or done a thing to hurt him.”
He had never even mentioned the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat, or suggested a loan of money. He had noticed that Charles was always supplied with tobacco, that he was able to pay car fares and buy newspapers, and so on. He must have a little money left.
“And he can start in next week with Carrick,” thought Wickham. “Then he’ll be all right.”
But why did he want to get away?
“Restless,” his brother decided. “He’s lived in the tropics so long that the idea of going to Nicaragua appealed to him, just for the moment.”
The car turned in at the gates of Wickham’s place. He saw before him the lights of his own home shining through the rain; and mechanically he braced himself for an ordeal.
It was his inflexible rule to enter his house with an amiable and agreeable manner. When the parlor maid opened the door, he gave her something as much like a smile as he could manage, bade her good evening:, and entered the drawing-room.
“Hello, Madeline!” he said.
His wife came toward him. He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek.
“Nice and warm in here,” he observed. “I’ll go and have a wash and brush up, and get ready for dinner.”
It was hard for him to speak at all, fatigue so weighed upon him. He went up the stairs, forcing himself to a brisk pace, entered his room, and locked the door. Then suddenly he thought of things for his speech to-morrow--just the things he had wanted. He pulled out his notebook and fountain pen and began to make notes.
“Mustn’t be late for dinner, though,” he thought.
He took off his coat and went toward his bathroom. Then he thought of a most effective sentence and hurried back to the table.
“If I could have a quiet hour now!” he thought. “But that’s not fair to Madeline.”
He came down at the proper time, with more and more ideas for that speech running through his mind, and entered the drawing-room again. Madeline was sitting there, stretched out in a lounge chair, and Charles stood beside her. They were laughing at something.
Again that curious disquiet seized Wickham Hackett. He stood in the doorway, looking at her, and it seemed to him that somehow she had changed.
* * * * *
All through dinner Wickham’s eyes sought his wife’s face with covert anxiety. She was as cool, as gay, as gracious as ever--a tall young creature, exquisitely cared for, with shining dark hair and a delicate, half disdainful face. He had never seen her ill-tempered or impatient, had never known her to be anything but kind to him, and courteous and lovely; and she was so to-night. He must have been dreaming to fancy that there was a change, a shadow upon her unruffled beauty!
Dinner finished, they went back into the drawing-room for coffee.
“Wickie,” said Madeline, “you’ve been sleeping better lately, haven’t you?”
He had not, but because she looked anxious he said yes, he thought he had.
“Ah!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew it! Wickie, I’ve been deceiving you. I’ve been giving you a new sort of coffee, with no caffeine in it!”
“Shouldn’t have known it,” he said, smiling at her.
She had risen, and was standing by the radio. She smiled back at him over her shoulder and then began to turn the dial.
“There!” she said.
An orchestra was playing a waltz--a Spanish rhythm, with clicking castanets.
“Charles!” she said.
But Charles Hackett did not answer. He sat smoking a cigarette, with his coffee cup before him, and staring down at his worn and carefully polished shoes.
“Charles!” she cried, laughing. “You’re not very gallant this evening. Do I have to ask you to dance?”
“Well, not twice,” said Charles.
He put down his cigarette, rose, crossed the room to her, and put his arm about her, and they began to dance.
What was the matter? Every evening since Charles had come he and Madeline had had a dance or two after dinner.
“Charles is the most wonderful dancer,” Madeline had said, and Wickham had felt a little sorry for him, with only so futile an accomplishment to his credit.
If it made them happy, Madeline’s husband had been pleased; but he was not pleased to-night. He was uneasy, the music worried him, and he moved restlessly in his chair.
“Perhaps it’s this new coffee,” he thought. “I need the stimulation of the real thing. Poor girl!”
“Wickie, I’ve been deceiving you!” The words came back to him with a horrible shock.
“Good God!” he cried to himself. “What’s the matter with me? This is--shameful!”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and tried not to hear the music.
