Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

She put her hand-bag down, and went and stood at one of the windows, trying to make up her mind to venture out; and then she began to move back and forth from one window to the other. It must have been this effect of restlessness and anxiety that made the janitress speak to her at last: “Expecting friends to meet you?”

  Cornelia turned round and took a good look at the janitress. She decided from her official as well as her personal appearance that she might be trusted, as least provisionally. It had been going through her mind there at the windows what a fool she was to refuse to let Mr. Ludlow come to meet her with that friend of his, and she had been helplessly feigning that she had not refused, and that he was really coming, but was a little late. She was in the act of accepting his apology for the delay when the janitress spoke to her, and she said: “I don’t know whether I’d better wait any longer. I was looking for a Fourth Avenue car.”

  “Well, you couldn’t hardly miss one,” said the janitress. “They’re going all the time. Stranger in the city?”

  “Yes, I am,” Cornelia admitted; she thought she had better admit it.

  “Well,” said the janitress, “if I was you I’d wait for my friends a while longer. It’s after dark, now, and if they come here and find you gone, they’ll be uneasy, won’t they?”

  “Well,” said Cornelia, and she sank submissively into a seat.

  The janitress sat down too. “Not but what it’s safe enough, and you needn’t be troubled, if they don’t come. You can go half an hour later just as well. My! I’ve had people sit here all day and wait. The things I’ve seen here, well, if they were put into a story you couldn’t hardly believe them. I had a poor woman come in here one morning last week with a baby in her arms, and three little children hanging round her, to wait for her husband; and she waited till midnight, and he didn’t come. I could have told her first as well as last that he wasn’t ever coming; I knew it from the kind of a letter he wrote her, and that she fished up out of her pocket to show me, so as to find whether she had come to the right place to wait, or not, but I couldn’t bear to do it; and I did for her and the children as well as I could, and when it came to it, about twelve, I coaxed her to go home, and come again in the morning. She didn’t come back again; I guess she began to suspect something herself.”

  “Why, don’t you suppose he ever meant to come?” Cornelia asked, tremulously.

  “I don’t know,” said the janitress. “I didn’t tell her so. I’ve had all kinds of homeless folks come in here, that had lost their pocket-books, or never had any, and little tots of children, with papers pinned on to tell me who they were expecting, and I’ve had ’em here on my hands till I had to shut up at night.”

  “And what did you do then?” Cornelia began to be anxious about her own fate, in case she should not get away before the janitress had to shut up.

  “Well, some I had to put into the street, them that were used to it; and then there are homes of all kinds for most of ‘em; old ladies’ homes, and young girls’ homes, and destitute females’ homes, and children’s homes, where they can go for the night, and all I’ve got to do is to give an order. It isn’t as bad as you’d think, when you first come to the city; I came here from Connecticut.”

  Cornelia thought she might respond so far as to say, “I’m from Ohio,” and the janitress seemed to appreciate the confidence.

  She said, “Not on your way to the White House, I suppose? There are so many Presidents from your State. Well, I knew you were not from near New York, anywhere. I do have so many different sorts of folks coming in here, and I have to get acquainted with so many of ’em whether or no. Lots of foreigners, for one thing, and men blundering in, as well as women. They think it’s a ticket-office, and want to buy tickets of me, and I have to direct ’em where. It’s surprising how bright they are, oftentimes. The Irish are the hardest to get pointed right; the Italians are quick; and the Chinese! My, they’re the brightest of all. If a Chinaman comes in for a ticket up the Harlem road, all I’ve got to do is to set my hand so, and so!” She faced south and set her hand westward; then she faced west, and set her hand northward. “They understand in a minute, and they’re off like a flash.”

