Part 2

It was a very long and very harrowing story. It obliged them to go to the lady’s house and to have tea there, and to sit in her charming little sitting-room until dark, in order that it should all be told.

She was Mrs. Hamilton, she said, known to Marian, as to all other women of any social pretentions in that particular suburb, as the martyr wife of a fiendish husband. What she had suffered no one knew--except the twenty or thirty people whom she had told. She ended in tears.

Andrew comforted her with kindly words and complete exonerations. He said that she was blameless. The clock struck six, and he rose to take leave.

“Good-by!” said Mrs. Hamilton, giving him her slender hand. “Doctor, you’ve _helped_ me. You’ve _understood_. Mayn’t I see you again? You don’t know what sympathy means to a lonely, heart-broken woman.”

He assured her that he would be delighted to come again, as soon as he had a free moment.

IV

He had declined the use of Mrs. Hamilton’s motor; he preferred to walk home and to reflect upon this new type. He was not altogether a fool. In spite of the fact that she was a very attractive woman, he had made up his mind that he would never go to her house again--not even to study her.

“No!” he was saying to himself. “She’s morbid--irresponsible. They’re really dangerous, that reckless sort!”

A hand clutched his sleeve and a breathless voice cried:

“Oh, doctor, I’ve been rushing after you for miles and miles!”

It was little Mavis Borrowby, daughter of an old patient. Always in the past Andrew had taken Mavis for granted as part of old Borrowby’s background. He was quite disconcerted to see her, this spring evening, as a detached individuality, and a very vivid one.

She took his arm and hung on it, looking up into his face with babyish violet eyes.

“Oh, doctor!” she cried. “I went to your lecture. It was simply _wonderful_! But it depressed me awfully. Please let me walk along with you and ask you some questions!”

“Child, you shouldn’t go to my lectures,” said Andrew indulgently. “You’re too young. They’re not for you.”

“Oh, but they _are_, doctor! Why, I’m engaged, you know--at least, I _was_ engaged, but I sha’n’t be any longer. I wouldn’t for worlds do all that harm to a helpless man. I’m going to tell Edward so to-night.”

Andrew was a little taken aback. He said something about thinking things out for oneself--not accepting another person’s ideas.

“Oh, no!” said little Mavis confidently. “I know you can think ever so much better than me. I _like_ to get my ideas from _wonderful_ men like you!”

The innocent, naive, violet-eyed little thing touched him with pity. What, he thought, was there in life for her except marriage? He couldn’t imagine her engaged in any work, any profession, any art. Would it not perhaps be better if some man were enslaved and sacrificed for the sake of this poor little baby-girl?

“Look here, Mavis,” he said; “this won’t do. You mustn’t throw over this fellow, you know, without a great deal of serious reflection. You might ruin your life and his, too.”

“But you said I’d ruin him by marrying him--”

“Never mind that. You--you’re too young to grasp it. And there are always exceptions. If you care for this chap--”

“I don’t really think I do, much,” she said thoughtfully. “Anyway, I simply couldn’t stand making a martyr of him, and having him be the one to do all the sacrificing. But, doctor, what _are_ we to do, if men mustn’t get married?”

He couldn’t answer. To tell the truth, he had thought of marriage so exclusively from a man’s point of view that he had quite overlooked the woman’s. Freedom was all very well, but it wasn’t for the little Mavises of this world. He began to deliberate whether there weren’t certain men who should be set apart for marriage and martyrdom for the sake of the really nice young girls.

He was about to suggest this theory to Mavis, when he found himself before his own door.

“Hurry off home now, won’t you?” he said. “It’ll be dark soon. And see here, Mavis, don’t say anything to your Edward just yet--don’t do anything until we’ve talked it over. Come into the office some afternoon.”

She said she would, and hurried off, in the sunset.

As he let himself in, he heard from the dining-room the uproar which seemed an inevitable accompaniment of the Franklin method. Because playing in the dining-room had formerly been an unimaginable thing rather than a forbidden joy, it was now the rule. The doctor didn’t like it. He wanted his dinner in peace. It was not the sort of dinner he liked, either, and Miss Franklin distressed him by incessantly crunching lumps of sugar.

