“Well, how about La Corona?”
This seemed to touch a more vital spot, for Armstrong paused and took a chair again, smiling a little. “Yes, I had it bad that time, didn’t I? But bless me — every man I knew, almost, was gone on her.”
“And Mrs. Bergsmith—” pursued his tormentor.
“She was a stunner, wasn’t she?” admitted Armstrong.
“And a whole train I’ve forgotten the names of,” Newcome persisted. To which his friend cheerfully added:
“I have too. Come, now, Newcome, don’t bother about them. That’s not the same thing and you know it.”
But Newcome was not to be diverted. He went on in an even voice, his eyes on Armstrong’s face: “Then there was that little raw-boned, red-haired girl in Notchville that summer — what ever became of her?”
Armstrong sprang to his feet, and paced the chamber, evidently distressed. “God knows—” he said. “She ran away, I guess. Maybe drowned herself — they said so up there.”
“Took it hard, didn’t she?” his friend suggested, but the other retorted angrily:
“You shut up, Newcome! I’ll admit you were right about that young one. I ought to have let her alone. But hang it all. There wasn’t anybody else around — and she was such a greenhorn. I sent her money. I meant to take care of her, of course — but she sent it back. I was awfully sorry about her — really.”
“I should think you would have been,” said Newcome quietly. “What in Hades set you to dragging up all this ancient history, anyway? Confound you, Newcome, keep your ghosts to yourself, will you? There’s an end of all that foolishness for good now. This woman I mean to marry.”
He relit his cigar, which had languished during these unwelcome reminiscences, and smoked valiantly. His friend gazed at him in a sort of admiration of his single-heartedness. “Maybe she’ll turn you down,” he quietly suggested.
“Maybe she will — but she’ll be the first woman to resist Dick Armstrong — when he’s made up his mind!”
“I always did admire your intellect, Dick.”
“Oh, come, Newcome, don’t be a lemon. You’re a mighty good fellow and I’ve liked you too long to quarrel with you, but what are you rubbing it in for? Casting up my diversified past at me like this! You’ve had your own little episodes, but I never fling ’em at your head.”
Newcome was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the floor. “Yes — I suppose most men have tried a little hell. But when they see heaven they wish they hadn’t.”
“All men, Harry, all men — unless something ails ‘em. But they’re not sorry — why should they be? It’s nature.”
Newcome turned upon him, serious in face and voice. “Aren’t you sorry now, Dick? — when you do really love at last? When you see the woman you want to make your wife?”
“No,” said Armstrong shortly, rising to his feet. “I’m not. I never was at the time, and I’m not now. I’m sorry for that poor little tyke up in the country, of course, but for gathering roses while we may — never!” He walked about excitedly. “And now! Now! Why, everything I ever did — every other woman in the universe — every other memory is blotted out in this blaze of glory — this great, splendid, full-blooded woman! All light and fire and honey! I’ll have her or I’ll know the reason why!”
“I guess you will,” said Newcome, quietly.
“Well, confound you for a clam, Newcome! The moon’s more cordial than you are, tonight. I’ll go outdoors for company!” Armstrong took himself off for a tramp in the hills, the large yellow harvest moon shining down upon him, his heart full of the lift and splendor of the deepest passion he had ever known.
Newcome stood at his window for a while, watching the sturdy figure swing along among the vivid black and white lights and shadows. He turned at length and paced softly up and down, his head bent low. Then, sitting down at last beside the lamp, he drew out a pocket case, such as a man carries for photographs of sweetheart, wife or child. In this was no picture; only some newspaper clippings, and a faded and creased piece of blue ribbon — that uncompromising blue so often chosen to decorate red hair. He turned it over in his hand, looked at the little “airtight” stove, and drew out his matchbox.
Then he put the matchbox away again, tenderly smoothed out the big blue bow, and put it carefully back in the case.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly to himself. “I don’t know as there’s any harm in my keeping this much!”
