“No, we shall not go on,” he said gloomily, as he rose.
“I suppose you blame me,” she said, rising too.
“Oh no! I blame no one—or only myself. I threw my chance away.
“I’m glad you see that, and I’m glad you did it. You don’t believe me of course. Why do men think life can be only the one thing to women? And if you come to the selfish view, who are the happy women? I’m sure that if work doesn’t fail me, health won’t, and happiness won’t.”
“But you could work on with me—”
“Second fiddle. Do you suppose I shouldn’t be woman enough to wish my work always less and lower than yours? At least I’ve heart enough for that!”
“You’ve heart enough for anything, Alma. I was a fool to say you hadn’t.”
“I think the women who keep their hearts have an even chance at least of having heart—”
“Ah, there’s where you’re wrong!”
“But mine isn’t mine to give you anyhow. And now I don’t want you ever to speak to me about this again.”
“Oh, there’s no danger!” he cried bitterly. “I shall never willingly see you again.”
“That’s as you like, Mr. Beaton. We’ve had to be very frank, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t be friends. Still, we needn’t, if you don’t like.”
“And I may come—I may come here—as—as usual?”
“Why, if you can consistently,” she said, with a smile, and she held out her hand to him.
He went home dazed and feeling as if it were a bad joke that had been put upon him. At least the affair went so deep that it estranged the aspect of his familiar studio. Some of the things in it were not very familiar; he had spent lately a great deal on rugs, on stuffs, on Japanese bric-a-brac. When he saw these things in the shops he had felt that he must have them; that they were necessary to him; and he was partly in debt for them, still without having sent any of his earnings to pay his father. As he looked at them now he liked to fancy something weird and conscious in them as the silent witnesses of a broken life. He felt about among some of the smaller objects on the mantel for his pipe. Before he slept he was aware, in the luxury of his despair, of a remote relief, an escape; and after all, the understanding he had come to with Alma was only the explicit formulation of terms long tacit between them. Beaton would have been puzzled more than he knew if she had taken him seriously. It was inevitable that he should declare himself in love with her, but he was not disappointed at her rejection of his love, perhaps not so much as he would have been at its acceptance, though he tried to think otherwise and to give himself airs of tragedy. He did not really feel that the result was worse than what had gone before, and it left him free.
But he did not go to the Leightons’ again for so long a time that Mrs. Leighton asked Alma what had happened. Alma told her.
“And he won’t come anymore?” her mother sighed, with reserved censure.
“Oh, I think he will. He couldn’t very well come the next night. But he has the habit of coming, and with Mr. Beaton habit is everything—even the habit of thinking he’s in love with someone.”
“Alma,” said her mother, “I don’t think it’s very nice for a girl to let a young man keep coming to see her after she’s refused him.”
“Why not, if it amuses him and doesn’t hurt the girl?”
“But it does hurt her, Alma. It—it’s indelicate. It isn’t fair to him; it gives him hopes.”
“Well, Mamma, it hasn’t happened in the given case yet. If Mr. Beaton comes again I won’t see him, and you can forbid him the house.”
“If I could only feel sure, Alma,” said her mother, taking up another branch of the inquiry, “that you really knew your own mind, I should be easier about it.”
“Then you can rest perfectly quiet, Mamma. I do know my own mind, and what’s worse, I know Mr. Beaton’s mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he spoke to me the other night simply because Mr. Fulkerson’s engagement had broken him all up.”
“What expressions!” Mrs. Leighton lamented.
“He let it out himself,” Alma went on. “And you wouldn’t have thought it was very flattering yourself. When I’m made love to, after this, I prefer to be made love to in an off year, when there isn’t another engaged couple anywhere about.”
“Did you tell him that, Alma?”
“Tell him that! What do you mean, Mamma? I may be indelicate, but I’m not quite so indelicate as that.”
“I didn’t mean you were indelicate, really, Alma, but I wanted to warn you. I think Mr. Beaton was very much in earnest.”
“Oh, so did he!”
“And you didn’t?”
“Oh yes, for the time being. I suppose he’s very much in earnest with Miss Vance at times, and with Miss Dryfoos at others. Sometimes he’s a painter, and sometimes he’s an architect, and sometimes he’s a sculptor. He has too many gifts—too many tastes.”