He retired to his study, where he swore furiously to himself; but for some reason which he didn’t care to analyze, he dared not tell Miss Franklin to take away the children. Nor was he surprised when she knocked at the door, and, being told to enter, did so, and sat down opposite him, prepared to spend the evening.

Crashes, screams, and slaps from the dining-room disturbed her not at all. She said she didn’t believe in supervising children; it hampered them.

She talked persistently about free love, which Andrew didn’t like. When spoken of as the relation of the sexes, it was quite proper and scientific; but directly one introduced that idea of love, it was entirely changed. It became sensational and distinctly alarming.

He was thankful when an accident occurred in the dining-room which could not be ignored. Little Frank had climbed into a drawer of the sideboard and broken through, and in the course of his struggles he upset everything within reach.

Once he had got Miss Franklin out, Andrew took good care that she should not get in again.

V

He had forgotten all about Mavis, and he was pleasantly surprised when she came into his office the next afternoon.

“I pretended that I had a sore throat,” she said, “so I could come and see you. You see, Edward came last night, and oh, doctor, he did seem so awfully _flat_, after _you_!”

“You mustn’t be so extreme,” he said. “There are some men who aren’t at all unhappy in marriage.”

“I know. Ordinary little men aren’t. It’s only the _wonderful_ men like you. But, doctor dear, I couldn’t be happy with an ordinary man. I--I want a man like _you_!”

It wouldn’t do, of course, to tell her that there were mighty few men of this sort, and that they wouldn’t care for naive little girls, anyway. Andrew wasn’t even much flattered by her admiration; it was too indiscriminate.

“Suppose you don’t marry,” he said. “What will you do?”

“I thought you could tell me. I thought, of course, you had some perfectly wonderful sort of plan for women.”

Well, he hadn’t, and he saw that he must make one. It seemed that his first step toward the settlement of this specific case would be to make an analysis, and he at once began. Mavis answered all his questions readily and fully, but he had a suspicion that she told him what she thought he would like to hear, instead of keeping to facts. Still, even at that, he learned a great deal, for she was too ignorant and young to deceive a trained observer. Of course it took a very long time; his other office patients had to be sent away.

He went politely to the door with Mavis, and he was surprised to see Miss Franklin standing in the hall--the little private hall which was only for outgoing patients, and in which she had no possible business to be.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“I was just wondering what you were doing,” she retorted, “shut up in there with that girl all this long time!”

“I was writing an analysis of her.”

“Let’s see your analysis!”

“It’s not finished. Besides--”

“Do let me see it! Perhaps I can help you.”

“You don’t know Miss Borrowby--”

“Oh, yes, I do know Miss Borrowby!” said Miss Franklin. “I know her better than you do!”

Andrew didn’t like her tone, but he let it pass, with a meekness quite new to him. Miss Franklin smiled and went away.

He intended to spend the evening perfecting his analysis in peace; but scarcely had he got well started when Miss Franklin opened the door.

“A patient!” she said.

It was a lady. She sat down beside Andrew’s desk, without raising her veil, and at once began to sob.

“Oh, doctor!” she cried. “I don’t know what to do! Oh, my suffering! What shall I do?”

He felt quite sure that this was a drug addict, and his manner, though kind, was one of thorough sophistication.

“Now, now, my dear madam!” he said. “Don’t excite yourself!”

“You don’t even _know_ me!” she cried, pushing up her veil.

“I do!” he protested guiltily. “It’s Mrs. Hamilton. I knew your voice; but it’s dark here in the corners of the room when there’s only the lamp lighted.”

She smiled bitterly.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it. I’m lost in the darkness, outside the circle of lamplight!”

“This chair--”

“I’m speaking figuratively, doctor. I’m in such trouble. I wish I were dead!”

Reluctantly, but in duty bound, he said:

“Tell me about it.”

She began to weep again.

“You’re the only one I can tell. You showed such an interest in me the other day. You cared, didn’t you?”