“I ought to take her out more,” he thought. “She’s so much younger than I am. It’s dull for her here, but she’s never complained--never once. The best wife a man ever had--the finest, straightest girl!”
If she would come behind his chair now and lay her slender hand over his closed eyes! Of course, she didn’t do things like that. There was beneath her gayety a fastidious and almost austere reserve. That was what he most respected in her. She was kind, always kind, but always aloof.
Well, he wanted it so. He would not have it otherwise; but if only just this once he could feel her hand on his eyes, if she would stop and kiss him!
He opened his eyes, ashamed of his weakness; and he saw his brother’s face.
III
Madeline had gone upstairs, and the two men were alone together in the library. Charles sat beside a lamp, with its light full upon him, but Wickham had moved into a shadowy corner.
Some neighbors had come in to play bridge, there had been more dancing and a little supper; and through it all, all the time, Wickham had been thinking of that look on his brother’s face--a look of terrible pain and regret and tenderness. He was never going to forget it.
“I can’t--just go on,” he thought. “It’s not possible. It’s--oh, God! It’s my fault--I’ve thrown them together, and she’s so lovely and sweet that I might have known. Oh, poor devil! That’s why he wants to go away!”
“Well, Wick,” said Charles, with a sigh. “Now for that talk, eh?”
It was hard for Wickham Hackett to begin.
“Charley,” he said, “I don’t want you to go.”
“I know, Wick. You’ve been more than decent--about everything; but, to tell you the truth, I have a hankering for the old life--see? I’m sorry to let you down, when you’ve taken so much trouble to get me a job, but I feel I’ve got to get South again, in the sun.”
“Charley--”
“The doctors don’t always know what they’re talking about, you know. Personally I think it ’ll do me good to get down there in the sun.”
“Charley,” said Wickham, with a monstrous effort, “I--I think you have another reason.”
“Eh?” said Charles, glancing up sharply.
Their eyes met for an instant.
“I wanted to tell you,” said Wickham, still with a painful effort, “that it needn’t matter.”
“But--it does,” murmured Charles.
“I wanted to tell you that--I don’t blame you. You can’t help it. Who could? I’m sure she doesn’t know. I was watching her this evening. I’m sure she doesn’t suspect.”
“No,” said Charles. “She doesn’t know.”
“She needn’t ever. You can put up at a hotel, Charley, and just come out for a visit now and then.”
“No, old man,” said Charles quietly. “Wouldn’t do.”
“Yes, it would. See here, Charley--that’s a remarkable opportunity with Carrick. You’ll--”
“I know,” said Charles; “but I think I’ll go down to Nicaragua, Wick.”
“Charley, don’t do it! She doesn’t know; and as for me--I want you here. It’s suicide to go down there. Stay here, Charley!”
“Can’t, Wick,” said Charles. Then he glanced up, with his flashing smile. “I’m off to-morrow, Wick. It’s the best thing. I’m going to make my fortune down there--see?”
“Charley, this is foolish melodrama stuff! You’re not a boy. It can’t be as bad as that.”
“It is, Wick--as bad as that.”
Wickham was silent for a long time.
“Charley--” he said, and held out his hand.
“Wick, old man!” said Charles, taking it in his.
IV
It was still raining the next morning, still blowing. Charles Hackett had made his adieus, had been driven to the station in Wickham’s car, caught an early train, and got into the city. He came out of the Grand Central into the steady downpour, pulled the shabby hat down on his forehead, turned up the collar of the threadbare overcoat, and set off on foot.
The wet and the mud soaked through his worn shoes, and the fine polish was hopelessly lost. A very battered rover he looked; but the girl in the florist’s shop thought him a splendid figure.
“Charley!” she cried.
There was no one else in the shop at this early hour, and he went with her into the little back room, dim and chilly and bare, with a long table, upon which the carnations she had been sorting lay scattered.
“You’re so wet! Won’t you take off your coat, Charley?”
“Can’t, Betty. I’m sailing at eleven, and there are things--”
“Sailing, Charley? But--you’re not going away?”
