Kitabı oku: «Rose of Dutcher's Coolly», sayfa 12
"O, don't be so enigmatical, it is out of place. She's got power. You can't deny that."
"Time enough to say what she can do when she finds out what polly-rot she is writing now. The whistling interested me," he added, malevolently.
Isabel's face darkened a little.
"I understand, this is one of your prank nights. But I shall not allow it to affect me. You cannot sneer down that beautiful girl."
"I'm not sneering her down. I am merely indicating where she needs help. She is a glorious creature physically and she's keen mentally – morally, no doubt, she's well instructed – after the manner of country girls – but esthetically she's in a sorrowful way. Taste is our weak point in America, and in the rural regions – well, there isn't any taste above that for shortcake, dollar chromos and the New York Repository."
"He's started, he's off!" said Roberts. "Now, I like the girl's verses; they are full of dignity and fervor, it seems to me."
"Full of fever, you mean. You specialists in nerve diseases and spotted bugs wouldn't know a crass imitation of Tennyson if you had it in a glass vial. It's such poor creatures as you who keep these young writers imitating successes. The girl has a fine roll of voice and a splendid curve of bust, and that made the stuff she read, poetry – to impressionable persons."
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" chorused the young people.
"Roberts, you are a sensualist," Sanborn interposed gravely.
Mason imperturbably proceeded.
"The girl has power of some sort. I rather suspect it to be dramatic, but that's mimetic and of a low order, anyway. Her primary distinction, with me, consists in something quite other than these. The girl has character, and that's saying a good deal about a woman, especially a girl. She has departed widely from the conventional type without losing essential womanliness."
"Ah, now we are coming at it!" they all exclaimed, as they drew around him, with exaggerated expressions of interest.
"The girl is darkly individual, and very attractive because of it; but you make of her a social success, as I can see Isabel is planning to do, and get her to wearing low-necked dresses and impoverishing her people, and you'll take all the charm out of her."
"I don't believe it!" said Isabel.
"It hasn't hurt Dr. Herrick," put in Roberts. "I must say I'd like to see the girl in a low-necked dress" – he waved his hand to hold them in check. "Now, hold on! I know that sounds bad, but I mean it all right."
"Oh, no doubt!" They laughed at his embarrassment.
Mason interposed. "Roberts' long stay among the Wallapi and Tlinkit wigwams has perverted his naturally moral nature."
Roberts shook his hands in deprecation, but made no further protest.
Sanborn said: "It's a serious thing to advise a girl like that. What do you intend to do, Isabel? Is a social success the thing the girl needs?"
"It won't do her any harm to meet nice people – of course, she ought not to go out too much if she's going to write."
"You amuse me," Mason began again, in his measured way. "First because you assume that the girl can go where she pleases – "
"She can, too, if she's got the quality we think she has. Chicago society isn't the New York four hundred. We're all workers here."
"Workers and thieves," Mason went on; "but if the girl has the quality I think she has, she will map out her own career and follow it irresistibly. The question that interests me is this – how did the girl get here? Why didn't she stay on the farm like Susan, and Sally, and Ed and Joe? How did she get through college without marrying Harry or Tommy? These are the vital questions."
"I don't know," replied Isabel. "I thought of those things, but of course I couldn't ask her on first acquaintance."
Mason lifted his eye-brows. "Ah! You drew the line at love and marriage. Most women – "
Isabel resented this.
"I'm not 'most women' – I'm not even a type. Don't lecture me, please."
"I beg your pardon, Isabel; you're quite right." His tone was sincere, and restored peace. "I always except you in any generalization."
"This is the most significant thing of all," Isabel said finally. "The girl has set us talking of her as if she were a personage, instead of a girl from a Wisconsin valley – "
"That's true," Mason admitted. "She's of the countless unknown hundreds of the brightest minds from the country, streaming into the city side by side with the most vicious and licentious loafers of the towns. It leaves the country dull, but moral. The end is not yet. In the end the dull and moral people survey the ruined walls of the bright and vicious."
"And the dull and the moral are prolific," Sanborn put in.
"Precisely, and they can eat and sleep, which gives them long life and vast stomachs."
Roberts sprang up, "I propose to escape while I can. Mason is wound up for all night." There was a little bustle of parting, and eventually Sanborn and Mason walked off together.