“Yes, certainly I did; but please don’t cry.”

“Oh, dear doctor, it is your own great trouble that makes you so sympathetic to others, I am sure!”

“My own great trouble?”

“I heard of it indirectly--through Miss Franklin. She mentioned it to some one I know. She said that your wife”--Mrs. Hamilton dropped her voice, and ended with the greatest delicacy: “That your wife has left you. I _am_ so sorry!”

“Nothing of the sort!” Andrew began angrily.

Then it occurred to him that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to explain so modern a situation to so romantic a creature; so instead he encouraged her to tell him her own sad story.

He never learned what her trouble was, because she didn’t tell him. “My husband” and “a woman’s sensitive heart,” and “disgusting intoxication,” had something to do with it. She cried forlornly, and he tried to stop her. Common sense and all that he had learned from experience of her type warned him not to be too sympathetic, but it was difficult. She was exquisite. She had a sort of morbid charm about her--a sensibility at once dangerous and pitiful.

He rose, went over to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s hard,” he said. “Life is bound to be hard for people like you; but you must try to see it in a more robust way, with more humor, more indifference.”

“I do! No one knows how I try!” she said, looking up into his face with her dark eyes, luminous with tears.

Suddenly the door opened, without warning. Miss Franklin looked in, and disappeared again. Mrs. Hamilton rose.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“That’s Miss Franklin.”

“Oh! I didn’t know she was so young. Does she stay here as late as this?”

“She lives here.”

“Lives here--with your wife away?”

Mrs. Hamilton was moving toward the door.

“Good night, doctor!” she said, and there was a decided coolness in her voice.

VI

Peculiarly disturbed, Andrew returned to his office, to find Miss Franklin there, waiting for him. He was about to reprove her sharply for her outrageous intrusion, but she spoke first.

“Who was that?”

“A patient; and you must never, under any circumstances, come into this room when I have a patient here.”

“It’s long after office hours. I didn’t know it was a patient. She was ‘a lady to see the doctor,’ and I wondered what you were doing shut up here.”

“You needn’t constitute yourself my mentor!” he cried angrily.

“Why, doctor, I never thought of such a thing!”

“Then please don’t do it again.”

“But, if she wasn’t a patient, what was she here for?”

He stared at her, astounded at her effrontery--and uneasy.

“As I told you once before, I am making a series of analyses. I was making a study of--that lady.”

“You only analyze women, don’t you?”

“Certainly not!” he answered with a frown. “Only they happen to be about--”

“Yes, they do!” Miss Franklin agreed warmly. “They certainly do happen to be about!” She sat down. “I’ve been analyzing _you_,” she said.

Again instinct warned him, and he would have fled.

“Not worth it!” he said lightly.

“I can analyze you,” she went on; “but I can’t understand myself. I don’t quite see why you should affect me so. I’m not at all inclined to sentimentality. I’ve never felt like this before.”

He sat in frozen silence.

“And as a perfectly free woman,” went on, “I’m not ashamed to tell you that I want you.”

“Want me to what?” he asked stupidly.

“I’d be even willing to marry you,” she said, “as soon as you get a divorce. I can see that you’re timid and conventional, like most men.”

“Good God!” cried Andrew. “Please--”

“Why not? If you don’t love me now, you will later. I’ll make you. I’ve set my mind on you. I think you’re a fascinating creature!”

“You don’t know me!” he protested feebly.

“I do. I know that I’m in love with you, anyway, and that you’re lonely and need me.”

“Lonely!” thought the wretched man. “Not exactly!”

Aloud he said nothing, but sat silent, conscious of the steady gaze of her fierce, candid eyes.

“I hadn’t intended to tell you to-night,” she went on. “I know you’re very shy, and I’d intended to win you over little by little. Not by any feminine trickery or illusion, you understand. I’d just reveal myself. I’m sure that if you knew me, you’d love me. We’re so perfectly matched,” she ended, a bit impatiently. “I wish there weren’t all this fuss and trouble! I wish you’d make up your mind promptly!”

“But--” he began.