She stood before him, a slender, fair-haired girl in a green smock. He had known her years ago in Havana, in the days of her father’s prosperity; and he had found her again here, a lonely, plucky little exile, earning her own bread. No one quite like her, he thought--no one else with eyes so clear and candid, with so generous and sweet a smile; but she was twenty-two and he was forty, and he hadn’t fifty dollars to his name.
“Yes, I’m going,” he said. “I don’t fit in here, you know, Betty.”
“But--I thought you were going to get a job and stay here.”
“Well,” Charles told her, “I’ve only had one job offered me, and it doesn’t suit me; so I’m going down to Nicaragua.”
“That’s quite a long way, isn’t it?” she said casually.
“Yes, it is,” replied Charles.
They were both silent for a time. The rain was rattling against the window. The room was filled with the spicy fragrance of the carnations.
“I--I thought you’d stay here,” the girl said.
He knew well enough that she was crying, but he took care not to look at her.
“No,” he said gravely. “I don’t fit in here. I’m a derelict, and a derelict can be a danger to navigation. I’ve known some pretty good craft wrecked that way.” He was talking half to himself. When she looked at him in troubled surprise, he smiled cheerfully. “So I’ve come to say good-by, Betty,” he ended.
“I’m sure I could help you to find something to do, Charley.”
He shook his head, still smiling, his teeth white against his sunburned face. She saw the fine lines about his eyes, his shabbiness, his invincible gallantry.
“Charley!” she cried, and threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, don’t, don’t go, Charley!”
He held her tight, clasped to his wet coat, and with one hand stroked her fair head lying on his shoulder.
“Oh, don’t, don’t go away, Charley!” she sobbed. “I do--need you so!”
He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, streaming with tears. He looked straight into her eyes, and smiled again. There was something almost terrible in that smile, something inflexible, hard as steel.
“No, you don’t!” he said. “You’re a sentimental kid, that’s all. You’re going to forget all about me, like a nice kid, and six months from now you’re going to write me a letter and tell me about the wonderful boy you’ve got.”
She could smile, too, quite as steadily as he.
“All right!” she said. “All right, if you want to pretend it’s that way; but you know I won’t forget.”
He did not smile any more.
“Anyhow,” he said, “it’s good-by now.”
She raised her head and kissed him. For a moment he crushed her against him; then, with just the lightest kiss on her young head, he let her go, took up his hat, and hurried off. He knew she had come to the door to watch him go, but he did not look back.
* * * * *
All gray the harbor was that morning, and noisy with the hoarse din of whistles and fog horns; but Charles Hackett stood on deck, in the rain, to see the last of it.
A lucky thing, he thought, that Wick hadn’t brought her down to see him off! Lucky that last night Wick had looked at his face, not hers! It had been so plain there to read--the doubt, the question, the fear, in the eyes of Wickham’s wife. She didn’t know yet, but she was beginning to know.
“Why am I to have no life? Why am I to be shut out, denied everything that is real?”
She had turned with her unspoken question not to Wickham, but to his brother. Charles had come to her, almost as if the sun of the tropics had risen in the cool skies of her homeland. He had danced with her, talked to her, with his vivid smile, his immeasurable careless vitality. He had had for her not only his innate charm, but the charm of the unknown.
Even his very shabbiness had enchanted her, because it was a regal thing. He, too, might have had his pockets well filled, but he had not cared for money. He had thrown everything away, and had laughed a careless laugh.
Then he had seen what was coming. He had seen the doubt, the dismay, which she herself did not understand. He had seen her turn to him, not to her husband.
Well, she wouldn’t turn to him any more, for he would not be there. There would only be Wickham, chivalrous and quiet. She would forget the doubt and the question that would never be asked and never be answered. It was essential for Charles to go, never to be there again.
The rain and the mist almost hid the shores from his sight now. He could see only the tops of great buildings, like castles on a mountain top. His girl was there, the girl who had clung to him so.
He turned away from the rail, wet through.
“Not for me!” he said to himself.
MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE
Vol. XCIV JUNE, 1928 NUMBER 1
“I DO LOVE YOU, DOUGLAS!” SHE WHISPERED
Inches and Ells
A STORY WHICH EXPLAINS WHY MILDRED GRAHAM DECIDED, AS MANY OTHER GIRLS HAVE DECIDED BEFORE HER, THAT MEN ARE QUEER
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
She listened to his footsteps, going down and down the stone stairs, until the echo died away; and still she stood as if she were listening, one hand on the back of a chair, her lips parted, a faint frown on her brow.
But the silence settled about her, and even her own fast-beating heart and quickened breathing grew quieter.
“He’s gone,” she said aloud.
Very well! She had told him to go, and she wanted him to go. She turned away from the doorway and went toward her bedroom.
“I never should have let him call here,” she thought. “He doesn’t understand. He’s impossible. I knew it, too. I knew that if I gave him an inch, he’d take ells and ells!”
She was surprised and displeased to feel tears running down her cheeks.
“How silly!” she said to herself. “I’ll see him again to-morrow; and if he’s sorry--if he apologizes--”
She clasped her hands tight, struggling against a sob.
“I’ll go to bed and get a good night’s sleep,” she thought. “In the morning--”
But the tears would not stop. She saw her orderly little room in a mist. The silver on the dressing table made a dazzling blur, and the edge of the mirror was like a rainbow.
“Silly!” she said to herself.
There before her were the precious photographs of her father and her mother, in a double frame. She picked them up and looked at them, blinking away the tears until the beloved faces were clear to her. They had trusted her to come to New York alone, to manage her own life with dignity and discretion; they counted upon her not being silly.
At this moment they would be sitting in the library at home, in the serene quiet of their mutual affection and understanding. Perhaps her father would be writing at his table, his gray head bent over some scientific treatise, and her mother would be sewing or reading; but whatever they were doing, their child would not be forgotten. The thought of her would come to them at any moment. They must miss her, but they were proud of her and sure of her.
“I’ve got to make Douglas see,” she said to herself. “He’s got to show decent respect for me. I know he’s fond of me, but--”
The tears came again in a rush.
“I know he’s fond of me,” she thought, and remembered the ring.
Imagine his coming like that, with a ring to put on her finger, before he had even asked her if she liked him! The very first time she had asked him here, too! Catching her roughly in his arms and kissing her!
He had shown no trace of delicacy or respect, no appreciation of the honor done him in being asked here. He knew that she was quite alone, and he had taken advantage of it. Kissing her like that, when she had forbidden him!
Well, she had made him realize her just resentment. She had sent him away, him and his ring, not angrily, but quietly.
“If he had even said he was sorry,” she thought. “Perhaps he will to-morrow.”
All the time she undressed, the tears were running down her face.
“Because I’m so disappointed,” she told herself. “I didn’t think he’d be like that.”
She had seen him in the office every day for two months, and once she had gone out to lunch with him, and once to dinner; and she had felt that a very beautiful thing was beginning. She had seen in his gray eyes a look that made her heart beat fast, had heard in his voice a queer, grudging tenderness not to be forgotten.
She had known, of course, that he was not quite the man she had dreamed of, no knightly figure of romance. His manner was abrupt and domineering. More than once she had seen him lose his temper with some unlucky fellow worker, and speak in a grim white anger that distressed her bitterly; but he was so honest and so uncompromising! She had respected that, and had admired his tireless energy, his undoubted cleverness.
There were not many men of his age who had gone as far as he--head of a department at twenty-four. Yes, she had been justified in liking him; but there were those other things, those unreasonable things. When she thought of him, it was not his business ability that she remembered, but his quick smile, his steady glance, his way of scowling and running his hand over the back of his head.
“If he just says he’s sorry to-morrow,” she thought. “If he’ll just realize that he was--horrible!”
She fell asleep in a troubled and confused mood, and waked the next morning with a heavy heart.
“I won’t be weak and silly,” she thought. “If he’s not sorry--if he can’t show the proper respect for me--then it’s finished!”