  As if she had done now all that sympathy demanded for Cornelia, the janitress went about some work in another part of the room and left the girl to herself. But Cornelia knew that she was keeping a friendly eye on her, and in the shelter of her presence, she tried to gather courage to make that start into the street alone, which she must finally make and which she was so foolish to keep postponing. She had written to the landlady of her boarding house that she should arrive on such a day, at such an hour; and here was the day, and she was letting the hour go by, and very likely the landlady would give her room to some one else. Or, if the expressman who took her check on the train, should get there with her trunk first, the landlady might refuse to take it. Cornelia did not know how people acted about such things in New York. She ought to go, and she tried to rise; but she was morally so unable that it was as if she were physically unable.

  People came and went; some of them more than once, and Cornelia began to feel that they noticed her and recognized her, but still she could not move. Suddenly a figure appeared at the door, the sight of which armed her with the power of flight. She knew that it was Ludlow, from the photograph he had lately sent Mrs. Burton, with the pointed beard and the branching moustache which he had grown since they met last, and she jumped up to rush past him where he stood peering sharply round at the different faces in the room, and finally letting his eyes rest in eager question on hers.

  He came towards her, and then it was too late to escape. “Miss Saunders? Oh, I’m so glad! I’ve been out of town, and I’ve only just got Mrs. Burton’s telegram. Have I kept you waiting long?”

  “Not very,” said Cornelia. She might have said that he had not kept her waiting at all; the time that she had waited, without being kept by him, was now like no time at all; but she could not say anything more, and she wished to cry, she felt so glad and safe in his keeping. He caught up her bag, and she followed him out, with a blush over her shoulder for the janitress, who smiled after her with mistaken knowingness. But this was at least her self-delusion, and Cornelia had an instant in the confusion when it seemed as if Ludlow’s coming had somehow annulled the tacit deceit she had practised in letting the janitress suppose she expected some one.

  Ludlow kept talking to her all the way in the horse-car, but she could find only the briefest and dryest answers to his friendly questions about her mother and the Burtons; and all Pymantoning; and she could not blame him for taking such a hasty leave of her at her boarding-house that he almost flew down the steps before the door closed upon her.

  She knew that she had disgusted him; and she hinted at this in the letter of scolding gratitude which she wrote to Mrs. Burton before she slept, for the trick she had played her. After all, though, she reasoned, she need not be so much troubled: he had done it for Mrs. Burton, and not for her, and he had not thought it worth while to bring a chaperon. To be sure, he had no time for that; but there was something in it all which put Cornelia back to the mere child she was when they first met in the Fair House at Pymantoning; she kept seeing herself angry and ill-mannered and cross to her mother, and it was as if he saw her so, too. She resented that, for she knew that she was another person now, and she tingled with vexation that she had done nothing to make him realize it.

  XI.

  Ludlow caught a cab in the street, and drove furiously to his lodging, where he dressed in ten minutes, so that he was not more than fifteen minutes late at the dinner he had risked missing for Cornelia’s sake.

  “I’m afraid I’m very late,” he said, from his place at the left of his hostess; he pulled his napkin across his lap, and began to attack his oysters at once.

  “Oh, not at all,” said the lady, but he knew that she would have said much the same if he had come as they were rising from table.

  A clear, gay voice rose from the corner of th
e board diagonally opposite: “The candles haven’t begun to burn their shades yet; so you are still early, Mr. Ludlow.”

  The others laughed with the joy people feel in having a familiar fact noted for the first time. They had all seen candle-shades weakly topple down on the flames and take fire at dinner.

  The gay voice went on, rendered, perhaps, a little over-bold by success: “If you see the men rising to put them out, you may be sure that they’ve been seated exactly an hour.”

  Ludlow looked across the bed of roses which filled two-thirds of the table, across the glitter of glass, and the waver of light and shadow, and said, “Oh, you’re there!”

  The wit that had inspired the voice before gave out; the owner tried to make a pout do duty for it. “Of course I’m there,” she said; then pending another inspiration she was silent. Everybody waited for her to rise again to the level of her reputation for clever things, and the general expectation expressed itself in a subdued creaking of stiff linen above the board, and the low murmur of silken skirts under the table.

  Finally one of the men said, “Well, it’s bad enough to come late, but it’s a good deal worse to come too early. I’d rather come late, any time.”