“Don’t answer me now, when you’re in this contrary, obstinate humor. I’ll wait till to-morrow evening. Now let’s talk about something else.”

“No!” said Andrew. “I’m going to bed. Good night!”

He went off with a quick step and a frown; but his going was not effective. It was too much like flight, and it was spoiled by the grin on Miss Franklin’s face.

Alone in his room he gave up the effort to hide his alarm.

“That woman’s got to go!” he cried. “I’m not going to be hounded and bothered by her like this! How am I to do any work? How can I get rid of her?”

Reflection convinced him that he could not.

“Then I’ll get myself called away, and I’ll stay away until--”

Until what? What was to save him? Where could he find a refuge from feminine persecution?

He went to bed, but he could not sleep. He was quite worn and haggard in the morning, and Miss Franklin observed it at the breakfast-table.

“You look awfully tired,” she said. “Why don’t you take a rest to-day?”

“Never was busier!” he answered hastily. “I haven’t a free moment all day. Please see that I’m not disturbed.”

“How am I to know which women disturb you and which ones you’re--studying?” Miss Franklin asked with outrageous impudence. “Better give me a list.”

He strode into his office, closed the door, and tried to resume that unfinished letter to Marian. He hadn’t got well started when the bell rang and the parlor-maid ushered in little Mavis Borrowby, flushed and out of breath.

“Oh, doctor!” she cried. “Such a row! Imagine! I’ve had to run away! Papa is in the most awful rage!” She sank into a chair. “You see,” she said, “I told Edward last night that I wouldn’t marry him--ever. I said I didn’t believe in marriage. And he--nasty little sneak!--ran off to papa and told him. You can imagine how papa took it, with his old-fogy ideas. He roared and stamped and swore. He wanted to know where I got such ideas from; and I said, very calmly, from you. Then he said I must never speak to you again, and all sorts of nonsense. Of course I said I _would_ speak to you, and I would never, never renounce you for any one--”

“Renounce me! Really, Mavis, isn’t that a bit--”

“I told him that you were the most wonderful man I’d ever seen, and that I would not give you up. But, doctor dear, where are you going to hide me? He’ll be here after me any minute!”

“I’m not going to hide you at all!” cried Andrew. “It’s all nonsense!”

“Oh, but you must!” she cried. “You can’t be so horrible, when I’ve been so loyal to you.”

“There’s no reason for hiding, you silly child! You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Oh, but papa thinks so! He told me not to _dare_ to see you again. He says it’s all your fault that I won’t marry Edward. He says you’ve put all sorts of awful ideas in my head. Oh, doctor! There’s the door-bell now! I know it’s father! Oh, don’t let him get me! He says he’ll send me to a convent!”

She had clutched his arm frantically and was looking into his face with brimming eyes.

“Oh, please, please hide me!” she cried. “Just till I can think of some sort of plan!”

He faltered and weakened. At last he opened the door of a clothes-closet.

“Lock the door and keep quiet,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get him away.”

After an earnest look around to see that she had not left any trace of herself--hat, gloves, or other incriminating articles--the doctor opened his office door, and there stood Mrs. Hamilton. She looked very pale and ill.

“Just an instant!” she said, with an odd smile. “I won’t keep you a minute. I only came to say good-by.”

“Where are you going?” he asked kindly.

She smiled again.

“It doesn’t matter. I thought if I came early, before your office hours, I might catch you alone for a few minutes; but it doesn’t matter.”

“But you have caught me alone,” he answered cheerfully. “Sit down, Mrs. Hamilton. I’m in no hurry.”

“Please don’t try to deceive me,” she said coldly. “I know all about that girl who came in here. That nursery governess--that Franklin person--told me in the hall. I have no claim on you, doctor. There’s no reason for deceiving me. You’re quite, quite free to do as you please. You won’t be troubled with me again. I’m going away.”

“Where?” he asked, wretchedly scenting some new and obscure trouble.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said again. “Nothing matters. My husband insists upon my going out to Wyoming with him at once. Of course I refused; so here I am penniless, alone in the world--”

“Your children?”