“And if Miss Vance, and Miss Dryfoos—”
“Oh, do say Sculpture and Architecture, Mamma! It’s getting so dreadfully personal!”
“Alma, you know that I only wish to get at your real feeling in the matter.”
“And you know that I don’t want to let you—especially when I haven’t got any real feeling in the matter. But I should think—speaking in the abstract entirely—that if either of those arts was ever going to be in earnest about him, it would want his exclusive devotion for a week at least.”
“I didn’t know,” said Mrs. Leighton, “that he was doing anything now at the others. I thought he was entirely taken up with his work on Every Other Week.”
“Oh, he is! He is!”
“And you certainly can’t say that he hasn’t been very kind—very useful to you in that matter.”
“And so I ought to have said yes out of gratitude? Thank you, Mamma! I didn’t know you held me so cheap.”
“You know whether I hold you cheap or not, Alma. I don’t want you to cheapen yourself. I don’t want you to trifle with anyone. I want you to be honest with yourself.”
“Well, come now, Mamma! Suppose you begin. I’ve been perfectly honest with myself, and I’ve been honest with Mr. Beaton. I don’t care for him, and I’ve told him I didn’t; so he may be supposed to know it. If he comes here after this, he’ll come as a plain, unostentatious friend of the family, and it’s for you to say whether he shall come in that capacity or not. I hope you won’t trifle with him and let him get the notion that he’s coming on any other basis.”
Mrs. Leighton felt the comfort of the critical attitude far too keenly to abandon it for anything constructive. She only said, “You know very well, Alma, that’s a matter I can have nothing to do with.”
“Then you leave him entirely to me?”
“I hope you will regard his right to candid and open treatment.”
“He’s had nothing but the most open and candid treatment from me, Mamma. It’s you that want to play fast and loose with him. And to tell you the truth, I believe he would like that a good deal better; I believe that if there’s anything he hates, it’s openness and candor.”
Alma laughed and put her arms round her mother, who could not help laughing a little too.
II
THE WINTER DID NOT RENEW for Christine and Mela the social opportunity which the spring had offered. After the musicale at Mrs. Horn’s, they both made their party call, as Mela said, in due season; but they did not find Mrs. Horn at home, and neither she nor Miss Vance came to see them after people returned to town in the fall. They tried to believe for a time that Mrs. Horn had not got their cards; this pretense failed them, and they fell back upon their pride, or rather Christine’s pride. Mela had little but her good-nature to avail her in any exigency, and if Mrs. Horn or Miss Vance had come to call after a year of neglect, she would have received them as amiably as if they had not lost a day in coming. But Christine had drawn a line beyond which they would not have been forgiven, and she had pl
anned the words and the behavior with which she would have punished them if they had appeared then. Neither sister imagined herself in anywise inferior to them, but Christine was suspicious at least, and it was Mela who invented the hypothesis of the lost cards. As nothing happened to prove or to disprove the fact, she said, “I move we put Coonrod up to gittun’ it out of Miss Vance at some of their meetings.”
“If you do,” said Christine, “I’ll kill you.”
Christine, however, had the visits of Beaton to console her, and if these seemed to have no definite aim, she was willing to rest in the pleasure they gave her vanity; but Meta had nothing. Sometimes she even wished they were all back on the farm.
“It would be the best thing for both of you,” said Mrs. Dryfoos, in answer to such a burst of desperation. “I don’t think New York is any place for girls.”
“Well, what I hate, Mother,” said Mela, “is it don’t seem to be any place for young men either.” She found this so good when she had said it that she laughed over it till Christine was angry.
“A body would think there had never been any joke before.”
“I don’t see as it’s a joke,” said Mrs. Dryfoos. “It’s the plain truth.”
“Oh, don’t mind her, Mother,” said Mela. “She’s put out because her old Mr. Beaton ha’n’t been round for a couple o’ weeks. If you don’t watch out, that fellow’ll give you the slip yit, Christine, after all your pains.”
“Well, there ain’t anybody to give you the slip, Mela,” Christine clawed back.