"It's no time to go to sleep. Come to my room and smoke a pipe," suggested Mason. "I'm in a mood to talk if you're in a mood to listen."
Sanborn was a modest fellow, who admired his friend. "I am always ready to listen to you," he said.
"Probably that is your amiable weakness," Mason dryly responded.
CHAPTER XVIII
MASON TALKS ON MARRIAGE
Men are not easily intimate. They confide in each other rather seldom. Of love and marriage coarse men speak with sneers and obscene jests. Of these deep themes serious men speak in hints, with apologetic smiles, as if they were betraying a weakness, seldom going to any length of statement. They express their meaning in broken sentences – in indirect statements.
Sanborn had known Mason for some years. They were both from the country; Mason from a small interior town in Illinois, Sanborn from Indiana. Mason was an older man than Sanborn, and generally presumed upon it, also upon Sanborn's reticence.
They rode up the elevator in the Berkeley flats in silence, and in silence they removed their coats and filled their pipes, and took seats before the fire. Mason was accustomed to say he supported two rooms and an open grate fire, and he regretted it was not cold enough to have the grate lighted for that evening.
They sat some minutes in smoke. Mason sitting low in his chair, with face in repose, looked old and tired, and Sanborn was moved to say:
"Mason, I'm going to ask you a plump question: Why don't you get married? You're getting old."
"I've tried to."
"What! tried to?"
"Exactly."
"That is incredible!"
"It is the fact," replied the older man, placidly.
Sanborn did not believe it. He knew Mason to be somewhat seclusive in his life, but he also knew the high place he held in the eyes of several women.
Mason went on finally, in his best manner, as Sanborn called it.
"For ten years I've been trying to marry, and I've been conscientious and thorough in my heart, too."
Sanborn was violently interested. He drew a long breath of smoke.
"What seems to be the matter?"
"Don't hurry me. For one thing, I suppose I've gone too far in my knowledge of women. I've gone beyond the capability of being bamboozled. I see too much of the ropes and props that do sustain the pasteboard rosetree."
"That is flat blasphemy," put in Sanborn. "I know more about women than you do, and – "
"I don't mean to say that women deceive in a base way – often they are not intentionally deceptive; but hereditarily-transmitted, necessarily defensive wiles lead them to turn their best side toward men. Before I was thirty I could still call upon a young woman without observing she received me in a room shadowed to conceal her crows-feet. The pre-arranged position of the chairs and color of the lamp-shade did not trouble me."
He seemed to pause over some specific case. "And once I believed a girl wore a patch on her chin to conceal a sore. Now I know she does it to locate a dimple. I know perfectly well what any young woman would do if I called upon her tomorrow. She would take a seat so that the softest shadows would fall over her face. If she had good teeth she would smile often. If her teeth were poor she would be grave. If her arms were fair her sleeves would be loose, if they were thin she'd wear ruffles. If she had a fine bosom her dress would be open a little at the neck – "
"O look here, Mason!" Sanborn interrupted, "I can't listen to such calumny without protest."
"I don't mean to say that all this would be conscious. As a matter of fact it is innocent and unintentional. A woman does not deliberately say: 'I have a dimple, therefore I will smile.' She inherited the dimples and the smile from a long line of coquettes. Women are painfully alike from generation to generation. It's all moonshine and misty sky about their infinite variety."
"Suppose I grant that – who's to blame? mind you I don't grant it – but suppose I do, for argument."
"You are a lover and a fortunate man. You have in Isabel a woman of character. Mark you! These wiles and seductions on the part of women were forced upon them. I admit that they have been forced to use them in defense for a million years. Had they been our physical superiors unquestionably the lying graces would have been ours. At the same time it doesn't help me. I can't trust such past-masters in deceit, albeit they deceive me to my good."
"Are we not deceptive also? It seems to me the same indictment would hold regarding men."
"Undoubtedly – but we are not now under indictment. You asked me a question – I am answering it." This silenced Sanborn effectually. Mason refilled his pipe and then resumed:
"Again, I can't seem to retain a vital interest in any given case – that is to say, an exclusive interest."
"That is a relic of polygamy," Sanborn said. "I imagine we all have moments when we feel that old instinct tumbling around in our blood."
