Part 84

He took his hat and stepped out of the office; and there, in the arcade of the big building, he saw Violet. She was looking at the window where small models of the love nests were displayed.

He had not seen Violet for some weeks, and it seemed to him that she had improved during that time. He had seen her wearing the same hat and dress before; but she had not looked like this in them. No--formerly she had appeared serious and competent, and now she looked a gentle, an appealing figure. You could imagine her waiting for a man, and glancing up when he came, with a charming blush.

“Hello, Violet!” he said.

She glanced up, but she did not blush. On the contrary, the hot weather had made her unusually pale.

“Hello, Leonard!” she replied in her usual serious and friendly way.

But he was not quite as usual. He could not help thinking that if she had been waiting for him, it would be a curiously agreeable thing.

“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said.

“I’ve been to the house for dinner two or three times,” said Violet; “but you weren’t home, and I can’t stay overnight any more, on account of Aunt Jean having the spare room.”

Violet lived in a furnished room on West Twelfth Street, and she had been in the habit of spending the week-ends with her sister; but not any more. She had been sacrificed. Compared with Aunt Jean’s million, all Violet’s kindnesses, her loyal assistance in family crises, didn’t count at all. She looked pale and jaded, and she had grown so extraordinarily pretty in these last weeks! Leonard had been missing her--that was what was the matter with him.

Over her shoulder, he looked at the model love nests in the window. One of them was lighted now; there were curtains in its tiny windows, through which shone a mellow pink glow. Wilder knew that there was nothing inside except an electric bulb with a crape paper shade, and yet--

Somewhere there was a real house just like it, softly lighted in the summer dusk, with flowers in a little garden. He could imagine that a tired man, coming home to a house like that--to a smile, a kiss, to quiet and tenderness--might find even one of Connolly’s love nests not without beauty.

“Vi!” he said.

This time she did blush, and glanced away.

“They _are_ sweet little houses!” she said defiantly.

“Vi, let’s have dinner together! I’ll telephone to Marian.”

“Well--” said Violet. “I should like it awfully. I get so lonely, sometimes!”

She had never talked like this before. She had never looked like this before.

“I’ll get a taxi,” said Leonard, “and we’ll go up to Claremont. I only ask you not to come across with the usual family line about its being an extravagance.”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Violet. They had come out into the street now, where a wan daylight lingered. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot--about being extravagant. I’ve been--just afraid. I could do ever so many things; but I’ve been afraid to get the thing I want to-day, because then I might not be able to get something else to-morrow.”

“That’s thrift, my dear girl--keeping your cake until you haven’t any teeth to eat it with.”

“Well, I--there’s a cab, Leonard.”

He hailed it, and the driver slid up to the curb. Wilder opened the door and took Violet’s arm, to help her in. Somehow it was such a young sort of arm, firm and sturdy enough, but very slender--too slender. She herself was altogether too slender and too young. It worried him.

“I’m going to stop being afraid,” she said. “I’m going to trust life.”

Wilder was silent. They were going up Broadway in an endless procession of cabs and cars. Out of every building more and more people were pouring, going home. Perhaps, for some of them, home was not a joke.

Trust life? Just go ahead, and take the things that belong to youth? Not to be so bitterly afraid of being disillusioned and disappointed, but to trust life--and trust this girl? Didn’t he know by this time how faithful, honest, and kind she was?

“Could you rent one of those love nests?” she asked.

His heart stood still for a moment.

“I could buy one, on easy terms,” he said.

“I mean could any one--could I rent one?”

“You?”

“Yes,” she said. “You see, Leonard, I’ve been thinking. I’d like a little house.”

He reached out for her hand, and took it, and she did not draw it away.

“Vi!” he said.

“I want to get a house for the summer, where I can take Aunt Jean,” she said. “I think I can afford it. She’s nearly sixty, Leonard. Don’t you think she’s--pathetic?”

“Pathetic?” said Leonard.

The most pathetic thing, he thought, was a man’s unconquerable longing for the sort of girl who didn’t exist--a gentle young thing who waited for him, who would be happy with him, in one of Connolly’s houses.

Violet was a practical girl. She was perfectly willing to be sacrificed for Aunt Jean’s million. She was sensible, and he was a fool.

He could not very well push the girl’s hand away, but his clasp became so limp that she withdrew it. She looked at him, but he did not look at her. She tried to talk to him, but he answered with marked indifference.

“If you can’t be a little more agreeable,” said Vi, a trifle unsteadily, “I don’t see much use in our having dinner together.”

“It wasn’t intended as a useful thing,” said Leonard. “Simply a diversion.”

“Well, I’m not diverted,” said Vi. “You’re being very--trying, Leonard!”

“I’m sorry,” said he; “but I didn’t think you’d be able to stand me very long.”

“If you’d try--”

“Didn’t you say I was trying?”