  “Mr. Wetmore wants you to ask him why, Mrs. Westley,” said Ludlow.

  Mrs. Westley entreated, “Oh, why, Mr. Wetmore?” and every one laughed.

  “All right, Ludlow,” said the gentleman in friendly menace. Then he answered Mrs. Westley: “Well, one thing, your hostess respects you more. If you come too early you bring reproach and you meet contempt; reproach that she shouldn’t have been ready to receive you, and contempt that you should have supposed her capable of dining at the hour fixed.”

  It was a Mrs. Rangeley who had launched the first shaft at Ludlow; she now fitted another little arrow to her string, under cover of the laugh that followed Mr. Wetmore’s reasons. “I shouldn’t object to any one’s coming late, unless I were giving the dinner; but what I can’t bear is wondering what it was kept them.”

  Again she had given a touch that reminded the company of their common humanity and their unity of emotion, and the laugh that responded was without any of that reservation or uncertainty which a subtle observer may often detect in the enjoyment of brilliant things said at dinner. But the great charm of the Westley dinners was that people generally did understand each other there. If you made a joke, as Wetmore said, you were not often required to spell it. He celebrated the Westleys as ideal hosts: Mrs. Westley had the youth and beauty befitting a second wife; her social ambition had as yet not developed into the passion for millionaires; she was simply content with painters, like himself and Ludlow, literary men, lawyers, doctors and their several wives.

  General Westley was in what Wetmore called the bloom of age. He might be depended upon for the unexpected, like fate. He occasionally did it, he occasionally said it, from the passive hospitality that characterized him.

  “I believe I share that impatience of yours, Mrs. Rangeley,” he now remarked; “though in the present case I think we ought to leave everything to Mr. Ludlow’s conscience.”

  “Oh, do you think that would be quite safe?” she asked with burlesque seriousness. “Well! If we must!”

  Ludlow said, “Why, I think Mrs. Rangeley is right. I would much rather yield to compulsion. I don’t mind telling what kept me, if I’m obliged to.”

  “Oh, I almost hate to have you, now!” Mrs. Rangeley bubbled back. “Your willingness, somehow, makes it awful. You may be going to boast of it!”

  “No, no!” Wetmore interposed. “I don’t believe it’s anything to boast of.”

  “Now, you see, you must speak,” said Mrs. Westley.

  Ludlow fell back in his chair, and dreamily crumbled his bread. “I don’t see how I can, exactly.”

  Wetmore leaned forward and looked at Ludlow round the snowy shoulder of a tall lady next him.

  “Is there any particular form of words in which you like to be prompted, when you get to this point?”

  “Dr. Brayton might hypnotize him,” suggested the lady whose shoulder Wetmore was looking round.

  The doctor answered across the table, “In these cases of the inverted or prostrated will, there is often not volition enough to coöperate with the hypnotizer. I don’t believe I could do anything with Mr. Ludlow.”

  “How much,” sighed Mrs. Rangeley, “I should like to be the centre of universal interest like that!”

  “It’s a good pose,” said Wetmore; “but really I think Ludlow is working it too hard. I don’t approve of mob violence, as the papers say when they’re going to; but if he keeps this up much longer I won’t be answerable for the consequences. I feel that we are getting beyond the control of our leaders.”

  Ludlow was tempted to exploit the little incident with Cornelia, for he felt sure that it would win the dinner-table success which we all like to achieve. Her coming to study art in New York, and her arriving in that way, was a pretty romance; prettier than it would have been if she were plainer, and he knew that he could give the whole situation so that she should appear charming, and should appeal to everybody’s sympathy. If he could show her stiff and blunt, as she was, so much the better. He would go back to their first meeting, and bring in a sketch of Pymantoning County Fair, and of the village itself and its social conditions, with studies of Burton and his wife. Every point would tell, for though his commensals were now all well-to-do New Yorkers, he knew that the time had been with them when they lived closer to the ground, in simple country towns, as most prosperous and eminent Americans have done.

  “Well,” said Wetmore, “how long are you going to make us wait?”