"I meet a woman today who seems to possess that glamour which the romantic poets and high-falutin novelists tell us the woman of our choice must have. I go home exulting – at last I am to reach the mystic happiness marriage is supposed to bring. But tomorrow I meet her and the glamour is faded. I go again and again, every spark of electric aureole vanishes; we get to be good friends, maybe – nothing more."
"Perhaps a friendship like that is the best plane for a marriage. Isabel and I have never pretended to any school-boy or school-girl sentiment."
Mason replied in such wise Sanborn did not know whether to think him bitterly in earnest or only lightly derisive.
"That would overturn all the sentiment and love-lore of a thousand years. It would make every poet from Sappho down to Swinburne a pretender or a madman. Such ideas are supreme treason to all the inspired idiots of poetry. No! glamour we must have."
Sanborn smiled broadly, but Mason did not see him.
"So I say, marry young or marry on the impulse, or you'll come at last to my condition, when no head wears an aureole."
"I wonder what started you off on this trail, Mason?"
Mason pushed on resolutely:
"I have become interested and analytical in the matter. I follow up each case and catalogue it away. This failure due to a distressing giggle; that to an empty skull; this to a bad complexion; that to a too ready sentiment. If I could marry while the glamour lasts! I admit I have met many women whose first appeal filled me with hope; if I might contrive to marry then it might be done once for all. That, of course, is impossible, because no woman, I am forced to admit, would discover any seductive glamour in a taffy-colored blond like me. My glamour comes out upon intimate acquaintance."
"Perhaps the glamour needed could be developed on closer acquaintance with women who seem plain at first sight."
"Possibly! But I can't go about developing glamour in strange, plain women. They might not understand my motives."
Sanborn laughed dismally.
"Then the case seems to me hopeless."
"Precisely. The case seems hopeless. After ten years careful study of the matter I have come to the conclusion that I was born to something besides matrimony. Cases of glamour get less and less common now, and I foresee the time when the most beautiful creature in the world will possess no glamour."
Sanborn imaginatively entered into this gloomy mood. "Nothing will then remain but death."
"Exactly! Peaceful old age and decay. But there are deeper deeps to this marriage question, as I warn you now on the eve of your venture. I find in myself a growing inability to conceive of one woman in the light of an exclusive ideal, an ideal of more interest than all the world of women. I am troubled by the 'possible woman.'"
"I don't quite conceive – "
"I mean the woman who might, quite possibly, appeal to me in a more powerful and beautiful way than the one I have. I am not prepared as I approach the point to say I will love and cherish till death. In the unknown deeps of life there are other women, more alluring, more beautiful still. So I must refuse to make a promise which I am not sure I can keep."
"Isabel and I have agreed to leave that out of our ceremony," said Sanborn; "also the clause which demands obedience from her."
"I am watching you. If your experiment succeeds, and I can find a woman as fine and sensible and self-reliant – but there again my confounded altruism comes in. I think also of the woman. Ought I to break into the orderly progress of her life? I can't afford to throw myself away, I can't afford to place a barrier between me and the 'possible woman,' and, per contra, neither can the woman afford to make a mistake; it bears harder upon women than it does upon men. When the glorious 'possible woman' comes along I want to be free. So the woman might reasonably want to be free when the ideal man comes along."
"If you really love, these considerations would not count."
Mason waved a silencing palm.
"That will do. I've heard those wise words before. I am ready to be submerged in such excluding emotions."
"Mason," said Sanborn, "one of two things I must believe: Either that you have fallen in love with that superb country girl tonight or you've been giving me a chapter from your new novel."
Mason looked around with a mystic gleam in his eyes.
"Well, which is it?"
CHAPTER XIX
ROSE SITS IN THE BLAZE OF A THOUSAND EYES
Life quickened for the coulé girl. She accommodated herself to the pace of the daily papers with instant facility. She studied the amusement columns, and read the book reviews, and frequented the beautiful reading room of the Newberry library. She went to all the matinees, taking gallery tickets, of course, ever mindful of her slender resources – studying as truly, as intently, as if she were still at college.
She had told her father that three hundred dollars would carry her through till June, and she was determined it should do so. She had not begun to think of any work to do beyond her writing. Her mind was still in unrest – here life's problem was seemingly more difficult of solution than ever.