“I think--” said Violet. “Please stop the cab! I’ll take a bus home.”

Very well, he was not going to argue with her. He stopped the cab, and they both got out. He put Violet on a bus, and then he walked uptown along the Drive. There were lights in almost every window, now, and across the river other lights shone out--from homes.

“She was crying,” Leonard mused.

Was he to be held responsible for that? Hardly. He had been on the point of offering her all he had, but he had discovered in time that she was after bigger game. Life in a love nest--with Aunt Jean and her million, not with him! It was funny, in a way.

And in another way it was not so very funny. He knew all about human nature, but for a long time he had thought that Violet was different. Well, she wasn’t. She had reproached him for being disagreeable. All right! He reproached her, in his heart, for something a good deal worse than that.

It hurt--he would admit it. It hurt like the devil!

IV

Leonard did not telephone home to Marian. After a solitary dinner in a restaurant, he caught the nine o’clock train. He walked up from the station at a leisurely pace. He was defying Marian.

“Just let her start something!” he said to himself.

The trouble was that she never did start anything. In her way, she was a pretty decent sort of girl, and patient with Leonard. That winter, when he had had the flu--

If she knew now how he felt! Of course he could not tell her, ever; but if she did know! She would call him “poor boy,” and would not care how late he was.

He stopped in at the Greek confectioner’s and got a box of chocolates. It would please the foolish woman, and he was rather fond of her.

As he came down the street, he heard voices from the porch. He concealed the chocolates in his newspaper. When he entered the house, Marian would follow him, and then, if she happened to mention that he looked miserable, he might admit he was, and let her call him “poor boy.”

“And you’ll get a car,” he heard Aunt Jean say.

“It certainly would help,” said Evan.

“Deary, you’ve got to put up a good front. Just you get a bigger house, and a car, and a maid in a cap and apron to open the door, and the patients’ll come fast enough!”

“You’re right!” agreed Evan, heartily.

“And Marian ought to have a fur coat this winter. Deary, things like that are an investment!”

“I shouldn’t know myself in a fur coat,” said Marian, with an unnatural little laugh.

“And we’ll travel!” Aunt Jean went on, growing excited. “Go to California, and all!”

“Wonderful!” cried Marian.

“And I’m going to get Leonard to build me a house,” said Aunt Jean. “He’s a real genius.”

“He is!” said Marian.

“And Violet--”

Leonard could endure no more. All of them eager to take anything they could get from that poor old soul! Sitting there, discussing plans for the spending of her money! Even Vi--Vi was going to rent a love nest for Aunt Jean’s million.

“Well, Leonard!” greeted Aunt Jean, as he came up the steps. “Sit down! I bet you’re all tired out after this hot day.”

“I am,” said Leonard. “I’m sick and tired.”

“We were just talking about--”

“I heard you,” Leonard interrupted; “but you can count me out, thanks. I don’t need any assistance.”

“But, deary!”

“No!” said Leonard. “I’m grateful to you, but you’ll have plenty of others to help you get rid of your money. I’m going--” He paused for a moment. “I’m going away,” he went on. “I’m going out to California. After you’ve finished helping everybody in sight, you can come out to me, any time you like.”

He went into the house, slamming the screen door behind him. He was sick of it. He loathed human nature. Knaves and fools! Aunt Jean was one of the fools, and he was another.

There were some letters for him on the hall table. He took them into the sitting room, and flung himself into a chair. He had never felt so tired and so dispirited in his life. All of them, even Vi!

He realized now that he had not been a really complete cynic. He had thought that Evan was a darned fine fellow, making a gallant fight in the world. He had thought Marian was a rather wonderful girl, loyal and patient and strong. He had thought that Vi was the pluckiest, dearest kid. He had had faith in these people.

But no more! He was a cynic now, all right; and he really was going away. He had not dreamed of such a thing until he said it, but he meant it now. He would leave the rest of them to divide poor Aunt Jean’s million, and, when she was cleaned out, he would look after her.

He lit a cigarette and lay back in his chair. The room was tranquil and pretty in the lamplight. The curtains fluttered in the night wind, and he could smell the honeysuckle outside. This place had been a home for him. He had believed that he hated it, but he hadn’t. He had loved it--the neat, airy bedroom upstairs, the porch where the honeysuckle climbed, the cheerful grin Evan had for him, Marian’s thousand affectionate little services, and Vi coming and going.

“They were all right,” he said to himself, forlornly, “until they smelled money. Well, that’s human nature.”

But he wanted to get away from human nature as fast as possible. There would surely be work in California for an expert designer of love nests. He knew nobody there; he would have no ties.

Marian entered the room.

“Excuse me, Leonard,” she said evenly, “but I’ll have to make up the couch here for Vi. She’s coming out on the nine fifty.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Leonard.