  “Oh, you mustn’t wait for me,” said Ludlow. “Once is enough to-night. I’m not going to say what kept me.”

  This also was a success in its way. It drew cries of protest and reproach from the ladies, and laughter from the men. Wetmore made himself heard above the rest. “Mrs. Westley, I know this man, and I can’t let you be made the victim of one of his shameless fakes. There was really nothing kept him. He either forgot the time, or, what is more probable, he deliberately put off coming so as to give himself a little momentary importance by arriving late. I don’t wish to be hard upon him, but that is the truth.”

  “No, no,” said the hostess in the applause which recognized Wetmore’s mischievous intent. “I’ll not believe anything of the kind.” From her this had the effect of repartee, and when she asked with the single-heartedness which Wetmore had praised among her friends as her strongest point, and advised her keeping up as long as she possibly could, “It isn’t so, is it, Mr. Ludlow?” the finest wit could not have done more for her. The general beamed upon her over the length of the table. Mrs. Rangeley said at his elbow, “She’s always more charming than any one else, simply because she is,” and he made no effort to turn the compliment upon her as she thought he might very well have done.

  Under cover of what the others now began saying about different matters, Ludlow murmured to Mrs. Westley, “I don’t mind telling you. You know that young girl you said you would go with me to meet when I should ask you?”

  “The little school-mistress?”

  “Yes.” Ludlow smiled. “She isn’t so very little, any more. It was she who kept me. I found a dispatch at my place when I got home to-day, telling me she was coming, and would arrive at six, and there was no time to trouble you; it was half-past when I got it.”

  “She’s actually come then?” asked Mrs. Westlay. “Nothing you could say would stop her?”

  “No,” said Ludlow with a shrug. He added, after a moment, “But I don’t know that I blame her. Nothing would have stopped me.”

  “And is there anything else I can do? Has she a pleasant place to stay?”

  “Good enough, I fancy. It’s a boarding-house where several people I know have been. She must be left to her own devices, now. That’s the best thing for her. It’s the only thing.”

  XII.

  In spite of his theory as to
what was best for her, in some ways Ludlow rather expected that Cornelia would apply to him for advice as to how and where she should begin work. He forgot how fully he had already given it; but she had not. She remembered what she had overheard him say to her mother, that day in the Fair House, about the superiority of the Synthesis of Studies, and she had since confirmed her faith in his judgment by much silent inquiry of the newspapers. They had the Sunday edition of the Lakeland Light at Pymantoning, and Cornelia had kept herself informed of the “Gossip of the Ateliers,” and concerning “Women and Artists,” “Artists’ Summer Homes,” “Phases of Studio Life,” “The Ladies who are Organizing Ceramic Clubs,” “Women Art Students,” “Glimpses of the Dens of New York Women Artists,” and other æsthetic interests which the Sunday edition of the Light purveyed with the newspaper syndicate’s generous and indiscriminate abundance. She did not believe it all; much of it seemed to her very silly; but she nourished her ambition upon it all the same.

  The lady writers who celebrated the lady artists, and who mostly preferred to swim in seas of personal float, did now and then offer their readers a basis of solid fact; and they all agreed that the Synthesis of Art Studies was the place for a girl if she was in earnest and wished to work.

  As these ladies described them the conditions were of the exacting sort which Cornelia’s nature craved, and she had her sex-pride in the Synthesis, too, because she had read that women had borne an important part in founding it; the strictest technical training and the freest spirit of artistic endeavor prevailed in a school that owed its existence so largely to them. That was a great point, even if every one of the instructors was a man. She supposed that Mr. Ludlow would have sheltered himself behind this fact if she had used the other to justify herself in going on with art after he had urged that as a woman, she had better not do so. But the last thing Cornelia intended was to justify herself to Mr. Ludlow, and she vehemently wished he would not try to do anything more for her, now. After sleeping upon the facts of their meeting she felt sure that he would not try. She approved of herself for not having asked him to call in parting. She was almost glad that he hardly had given her a chance to do so.