She took hold upon the city with the power of a fresh mind capable of enormous feeling and digesting. She seemed to be in the world at last, plunged in it, enveloped by it, and she came to delight in the roar and tumult of it all, as if it were the sound of winds and waters; and each day she entered upon a little wider circle of adventure. Once the first confusion was past, the movement and faces of the crowds were of endless interest to her. She walked down into the city every day, returning to her little nook in the noisy flat building, as the young eagle to its eerie above the lashing tree-tops. She was sitting above the tumult, as Mr. Mason had advised her to do.
She came soon to know that the west side of State street was tabooed by wealthy shoppers, who bought only on the east side; that Wabash avenue was yet more select, and that no one who owned a carriage ever traded in the bargain stores. She did all her shopping there because it was cheaper, but deep in her heart she felt no kinship with the cross, hurrying, pushing, perspiring crowds in the bargain stores. Her place was among the graceful, leisurely, beautifully attired groups of people on the east side of State street. She was not troubled at this stage of her development by any idea of being faithful to the people of her own material condition and origin. She had always loved the graces and cleanlinesses of life, and her father, she knew to be a man of innate refinement. The idea of caste, of arbitrary classes of people, had only come to her newly or obscurely through newspapers or novels. She did not like dirty people, nor surly people, nor boorish people. In fact, she did not class people at all; they were individuals with her yet. She was allured by the conditions of life on the Lake Shore Drive because the people lived such quiet, clean and joyous lives apparently, with time to think and be kind.
She met few people outside of the little circle at the boarding house, and an occasional visiting friend of Miss Fletcher or Mr. Taylor. Owen she saw much of, and he pleased her greatly. He was a man she could have married under some circumstances. He had means a plenty; he was an unusual character, clean-souled, almost elemental in his simple sincerity, but she considered him committed to Mary, and, besides, Mason had become a deterring cause, though she hardly realized that.
Through all the days which followed that evening at Dr. Herrick's she saw his face with growing distinctness. It was not a genial face, but it was one to remember, a face of power. The line of the lips, the half-averted chin, marked Mason's attitude to be one of disgust or weariness. He was the most powerful man she had ever known, a man of critical insight, and for that reason especially she had sought in her last reading to please him. She had failed, and so she was afraid to see him again. When Isabel said to her:
"Mason is a man you should know. He can do a great deal for you in the city," Rose replied in her blunt fashion:
"I don't want him to do anything for me."
"O yes, you do! He's really a kind-hearted man. He puts on a manner which scares people sometimes, but he's a man of the highest character. He's the greatest thinker I ever met – O I'm not disloyal to Dr. Sanborn, he's the best man I ever met." There was a story in that tender inflection. "So you must let me send in something to Warren, and let him advise you."
Rose finally consented, but it seemed to her like laying an only child upon the rack. She had come almost to fear, certainly to dread, that strange, imperturbable man. His abiding-place and his office were alike so far removed from any manner of living she had knowledge of. He concealed his own likes and dislikes so effectually that not even Isabel (as she confessed) could learn them.
A few days after putting her packet of poems into Isabel's hands Rose received a note from her asking her to come over and see her – that she had an invitation for her.
"We are invited, you and Dr. Sanborn and I, to sit in a box at the symphony concert Saturday night, with Mr. and Mrs. Harvey. Mrs. Harvey is one of my dearest friends, and I've talked about you so much she is eager to see you."
Rose took the matter very quietly. She was mightily pleased, but she was not accustomed to gushing her thanks; besides, she had recovered her equilibrium.
Isabel was a little surprised at her coolness, but was keen enough to see that she did not mean to be ungrateful.
"I thought perhaps you'd like to advise about dress," she said. "The boxes are very brilliant, but you'll look well in anything. You won't need a bonnet, your hair is so pretty, and that little grey dress will do, with a little change."
"You know I'm a farmer's daughter," Rose explained; "I can't afford new dresses in order to go to the opera."
"I understand, my dear. I have my own limitations in that way. I keep one or two nice gowns and the rest of the time I wear a uniform. I told Mrs. Harvey you were poor like myself, and that we'd need to be the background for her, and she said she'd trust me."
What Mrs. Harvey had said was this: "My dear Isabel, you've got judgment, and if you say the girl's worth knowing I want to know her. And if you say the girl will be presentable I'd like to have her come. The boys are both in New York, anyway, and we've got three unoccupied seats."