II
She was sitting at her typewriter when he came into the office. She heard his curt “good morning” to some one else, heard his footsteps behind her. A wave of emotion rushed over her, so that for an instant she could not breathe; but she sat very quiet, the slender, neat, dark-haired Miss Graham that the office always beheld.
Almost at once he sent for her. She rose, took her notebook and pencil, and went into his private office.
“Shut the door,” he said.
The color rose in her cheeks, but she paid no heed to the command. He rose and shut the door himself.
“Look here!” he said. “I--I shouldn’t have made such a fool of myself, only I thought you--liked me.”
Her cheeks were flaming now. She looked straight into his face.
“If that’s the way you look at it--” she said.
“I came to you,” he said. “I offered you all I had, and you told me to get out.”
“Do you mean to say,” she cried, “that you don’t see how outrageous you were?”
They stood facing each other, like enemies.
“No,” he said, “I don’t see. I thought that if you asked me there, you had been nice to me. I thought you liked me. Now that I see you don’t, I’m sorry.”
“You just call it making a fool of yourself, to be so arrogant and disrespectful?”
“I wasn’t arrogant!” he replied hotly. “Call it arrogance to come and ask a girl to marry you--to offer her all you have?”
“I suppose I should have felt honored,” she said, with a faint smile.
His own face flushed.
“Damned if I see what more you can expect!”
“I expect respect from a man,” she told him.
“Do you think I’d ask you to marry me if I didn’t respect you?”
“The way you did it!” she cried. “It was--”
“If you cared for me,” he said, “you wouldn’t have minded my--my kissing you.”
“Yes, I should!”
Their eyes met.
“Oh, Mildred!” he cried. “Do you mean you do care?”
A panic fear seized her.
“I don’t!” she said. “No--I--it’s not fair to make me stand here and listen to you!”
He turned on his heel and walked over to the window.
“All right,” he said unsteadily. “You needn’t stay.”
She opened the door and went back into the outer office. She knew that the other girls would notice her hot color, would see that she had no dictation to transcribe, and would talk about it. She was humiliated, and it was his fault.
“I hate him!” she thought, and was shocked.
It was wrong and horrible to hate. It was shameful to be so angry and shaken.
“He’s not worth bothering about,” she thought. “He is arrogant. He’s domineering and conceited. He calls it making a fool of himself to insult and hurt me.”
She did not see him again that morning. He used the dictaphone for his letters, and presently she had them to type. It was strange to hear his voice in her ears, his impatient young voice:
“No, cross that out. No, begin it all over.”
All that long day, and all the next day, went by without a word or glance between them. The following morning was Saturday, a half holiday, and Mildred was going, as usual, to spend the week-end at home. She came to the office dressed for traveling, and bringing her bag with her.
She went directly into Randall’s little office.
“Mr. Randall,” she said, “I’m leaving to-day.”
He looked up at her.
“You’re supposed to give a week’s notice,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not coming back.”
“I haven’t--bothered you,” he said.
After she had returned to her own desk, his voice echoed in her ears, miserable, angry, and forlorn:
“I haven’t bothered you.”
“I can’t help it,” she thought. “I can’t stay here.”
Promptly at twelve o’clock Randall left the office, without a word to any one. The door closed behind him.
“He’s gone,” she thought. “I won’t see him again!”
And it seemed to her that his going left all the world empty and desolate.
“His lordship isn’t quite so gay this morning,” said the girl next to her. “He got an awful calling down. Mr. Williams sent for him. I was in Mr. Pratt’s office, and we both heard every word. I was tickled to death! I can’t stand Randall.”
“What was the matter?” asked Mildred, her eyes on her work.
“Oh, it seems that Randall had been out with the boys last night, playing poker and drinking, and Mr. Williams heard about it. When Randall made a mistake in his work this morning, the old man jumped on him--told him he wasn’t up to his work, and that if he kept on like that he’d get the gate--told him he was expected to get here in the morning fresh and fit. Oh, he just jumped on him! I was tickled to death, Randall’s so high-hat.”