Let her be offended! Plain speaking might have helped them; anyhow, they knew now how he felt about things. He picked up his letters. The first one was addressed to “Miss Jean La Reine.” He rose.

“Letter for you, Aunt Jean!” he called.

“Leonard!” said Marian, in a whisper. “Don’t!”

He paid no heed. Holding the letter in his hand, he stood waiting until Aunt Jean came in.

“A letter?” said she. “My!” She looked at the envelope. “Boys!” she cried. “It’s from the lawyer! I’m all fluttery!”

Evan had come in with her, and, to Leonard’s furious disgust, he put his arm about Aunt Jean.

“Don’t be fluttery,” he said. “Take it easy! Sit down!”

She shook her head, and the ready tears came into her eyes.

“It’s the news,” she said. “Poor Darcy Rose! He was a grand friend to me!”

Leonard sat down again, and began to open his letters. He heard Aunt Jean tear the envelope.

“Oh, my God!” she cried.

“Take it easy!” said Evan. “Never mind, Aunt Jean!”

“Boys!” she cried.

Her face had grown chalk white beneath the rouge. She looked her years now.

“Boys, he never left a cent--for any one.”

“Never mind, dear!” said Marian. She was kneeling beside Aunt Jean, her smooth cheek pressed against the raddled old one.

“After I promised you--all I promised you--”

“Aunt Jean, dear, we knew.”

“Knew?”

“We asked Vi to see the lawyer, weeks ago, because we were afraid, from the very beginning, that--that you were going to be terribly disappointed. Poor old Mr. Rose didn’t have anything to leave.”

“And you let me stay, when you knew?”

“We only wished you’d never find out, dear. We thought that if you got used to us, you could be happy to keep on--”

“A s-silly old woman without a c-cent!” she sobbed. “And all those plans--that see-dan car for Evan, and the fur coat for you, and a little holiday this summer! Oh, I wish I was dead!”

Leonard had risen again. He saw that Evan and Marian were doing more for the silly old woman without a cent than even a millionairess could have expected. They had known all the time, all of them--Violet, too. Here was human nature unmasked at last!

Leonard had grown as pale as Aunt Jean.

“Look here!” he said, with a frown. “Aunt Jean, your idea was--to share with the family. Well, we can manage the car and the fur coat and the little holiday, all right. I’ve won the competition.”

“Leonard!” cried a voice from just beyond the doorway.

He knew it was Violet, but he did not care to look at her just then.

“Here’s a box of candy,” he said briefly, and turned toward the other door.

“Len, old man--” Evan began.

“Leonard!” cried Marian. “Oh, you splendid boy!”

“I knew he was a genius!” cried Aunt Jean.

He could not speak just then. He went into the dining room to escape; but Violet came after him. He turned and faced her.

“Vi!” he said. “I’m--I’m sorry.”

She held out her hand with a friendly smile, but somehow the friendliness vanished. It turned into another sort of look, such as he had never yet seen on any face.

“Vi,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me about Aunt Jean?”

“I hated to, Leonard. You--you do feel things so. You’d have been so upset. You have said that life was unjust, and--you’re such an idealist, Len!”

“What?” said Leonard. “You think I’m like that?”

“I--I know it!” replied Vi, with a break in her voice. “You can’t bear it if everything isn’t perfect. You don’t understand human nature or--”

“You mean you think I’m a fool,” said Leonard sternly.

“I do not!” contradicted Vi. “I think--” She tried to get her hand away, but it was impossible. “Imagine your wanting to give away your money the moment you get it! I--I think--”

Leonard was silent for a time, looking at her.

“Violet,” he said, somberly, “I need some one to look after me.”

“I’ve always known it!” agreed Violet.

* * * * *

“Don’t disturb ’em!” whispered Aunt Jean. “We’re young only once. That’s just human nature. Deary, what could be sweeter?”

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

DECEMBER, 1926 Vol. LXXXIX NUMBER 3

Home Fires

TEMPERAMENTAL HOUSEKEEPING MAY HAVE ITS DISADVANTAGES, ESPECIALLY IN A TWO-FAMILY HOUSE

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

It was a long way home, and a lonely way, along a road of frozen mud, bordered by empty fields and trees stripped bare in the autumn winds. The short November day was coming to a close, and the fields seemed vast in the gathering dusk. Only at the top of the hill lingered a streak of wild, unearthly yellow light, in a sky of flying clouds.

Bess climbed the hill steadily, her eyes fixed upon that transient glory; and she repeated to herself bits of poems she had learned in school:

“Count that day lost whose low descending sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done.”

A most characteristic sentiment! The frosty air had brought a fine color into her cheeks, and her hair, in the sunset light, shone like copper where the wind had blown it loose under her tam-o’-shanter. She was a solitary little figure in a desolate world, but invincibly gallant and earnest.