"Now you come over to dinner with me Saturday; come at five. I want you to help me dress. Doctor will be over, and we'll have a nice time before the carriage comes."
Rose was much more elated than she cared to show. Once as she sat in the gallery of the theatre and looked at the boxes she had shut her teeth in a vow: "I'll sit there where you do, one of these days!" and now it had come in a few weeks instead of years – like a fairy gift. She told Mary nothing about her invitation for several days. She dreaded her outcry, which was inescapable.
"Oh! isn't that fine! How you do get ahead – what will you wear?"
"I haven't a bewildering choice," Rose said. "I thought I'd wear my grey dress."
"Oh, this is a wonderful chance for you! Can't you afford a new dress?"
"No, I'm afraid not. There isn't time now, anyway. I'll keep close to the wall. Fortunately I have a new cloak that will do."
"Well, that grey dress is lovely – when it's on you."
Rose hated the bother about the dress.
"I wish I could wear a dress suit like a man," she said to Isabel when they were in the midst of the final stress of it.
"So do I, but we can't. There's a law against it, I believe. Now I'm going to dress your hair for you. That is, I'm going to superintend it and Etta's deft little fingers shall do the work."
After dinner, Isabel ordered things cleared and said to Sanborn:
"Doctor, you go and smoke while we put on our frills."
Sanborn acquiesced readily enough.
"Very well – if you find me gone when you come forth, don't worry. I've gone ahead with my friend Yerkes. Your carriage will be full anyhow."
"All right." She went over and gave him a hug. "You're a good, obedient boy – that's what you are!"
He spoke (with his chin over her wrist) addressing Rose:
"The study of chemicals and nerve tissues has not left us utterly desolate, you perceive."
When they were in their dressing room, Rose asked what the Doctor meant by that speech.
Isabel laughed and colored a little:
"Oh, he meant that a study of bones and muscles and diseased bodies had not made us prosaic and – and old. I think it has made me still more in love with healthy human flesh – but never mind that now; we must hurry."
Rose looked at Isabel in silent worship as she stood before her ready for the carriage. Her, ordinarily, cold little face glowed with color, and her eyes were full of mirthful gleams like a child's. It seemed impossible that she had written a treatise on "Nervous Diseases," and was ranked among the best alienists in the city.
Etta made no secret of her adoration. She fairly bowed down before her sister and before Rose also. She was so little and so commonplace before these beings of light.
Down at the carriage it was too dark to see any one distinctly, but Rose liked the cordial, hearty voice of Mrs. Harvey. Mr. Harvey's hand was small and firm, Mrs. Harvey's plump and warm. Mr. Harvey spoke only once or twice during the ride.
As the carriage rumbled and rolled southward at a swift pace, Rose kept watch out of the window. The street had not lost a particle of its power over her.
As they plunged deeper into the city, and the roll of other carriages thickened around them, the importance of this event grew upon Rose. She was bewildered when they alighted, but concealed it by impassivity, as usual. The carriages stood in long rows waiting to unload. Others were rolling swiftly away; doors slammed; voices called, "All right!" A mighty stream of people was entering the vast arched entrance, with rustle of garments and low murmur of laughing comment. Rose caught the flash of beautiful eyes and the elusive gleam of jewels on every side, as the ladies bowed to their acquaintances.
Everything was massive, and spacious and enduring. The entrance way was magnificent, and Rose followed Mr. Harvey as if in a dream. They took a mysterious short cut somewhere, and came out into a narrow balcony, which was divided into stalls. Through arched openings Rose caught glimpses of the mighty hall, immense as a mountain cave, and radiant as a flower.
As they moved along, Mrs. Harvey turned to Isabel.
"She'll do; don't worry!"
At their box Mr. Harvey paused and said, with a pleasant smile:
"Here we are."
Dr. Sanborn met them, and there was a bustle getting wraps laid away.
"You sit here, my dear," said Mrs. Harvey. She was a plump, plain, pleasant-voiced person, and put Rose at ease at once. She gave Rose the outside seat, and before she realized it the coulé girl was seated in plain view of a thousand people, under a soft but penetrating light.
She shrank like some nocturnal insect suddenly brought into sunlight. She turned white, and then the blood flamed to her face and neck. She sprang up.