“He’s going to take them. They’re better without me, anyway. I’m a weak and indulgent mother. I love too intensely. That’s my nature--to be intense. I give--I ask nothing, I expect nothing, I simply give and give. I’m not complaining. I only wish,” she ended, with a pitiful little break in her voice, “that there were some one--just one person in the world--who cared! I’m not strong enough to stand alone. I’m not complaining. I know one can’t command the heart; but for a little while I did think--”

He felt like a brute.

“Good-by!” she said, holding out her slender hand and smiling pitifully. “Good-by, my dear!”

He grasped her hand.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

She looked at him steadily.

“Good-by!”

“No--look here! You won’t do anything reckless?”

“I shall have to carry out my plans. Good-by!”

“I sha’n’t let you go like this!”

“Please let go of my hand! There’s some one coming!”

VII

As Mrs. Hamilton went out, there came brushing by her, bursting into the room, a stout, middle-aged man. It was Mr. Borrowby, in a terrible fury. He resembled a heavy, solid little dog. One could imagine the impact of his body against the furniture, how he might hurl himself about and always rebound unhurt. His talk was like barking, growling, and snapping, and his bloodshot eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon his enemy. He was terrific.

“Where’s my girl?” he bellowed.

“Don’t shout like that!” said Andrew. “I can’t stand it. I’m worn out.”

“I’ll wear you out! Where’s my girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me, you dirty, low-lived, degenerate hound! You vile, treacherous Bolshevist!”

“You’re going too far!” cried Andrew. “You’ll behave yourself, or I’ll put you out!”

“No, you won’t! I’ll have my daughter, or I’ll call in the police. Don’t you dare!” he shouted, shaking his fist in Andrew’s face. “Don’t you dare deny it! That young woman who opened the door for me told me Mavis was in here.”

It occurred to the desperate Andrew that the only possible course was that of complete candor.

“What if she is?” he replied “I’m not--”

“I know what _you_ are! Didn’t the girl herself tell me that since she’d known you, she could never marry? Good God! I could kill you, you scoundrel! Where is she?”

“In there,” said Andrew. “I sha’n’t deny it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of--absolutely nothing wrong.”

He was really afraid, for an instant, that the angry little dog was about to launch itself upon him. Instead, to his relief, Borrowby began to pound upon the closet door.

“Open the door!” he roared.

“No, I sha’n’t!” came Mavis’s calm response.

“I’ll break in the door!”

“All right! Begin! There’s a window in here, and I’ll jump out of it and run away; and every one will see me from the street!”

In the midst of this pounding and shouting the telephone rang.

“_Keep quiet!_” Andrew roared. “Stop your infernal noise! It may be something important!”

Mr. Borrowby desisted for an instant. Andrew took up the receiver, to hear the voice of Mrs. Hamilton.

“I want to say good-by to you,” she said in a calm and bitter voice. “It’s the last word you will ever hear from me. This is really good-by, to you and to all the world. I have something here that will end it all, all my sufferings--”

“No!” he cried. “No! What are you thinking of?”

“Don’t worry!” she said. “It is the best way, my dear!”

The doctor gave vent to such a strange and terrible howl that even Mr. Borrowby was startled.

“What is it?” asked a quiet voice beside him.

He was not surprised to see Marian there. He was past surprise.

“Mrs. Hamilton!” he explained “Going to take poison!”

“Speak to her,” whispered Marian. “Tell her you’re coming at once.”

He did so, and hung up the receiver.

“Now, go up-stairs and lie down, dear,” said Marian. “You’re worn out. I’ll send your lunch up to you. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll manage.”

“There’s Mavis Borrowby shut up in the closet,” he told her wearily; “and Mrs. Hamilton--and something worrying about Miss Franklin--I’ve forgotten just what.”

“Poor boy!” she murmured. “I’m so sorry! Go on, dear, and lie down. Try not to worry.”

He went up-stairs to his room and lay down on the bed, quite exhausted, trying to think, but unable to do so. A long time passed. He watched the trees moving in the April wind, and the clouds slipping across the gay blue sky.

VIII