11. Various Efforts
Margaret Yale had a clear head, and she needed it. She had steady nerves, a trained mind, a strong, practiced will, a healthy body; she needed them all in the remaining days of that visit in the Adirondack hills.
Those blue distances and green foregrounds, the cool gloom of the forest, the heat of the stony roads and stonier pastures, the sights and sounds and smells of the place, brought to mind the experiences of her youth in a bewildering way. She was haunted as by a dual personality, an unwelcome intruder, bringing back the crude longings, the fierce sensitiveness, the limitations of her uncared-for youth. She found herself aware of feelings which she knew were not her feelings now, but shamefacedly remembered as having been her feelings once.
To this confusing and undesired rejuvenescence was added the sense of being a person in a play, as she moved, undetected, among all those who had known her before, and now seemed so utterly unaware of it. She had soon grown quite calm concerning the others, but with Armstrong there was always the astonishment that he did not remember; she had even sometimes an impish temptation to test his complete forgetfulness. And of Newcome she was not quite sure; still he never alarmed her, and though she saw comparatively little of him, he seemed to extend an atmosphere of calmness and goodwill that was very restful. Then, sufficient in itself to try any woman’s strength, was that bittersweet campaign in which she pressed on ardently, yet with patience — the wooing of her own child’s heart.
What love for a mother that calm young person had felt went first to Julie, for whom she still grieved at times, and second to her adoptive parent. Miss Yale she had always known as a sort of fairy godmother, hovering on the outside of her life, sending delightful presents, showering kindnesses on everybody. To cross the ocean and be with her to live, to be the adopted daughter of this high beneficence was a far more prominent fact in Dolly’s mind than the coming of this grown-up foster sister.
But Margaret showed a patience beyond her years, far beyond the swift, embracing love with which she so desired to engulf the child. Hers was a hunger unknown to most mothers, a stored, accumulated hunger, a hunger that had unconsciously absorbed such other longings as these growing years might else have known. The self-reproach which she bore always within gave a desperate bitterness to her longing. Most mothers regard their children with fond pride, and a pleasant sense of duty done; but Dorothy stood, to Margaret, almost in the light of an accuser. She knew that she had robbed her, robbed her own child, of a home, a father, a name and place among other children, and even of a mother — to the child’s knowledge.
Again and again her whole nature rose in fierce demand. She would claim the child as hers, face the world with her, force a place for them both. Then she would relentlessly look at the facts again, see how long and hard would be that struggle, not only for herself — she would welcome it — but for the little one. For the child’s sake, for her home, her education, her associates, her ultimate marriage — her mother must pay the price. It would be no kindness to Miss Yale, to whom they both owed more than life, either to leave her, robbed and alone — or to force upon her problems she had not chosen.
So Margaret, with her aching mother’s heart, remained the foster sister, and laid siege to Dorothy’s young affections with careful skill. She must not go too far — too fast. Dorothy must never know she was being wooed. She must tempt — withdraw — be always kind, but not always within reach. So she took part in the mild gaieties of the household, and went walking and climbing with the others whe
n she would have far preferred to be seeking flowers or berries with the little one. She would not hunt, though in a bout of pistol practice Armstrong got up for amusement, she showed astonishing proficiency.
“I pity the burglar when you wake up!” he said admiringly.
“Why so?” she asked him.
“I doubt his recovery,” he assured her, with evident intent to compliment. But she only suggested:
“There is no death penalty for burglars, is there?” and continued to perforate their impromptu target with close-grouped dots of black. They all praised her, but she laughed it off.
“That was all acquired in a season in Paris,” she said. “It took a great deal of time, really, and I doubt if I shall ever need to use it.”
“Did you learn to fence?” Daisy asked her. “I thought in Paris everybody learned fencing. I always wanted to.”
“Yes, I took fencing lessons,” she said, “and dancing lessons, too. There was so little real exercise to be had, you see.”