At an early age she had become enamored of Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life,” and her diary was prefaced by the quotation:

Life is real! Life is earnest!

She had always felt like that. She had been left motherless when she was a very tiny girl, and the chief influence of her childhood had been that of her father, a man whom nobody could accuse of undue frivolity. He believed that life was real, and earnest, and pretty awful--especially now, when he was a ruined man.

Bess, however, being only nineteen, could not see things quite as he did. She was very grave about the situation, and desperately anxious to help him. Just now she was on her way home from the village post office, where she had mailed a letter to an old school friend, politely but firmly refusing an invitation for a week-end. She realized that things were very bad, but she could not help thinking that they might take a better turn at any time.

Her father thought this attitude half-hearted. He was a ruined man, and he wished to do the thing thoroughly--wished to be completely and properly a ruined man. He refused to cherish any illusions, any false hopes. When ruin came, he had sold their old house in Connecticut, and they had moved into the lower half of a two-family building in a New Jersey suburb. Bess suffered quite as much as he did from this uprooting, only she pretended to like it, so that he should not reproach himself so bitterly. Whenever the least thing went wrong, he would say in his most hopeless voice that all this was entirely his fault.

As a matter of fact, it was. He was a professor who had written philosophic essays, pointing out the pitiful follies of the human race, and he should have known better than to trust persons who were enthusiastic about oil wells. He did know better now, but it was too late.

Bess had almost reached the top of the hill now, and a ray of the sun, shining upon a broken bottle, sidetracked her thoughts. It looked like a piece of ice.

“I bet there’s skating,” she thought.

She thought of last winter--only last winter--and of all the girls skating on the little lake in the school grounds. In her heart there echoed the sound of their laughing voices, the strange, ringing hum of skates on ice. She could feel again her own quiet content in the companionship of her friends, the satisfaction of an orderly and purposeful life.

“But all that was just--a preparation,” she said to herself, valiantly. “This is the real thing. I’m really useful now.”

She repeated her very favorite verse:

“Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.”

That was what she intended to do, certainly. The pursuing and laboring part was not so hard, but the waiting--

II

The sound of a car coming along the road made Bess draw to one side. Very few cars came here, and she was a little curious about it. She glanced up as it passed, and then stared after it, amazed.

It was what looked like the wreck of a fine touring car, battered and scarred, but with an engine that took the steep hill superbly. It was piled high with household goods. A man was driving it, on the running board crouched another man, and, perilously balanced upon a table wedged into the tonneau, there sat a woman. She was laughing, and the brightness of her face lingered in the girl’s mind.

As they disappeared over the crest of the hill, a lamp shade fell out of the car. Bess was hastening forward to retrieve it, but, before she got there, one of the men appeared. He picked it up, and then something arrested his attention.

“Hi! Just come here!” he called, and the two others joined him.

They all stood there, as if entranced with the view; and Bess, as she passed them, heard the woman say something about “the austere charm of all this.” She was somewhat surprised, and very much impressed, to learn that any one could find charm of any sort in these barren fields, where great billboards stood, declaring them to be highly desirable building lots. She felt that she herself should have discovered this charm in the six weeks she had been here.

But now she observed something which the others had not seen. They had their backs turned to the car, which stood halfway down the slope, and they did not know that it had begun to slip. Bess called an anxious warning, but they were talking, and did not hear; and the top-heavy car was slowly gathering momentum.

“Oh, do look out!” she cried. “It’s running away!”

It was. Oblivious of brakes, it went careering down the hill, faster and faster, bumping over the ruts, and flinging out all sorts of things as it went. The others had heard her, now, and turned, and they all began rushing after it.

Too late! Going at great speed, the car smashed squarely into the stump of a tree, stood up on its hind feet, and threw a great part of its load over its head. Then it stood still and waited.

Bess was the first to reach the scene of disaster, and she was dismayed. There was a little red lacquer cabinet in splinters; there were books with the pages fluttering away; a china clock was shattered to pieces; the ground was strewn with wreckage.

“Oh, what a pity!” she cried. “I’m so sorry! Such pretty things!”

“Never mind!” said the woman, cheerfully. “Some of them were broken, anyhow; and I don’t believe in caring too much about _things_, do you?”

Struck by this philosophic point of view, Bess turned toward the speaker, and found her still smiling. She was not a pretty woman. She was small and pale and freckled, and her reddish hair was growing gray; but that smile offers was a thing rarer than youth or beauty.

“I _like_ her!” thought Bess.

The two men had begun to stow the débris into the car in a way that caused anguish to the girl’s orderly spirit.

“Have you much farther to go?” she asked anxiously. “Because, if the things are packed like that, I’m afraid they’ll fall out.”

“My dear,” said the woman, “I don’t know how far it is. I took the place, in blind faith, from an agent. It’s No. 9 Edgely Road.”