"O, Mrs. Harvey, I can't sit here," she gasped out.
"You must! – that is the place for you," said Mrs. Harvey. "Do you suppose an old housewife like me would occupy a front seat with such a beauty in the background? Not a bit of it! The public welfare demands that you sit there." She smiled into the scared girl's face with kindly humor.
Isabel leaned over and said; "Sit there; you're magnificent."
Rose sank back into her seat, and stared straight ahead. She felt as if something hot and withering were blowing on that side of her face which was exposed to the audience. She wished she had not allowed the neck of her dress to be widened an inch. She vowed never again to get into such a trap.
Mr. Harvey talked to her from behind her chair. He was very kindly and thoughtful, and said just enough to let her feel his presence, and not enough to weary her.
Gradually the beauty and grandeur of the scene robbed her of her absurd self-consciousness. She did not need to be told that this was the heart and brain of Chicago. This was the Chicago she had dreamed about. A perfumed rustling rose from below her. Around her the boxes filled with women in gowns of pink and rose and blue, and faint green. Human flowers they were, dewed with diamonds. All about was the movement of orderly, leisurely, happy-toned and dignified men and women. All was health, pleasure, sanity, kindliness. Wealth here displayed its wondrous charm, its peace, its poetry.
Her romantic conception of these people had done them an injustice. She had clothed them with the attributes of the men and women of English society novels and New York imitations of these novels. This Mr. Harvey did not know, but he helped her to rectify her mistaken estimate of the people around her by saying:
"We business men can't get out to the Friday rehearsals, but Saturday night finds us ready to enjoy an evening of art."
He looked very handsome in his dress suit, and his face was very pleasant to see, yet Isabel had told her that not only was he a hard-working business man, but a man of wide interests, a great railway director, in fact.
"I suppose you know many of the people here," she said at last.
"Oh, yes," he replied, "I know most of them. Chicago is large, but some way we still keep track of people here."
As he talked, she got courage to raise her eyes to the roof, soaring far up above, glowing with color. Balcony after balcony circled at the back, and Rose thought with a little flush that perhaps Owen and Mary were sitting up in one of those balconies and could see her in the box.
The hall was buff and light-blue to her eyes, and the procession of figures over the arch, the immense stage, the ceiling, the lights, all were of great beauty and interest.
But the people! the beautiful dresses! the dainty bonnets! the flow of perfumed drapery! the movement of strong, clean, supple limbs! – these were the most glorious sights of all. She had no room for envy in her heart. She was very happy, for she seemed to have reached a share in ultimate magnificence.
She longed for gowns and bonnets like these, but there was no bitterness in her longing.
She herself was a beautiful picture as she sat there. From her bust, proud and maternal, rose her strong smooth neck, and young, graceful reflective head. If the head had been thrown back she would have seemed arrogant; with that reflective, forward droop, she produced upon the gazer an effect both sweet and sad. In the proud bust was prophecy of matronly beauty, and also of the freshness of youth.
Mason, seated below among a group of musical critics, looked at her with brooding eyes. At that moment she seemed to be the woman he had long sought. Certainly the glamour was around her then. She sat above him and her brown hair and rich coloring stood out from the drapery like a painting. A chill came over him as he thought of the letter he had sent to her that very morning. It was brutal; he could see it now. He might have put the criticism in softer phrases.
Isabel leaned over and spoke to Rose and then Rose began searching for him. He was amazed to feel a thrill of excitement as he saw that strong, dark face turned toward him; and when his eyes met her's he started a little, as if a ray of light had fallen suddenly upon him. She colored a little, he thought, and bowed. Where did the girl acquire that regal, indifferent inclination of the head? It was like a princess dropping a favor to a faithful subject, but it pleased him. "The girl has imagination!" he said. "She claims her own."
Then he meditated: "What an absurdity! Why should I fix upon that girl, when here, all about me are other women more beautiful, and rich and accomplished, besides. That confounded farmer's girl has a raft of stupid and vulgar relatives, no doubt, and her refinement is a mere appearance."
He solaced himself with a general reflection.
"Furthermore, why should any man select any woman, when they are all dots and dashes in a web of human life, anyhow? Their differences are about like the imperceptible differences of a flock of wrens. Why not go out and marry the first one that offers, and so end it all?"