“What did he say?” asked Mildred.
“What could he say? ‘All right, sir. Yes, sir! No, sir!’ He had to come down off his high horse that time!”
Mildred had a vision of young Randall, not domineering and energetic, but standing downcast and unhappy before his chief.
“I think it’s a shame!” she cried suddenly. “Mr. Williams might have closed the door, anyhow, so that no one would hear!”
“It’ll do Randall good,” said the other, with satisfaction.
“No, it won’t!” Mildred retorted.
She felt certain that humiliation would not do Randall good, but harm. A great anger filled her, and a curious fear.
“He can’t stand that,” she thought. “He won’t stand it. He’ll do something silly. If Mr. Williams had just talked to him quietly and nicely--if some one would--”
III
She had lunch alone in a little tea room, and all the while she thought of Randall, the arrogant, who had been humiliated and humbled. Playing poker and drinking! They were things utterly outside her experience, and the thought of them filled her with dismay and alarm.
“He’s so reckless,” she thought. “He told me he was all alone in New York. There’s no one to talk to him.”
That public reprimand had come to him just after she had told him that she was leaving. Perhaps that ring had been in his pocket at the time--the ring that he must have bought with such a high heart.
Through the tea room window she could look out on the crowded street. That was the world out there--the world he lived in, hurried, careless, and jostling; and he was pushing his way through it, hurried himself and careless and solitary.
“I can’t let him go like this, without a word,” she thought. “Perhaps if I just spoke to him--nicely, it might help.”
It was hard for her to do that, for it was he who should have come to her, should have asked her not to go away, should have tried to set himself right with her.
“Now he’ll think I didn’t really mind his behaving that way,” she thought. “He’ll be hard to manage, if I encourage him.”
But she had to do it. Reluctantly, with a heavy heart, she telephoned to the address he had given her.
“Randall’s not in,” said a cheerful masculine voice. “I expect him any minute. Can I take a message?”
She hesitated.
“Yes, please,” she said at last. “If you’ll tell him that Miss Graham is leaving for Hartford on the five o’clock train, and that she’d like to see him at the Grand Central for a moment before she goes.”
“Miss Graham--leaving on the five o’clock train for Hartford--wants to see him at the Grand Central. Right! I’ve got it all written down.”
That was a later train than she had meant to take, and there was a long time to be filled. She went into the book department of a big store and picked out something to read--a serious book, the sort she had been brought up to appreciate. Then she went to a tea room and had a plate of ice cream.
At half past four she reached the station, and stood near the gates of the train, waiting--such a neat, composed, dignified young creature, with her book under her arm. At heart she was nervous, but she meant to try. She was going to speak to Randall gravely and earnestly. She would not encourage him too much, but she would offer him her friendship, if he would be worthy of it. It was a difficult thing for her to do, this cherished only daughter, so sheltered, so gently bred, so quietly proud in her own honorable and blameless life. She had taken a step down in doing this.
Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady and clear, searching the crowd for him. It was right to try and help him.
He was late in coming. Only fifteen minutes now--only ten minutes!
On impulse she hurried to a telephone.
“He hasn’t got the message,” she thought. “I’ll just say good-by. I’ll tell him that perhaps I’ll see him again.”
The same masculine voice answered.
“I did give him the message,” it protested; “but you see, he’s got a little party on here. He must have lost track of the time. I’ll call him.”
“No!” she cried. “Thank you. Good-by!”
He had got her message and he had not troubled to come. She had to run now to catch the train. He hadn’t come. He didn’t care.
She stopped short as she reached the gates.
“All abo-o-ard!” cried the conductor.
But she did not go. She turned away from the train with a strange blank look on her face.
“I can’t!” she thought. “I love him. I can’t go like this!”
She was surprised to find that it had grown dark when she reached the street. A cold wind blew, and the myriad flashing lights of Forty-Second Street, the noise, the crowds, confused her. Her composure and her dignified self-reliance were gone; she felt desolate and abandoned.