“No; I ha’n’t ever set my traps for anybody.” This was what Mela said for want of a better retort, but it was not quite true. When Kendricks came with Beaton to call after her father’s dinner, she used all her cunning to insnare him, and she had him to herself as long as Beaton stayed; Dryfoos sent down word that he was not very well and had gone to bed. The novelty of Mela had worn off for Kendricks, and she found him, as she frankly told him, not half as entertaining as he was at Mrs. Horn’s; but she did her best with him as the only flirtable material which had yet come to her hand. It would have been her ideal to have the young men stay till past midnight, and her father come downstairs in his stocking feet and tell them it was time to go. But they made a visit of decorous brevity, and Kendricks did not come again. She met him afterward, once, as she was crossing the pavement in Union Square, to get into her coupé, and made the most of him; but it was necessarily very little, and so he passed out of her life without having left any trace in her heart, though Mela had a heart that she would have put at the disposition of almost any young man that wanted it. Kendricks himself, Manhattan cockney as he was, with scarcely more outlook into the average American nature than if he had been kept a prisoner in New York society all his days, perceived a property in her which forbade him as a man of conscience to trifle with her; something earthly good and kind, if it was simple and vulgar. In revising his impressions of her, it seemed to him that she would come even to better literary effect if this were recognized in her; and it made her sacred, in spite of her willingness to fool and to be fooled in her merely human quality. After all, he saw that she wished honestly to love and to be loved, and the lures she threw out to that end seemed to him pathetic rather than ridiculous; he could not join Beaton in laughing at her, and he did not like Beaton’s laughing at the other girl either. It seemed to Kendricks, with the code of honor which he mostly kept to himself because he was a little ashamed to find there were so few others like it, that if Beaton cared nothing for the other girl—and Christine appeared simply detestable to Kendricks—he had better keep away from her and not give her the impression he was in love with her. He rather fancied that this was the part of a gentleman, and he could not have penetrated to that aesthetic and moral complexity which formed the consciousness of a nature like Beaton, and was chiefly a torment to itself; he could not have conceived of the wayward impulses indulged at every moment in little things, till the straight highway was traversed and well-nigh lost under their tangle. To do whatever one likes is finally to do nothing that one likes, even though one continues to do what one will; but Kendricks, though a sage of twenty-seven, was still too young to understand this.
Beaton scarcely understood it himself, perhaps because he was not yet twenty-seven. He only knew that his will was somehow sick, that it spent itself in caprices and brought him no happiness from the fulfillment of the most vehement wish. But he was aware that his wishes grew less and less vehement; he began to have a fear that sometime he might have none at all. It seemed to him that if he could once do something that was thoroughly distasteful to himself, he might make a beginning in the right direction; but when he tried this on a small scale it failed, and it seemed stupid. Some sort of expiation was the thing he needed, he was sure, but he could not think of anything in particular to expiate; a man could not expiate his temperament, and his temperament was what Beaton decided to be at fault. He perceived that it went deeper than even fate would have gone; he could have fulfilled an evil destiny and had done with it, however terrible. His trouble was that he could not escape from himself, and for the most part, he justified himself in refusing to try. After he had come to that distinct understanding with Alma Leighton and experienced the relief it really gave him, he thought for a while that if it had fallen out otherwise and she had put him in charge of her destiny, he might have been better able to manage his own. But as it was, he could only drift and let all other things take their course. It was necessary that he should go to see her afterward, to show her that he was equal to the event; but he did not go so often, and he went rather oftener to the Dryfooses; it was not easy to see Margaret Vance, except on the society terms. With much sneering and scorning, he fulfilled the duties to Mrs. Horn without which he knew he should be dropped from her list; but one might go to many of her Thursdays without getting many words with her niece. Beaton hardly knew whether he wanted many; the girl kept the charm of her innocent stylishness, but latterly she wanted to talk more about social questions than about the psychical problems that young people usually debate so personally. Son of the working people as he was, Beaton had never cared anything about such matters; he did not know about them or wish to know; he was perhaps too near them. Besides, there was an embarrassment, at least on her part, concerning the Dryfooses. She was too high-minded to blame him for having tempted her to her failure with them by his talk about them, but she was conscious of avoiding them in her talk. She had decided not to renew the effort she had made in the spring, because she could not do them good as fellow creatures needing food and warmth and work, and she would not try to befriend them socially; she had a horror of any such futile sentimentality. She would have liked to account to Beaton in this way for a course which she suspected he must have heard their comments upon, but she did not quite know how to do it; she could not be sure how much or how little he cared for them. Some tentative approaches which she made toward explanation were met with such eager disclaim of personal interest that she knew less than before what to think, and she turned the talk from the sisters to the brother, whom it seemed she still continued to meet in their common work among the poor.