Armstrong could fence, and fence well. He was more than anxious to prove his proficiency in her eyes, mastery if possible. Keeping his own counsel, he sent for his foils and masks. It annoyed him more than he liked to admit that she shot so much better than he.
“Why should you care?” Newcome demanded, amused at his continued grumblings. “A pistol is a woman’s natural weapon, I think — a little lady-gun, just as sure to kill as a cannon, and much easier to carry. If they only knew it they might have been safe from all dangerous males ever since pistols were invented.”
“Well, they’re not,” said Armstrong. “They’re afraid of firearms — and they ought to be. It’s natural.”
“I don’t think it’s natural at all,” maintained the other. “It’s purely artificial — all this nonsense about female timidity. You don’t see any timidity in a lioness, or a bearess, or any of those females. I think it’s great to see Dr. Yale shoot — she does it so unconsciously.”
“Pity she doesn’t hunt,” mused Armstrong, examining his gun. “It seems inconsistent.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said his friend. “She says she’s willing to kill lions and tigers and things like that, if it is necessary, but she doesn’t see the fun in killing little beasts that can’t kill you — and don’t even want to! What’s more she won’t fish. That leaves me out. But she certainly plays tennis well enough for two.”
She played well enough to beat either of them, and this also was galling to Armstrong. He was highly skilled in many lines, not often bested by men and never before by a woman.
They played whist in the evenings, Miss Yale stoutly refusing to learn bridge; and again Newcome admired and Armstrong winced under Margaret’s strong play. If she played with him they beat the others, and he was happy; if she played against him, he needed the best of cards and all his skill to save his game. From whist to tiddledywinks, which was Dolly’s favorite, into which she always strove to inveigle her elders, Margaret played better than any of them.
Armstrong could not keep away from her. She had always some easy reason for not going off with him on any separate tramp or excursion, but he was near her for some part of each day and evening, and the more he saw of her the more intense grew that fierce desire for ownership, that overmastering hunger, which was his variety of love. If she had been weaker he might have felt a gentler affection, but she seemed armed at every point. Precisely because of his growing love he could not bear to have her master him, even in a child’s game. He wished to help her, serve her, guard and protect her; he wished her to turn to him for strength, to lean on him, look up to him, admire him. She was quite kind and civil always, but he made no headway with her, and with her every easy victory in the small sports he felt as if he was losing ground instead of gaining it.
“I believe you would play a good game of chess, my dear,” predicted Mr. Briggs, one evening, looking across the table admiringly, as they finished a triumphant rubber together. “I think there are some chessmen about. Armstrong and I used to play, I think — didn’t we, Armstrong?”
Armstrong agreed that they did, years ago. Daisy obligingly hunted out the men and found a checker board. The Reverend Edward was reduced to smiling extinction very promptly.
“It’s no use, my dear. I see you are far beyond me in this game. Time was when I could have made a better defense — been more worth your while. Come on, Armstrong, let’s see you hold your own with her — if you can!”
Miss Yale stood by with keen enjoyment, quiet, but hotly interested, when Armstrong and Margaret sat down to their first game of chess one rainy afternoon. She could read his feelings fairly well, though unsympathetically. Only Newcome, glancing across from the long chair where he was reading, made pitying allowance for the double strain. He knew that that firm, delicate hand, hovering a moment, but never touching till the move was settled, then making the swift step, and snapping up a piece or pawn maybe, without touching or upsetting any other was more interesting than the game to her opponent. Armstrong forgot his plans in watching her broad, smooth brow, the shining satin and soft cloud of her rich hair, the dropped eyes, warm color, and serious, sweet mouth. His mind was haunted too by scraps of poetic memory about such scenes— “white hands among the ivory men astray,” and bits like that. He was in no fair condition to play chess, but when she presently mated him, the blood flushed to his hair in angry surprise; he steadied himself and played better. When she mated him again he grew white about the lips; his pride rose and gripped him; even love was lost for the moment in the fierceness of conflict. He set his whole mind upon the game, played coldly, slowly, brilliantly — but she beat him the third time.