“What’s the matter with me?” she thought with a sob. “I ought to be ashamed of myself. He got my message--and he didn’t come!”
She tried to stop a taxi, but they all went past.
“But he wanted to come!” she cried in her heart. “I know he wanted to come, only he’s too proud. I hurt him too much.”
He would not come to her, so she was going to him. Was it possible?
“I don’t care!” she said to herself. “I won’t go away like this!”
At last she stopped a cab.
“If he sees me--” she thought.
For somehow she, who knew so little of love and life, knew that if he saw her his stubborn pride would be melted. She must do it, at any cost to her own pride.
Terribly pale, she entered the hall of the apartment house where he lived. The hall boy came forward.
“Mr. Randall? I’ll telephone up.”
“N-no, thank you,” she said. “I’ll just go up.”
“It’s the rule--” the boy began; but after a glance at her pale, set face he resigned himself with a sigh, and took her up in the elevator.
He watched her going along the hall, so slender and straight, still with the serious book under her arm.
She rang the bell, and waited. She rang again, and the door was flung open with a crash by a cheerful, fair-haired young fellow.
“I want to see Mr. Randall,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment.
“Ran!” he called. “Come here! Some one to see you!”
IV
From a room at the end of the hall young Randall appeared in his shirt sleeves, with his dark hair ruffled and his face flushed.
“Mildred!” he cried.
The fair-haired fellow disappeared.
“Mildred!” said Randall again.
She tried to speak, but she could not. She stood there just outside the door, with the book under her arm, only looking at him.
He came down the hall to her. He, too, was silent. From the room at the back she could hear laughter and the rattle of chips, and the air was heavy with tobacco smoke.
“Come in!” he said.
She shook her head mutely, but he took her hand, drew her into the little sitting room at the right, and closed the door after him.
A terrible despair filled her. She had done this incredible thing, come here after him, and now he would despise her!
“Sit down!” he said.
She was glad to do so, for her knees were trembling.
“I couldn’t--” she said unsteadily. “I couldn’t go--I was afraid.”
“Oh, darling!” he cried. He was on his knees beside her chair, with his dark head bent on her arm. “Oh, my darling girl!”
“Douglas!” she breathed, amazed, incredulous.
“I’m so sorry!” he said in a muffled voice. “My darling girl! For you to come here--you little angel! I’m so sorry!”
“I just thought--” she faltered.
“I’m so sorry!” he cried again. “I wish I could tell you! You’re such an angel, and I’m not fit to speak to you!”
She laid her hand on his head. He caught it in his own and raised it to his lips in reverence.
“Mildred,” he said, “you don’t know how I feel. I mean it when I say I’m at your feet.”
“But--” she began, and stopped, struggling with a new idea. “Is it like this?” she thought. “If I’m just kind to him, and generous--”
If she stooped in love and pity--if she came down from her pedestal--would he worship her? She put her arm around his neck.
“I do love you, Douglas!” she whispered.
He rose to his feet.
“Mildred,” he said, “you’ll see--I’ll do anything for you! I’m not half good enough, but, Mildred, I’ll try. I don’t care how long you want me to wait. I’ll do anything you tell me!”
When she had given him an inch, he had taken an ell; but when she was reckless in her giving, he stood before her like this, utterly humble.
“Just tell me what you want,” he said.
She was silent for a moment.
“I’d like you to come out to Hartford and see my father and mother,” she said gravely.
“All right!” he said. “I’ll get my hat and coat.”
He left the door of the room open, and she could hear his curt voice in the back room.
“I’m going, boys.”
“You can’t break up the party!” protested an indignant voice.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “My--the girl I’m engaged to--wants me to go out to see her people.”
“Henpecked already!” observed the same indignant voice.
“Good-by!” said Randall. “You can take my chips, Fry. We’ll settle up later.”
When she had been dignified and reserved, he had been angry and unmanageable. When she ran after him, at such a cost to her pride, she became his sovereign lady, whose least word he obeyed.
“Men are queer!” thought Mildred.