“He seems very different,” she ventured.
“Oh, quite,” said Beaton. “He’s the kind of person that you might suppose gave the Catholics a hint for the cloistral life; he’s a cloistered nature—the nature that atones and suffers for. But he’s awfully dull company, don’t you think? I never can get anything out of him.”
“He’s very much in earnest.”
“Remorselessly. We’ve got a profane and mundane creature there at the office who runs us all, and it’s shocking merely to see the contact of the two natures. When Fulkerson gets to joking Dryfoos—he likes to put his joke in the form of a pretense that Dryfoos is actuated by a selfish motive, that he has an eye to office and is working up a political interest for himself on the East Side—it’s something inexpressible.”
“I should think so,” said Miss Vance, with such lof
ty disapproval that Beaton felt himself included in it for having merely told what caused it.
He could not help saying in natural rebellion, “Well, the man of one idea is always a little ridiculous.”
“When his idea is right?” she demanded. “A right idea can’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, I only said, the man that held it alone. He’s flat; he has no relief, no projection.”
She seemed unable to answer, and he perceived that he had silenced her to his own disadvantage. It appeared to Beaton that she was becoming a little too exacting for comfort in her idealism. He put down the cup of tea he had been tasting, and said in his solemn staccato, “I must go. Good bye!” and got instantly away from her, with an effect he had of having suddenly thought of something imperative.
He went up to Mrs. Horn for a moment’s hail and farewell and felt himself subtly detained by her through fugitive passages of conversation with half a dozen other people. He fancied that at crises of this strange interview Mrs. Horn was about to become confidential with him, and confidential, of all things, about her niece. She ended by not having palpably been so. In fact, the concern in her mind would have been difficult to impart to a young man, and after several experiments Mrs. Horn found it impossible to say that she wished Margaret could somehow be interested in lower things than those which occupied her. She had watched with growing anxiety the girl’s tendency to various kinds of self-devotion. She had dark hours in which she even feared her entire withdrawal from the world in a life of good works. Before now, girls had entered the Protestant sisterhoods, which appeal so potently to the young and generous imagination, and Margaret was of just the temperament to be influenced by them. During the past summer she had been unhappy at her separation from the cares that had engrossed her more and more as their stay in the city drew to an end in the spring, and she had hurried her aunt back to town earlier in the fall than she would have chosen to come. Margaret had her correspondents among the working women whom she befriended. Mrs. Horn was at one time alarmed to find that Margaret was actually promoting a strike of the button-hole workers. This, of course, had its ludicrous side, in connection with a young lady in good society, and a person of even so little humor as Mrs. Horn could not help seeing it. At the same time she could not help foreboding the worst from it; she was afraid that Margaret’s health would give way under the strain and that if she did not go into a sisterhood she would at least go into a decline. She began the winter with all such counteractive measures as she could employ. At an age when such things weary, she threw herself into the pleasures of society with the hope of dragging Margaret after her; and a sympathetic witness must have followed with compassion her course from ball to ball, from reception to reception, from parlor reading to parlor reading, from musicale to musicale, from play to play, from opera to opera. She tasted, after she had practically renounced them, the bitter and the insipid flavors of fashionable amusement in the hope that Margaret might find them sweet, and now at the end she had to own to herself that she had failed. It was coming Lent again, and the girl had only grown thinner and more serious with the diversions that did not divert her from the baleful works of beneficence on which Mrs. Horn felt that she was throwing her youth away. Margaret could have borne either alone, but together they were wearing her out. She felt it a duty to undergo the pleasures her aunt appointed for her, but she could not forego the other duties in which she found her only pleasure.
A Hazard of New Fortunes Page 42