“It’s not the game, merely,” he explained to the patient Newcome that night. “I’ve been beaten, of course — I’m not such a hard loser. But, hang it, Newcome, to be beaten by a woman — and the woman I love!”
“I should think you’d be proud of her,” his friend assured him, “glad and proud because she’s so capable. She certainly is a wonder, that girl!”
He shook his head, meditating inwardly on the strain she was under, too, in all these days. But Armstrong was unable to be quiet:
“I’m out of practice,” he protested. “I haven’t played a game of chess — with anybody worthwhile — in years. Briggs doesn’t count. And then, a man’s at a deuced disadvantage when he’s in love. And she knows it!”
Newcome glanced at him. “She played a very steady game, I noticed,” he said soberly. “No ‘nods and winks and wreathed smiles’ about it.”
“Oh, no, of course not — nothing so apparent. Trust a woman for not showing her hand. But I’ll beat her yet!” He set his heavy jaw in utter determination. The instinct of the hunter was strong within him; the fire of battle seemed now added to the conflagration already existing.
Newcome was minded to give him a sharp warning, but remembered Margaret’s repeated victories and thought better of it. He was minded then to joke a bit about it, but glanced at Armstrong’s fierce, set face, and thought better of that, too.
Good Mr. Briggs, always kind, took a lively interest in these conflicts, and became a staunch upholder of Margaret’s record against all comers. His wife, while polite and congratulatory, showed no such pleasure in her young guest’s abilities; but told Daisy in private, in answer to her rapturous acclaim, that she was really glad she, Daisy, was not a phenomenon.
“In any case she does not compare with you in music, or in art, my dear.”
“Why, mother! I’m not jealous of her! I simply admire her beyond words. And she’s so nice about it. She hasn’t ever tried to get up any of these trials — it’s always Dr. Armstrong. He likes to overcome anybody or anything, I think. It’s lots of fun to see somebody overcome him.”
Her mother glanced at her sharply from under the scant tail of hair she held firmly in one hand upon her crown, and brushed down frontwards over her bent head. But Daisy showed no more pique about Armstrong than about Margaret, and Mrs. Briggs heaved a fai
nt sigh behind the gray cascade.
“Gerald says she’s a wonder — he never saw anybody like her,” the girl went on happily. “That she’s as gentle and sweet as a woman need be, and yet so tremendously able.”
Again Mrs. Briggs glanced shrewdly at her daughter, but she seemed not even jealous of Gerald, whereat her mother took hope. That hope was baseless; Daisy was too sure of her cousin’s long-established affection to mind his praise of any passing wonders. The two had had opportunity to settle many questions this summer, among others the question of time.
“I’ve had such a good talk with Newcome, Daisy,” Gerald had told her, one quiet afternoon in the deep shadowy ravine. “He knows how I’m situated and how long I’ve cared for you, and he asked: ‘What are you waiting for?’ I told him about Mother, of course, and he said: ‘Look at Hank Haines — do you think it is right that he should have sacrificed not only his own life but some nice girl’s just to gratify that domineering old creature?’ I was a little offended, but he said of course he didn’t mean that Mother was like that, but that all of us children were grown up now, and she was only about fifty and quite healthy. ‘Why doesn’t she do something for herself now?’ he said. And what’s more, do you know he actually wrote to Mother and put it to her — she thinks a lot of him, you know — and she said she’d be glad to — always had wanted to — but was afraid the boys wouldn’t like it. And he wrote her another of his jolly letters and told her she was free, white and twenty-one — she sent the letters to me — and Daisy — she’s going to! She’s going to take boarders in summer, and she says she can make enough to come into Boston in winter and see and hear something.”
“I think Dr. Newcome is just splendid!” Daisy told him. “I like him tremendously.”
“More than you like me, Daisy?”
“Well, I don’t know,” she replied, looking at him with unexpected mischief in her soft eyes. “I only said ‘like,’ you know.”
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 64
