Part 9

He prowled around the platform, scowling, trying to plan his course. To his right he saw a few scattered lights, which must be, he thought, the village of New Chelsea; and he went toward them, along a muddy road. In due time he reached the main street. There was a drug store, closed and locked, with a ghostly green light in the window. There was also a protective light in the window of a well stocked grocery; but not a human being to be seen, not a sound to be heard, except the yelping of a dog somewhere in the hills that rose behind the town and partly sheltered it from the wind. Only a sudden cruel gust, from time to time, met him full in the face.

He turned a corner, and at the end of the street he saw a distant form, walking with a slow and deliberate step very familiar to him. It was a policeman, and Brecky hastened after him.

“I’ve lost my bearings,” he said. “Is Charley Sands’s place anywhere near here?”

The policeman hesitated for a moment, with rural caution.

“What do you want to go there for?” he asked.

“Well,” said Brecky, laughing, “I suppose because I don’t want to walk around New Chelsea all night in this weather. Three of us started here in a motor, but we broke down a little way up the line, and we couldn’t get our bearings. We each tried a different direction, and I guess I’m the lucky one. Charley will have to turn out with a lantern to find the other fellows.”

“Oh, they’ll be all right!” said the policeman, disarmed. “There’s houses and little settlements all around this part of the country.”

He directed Brecky to the house of Charley Sands. A good walk, about three miles, he should say--uphill, and mighty hard to find in the dark.

“Oh, I’ll find it all right!” said Brecky cheerfully.

V

He very nearly found something else that night. He lost his way entirely. He went on, as in a dream, along muddy roads, up hills so steep that he thought his weary heart would burst. He would not admit his intolerable fatigue, and the frightful ravages made by passion and bitterness. He wished to continue, inexorably, until he had accomplished his object.

The country was unfamiliar and hostile to this denizen of cities. When at last his strength was wholly gone, he did not know where to turn. He dared not wake any of the people in the dark farmhouses he passed. He crept up to a barn once, but a dog drove him away.

At last, at very last, he found an open shed behind a church, used as a shelter for the buggies and the Fords of the worshipers; and he crouched in there, relieved for a time from the unendurable confusion of the dark and the wind. His cigars and matches were dry and safe in an inside pocket, and he began to smoke. He hadn’t the slightest wish to sleep. He didn’t even feel tired. He only wanted to stop for a moment, to secure a pause in his superhuman exertions. He knew very well that if he hadn’t found this refuge, he would have been defeated.

Wide-eyed and reflective, he sat in his corner until he observed that the stormy dark was changing its aspect, that it was growing faintly and drearily gray. It surprised him. He had forgotten that morning was ever coming again. He got up and set out on his way once more.

An extraordinary thought occurred to him. It would have been better, he said to himself, if he had died. He had lost Kathleen; why was he to live? What had he left?

He had no longer any heart for revenge. He was sorry he had to see it through; but, according to his queer code, it was absolutely necessary to vindicate himself. Otherwise his self-respect would be gone, and he could neither live nor die in peace.

It was nearly eight o’clock when he approached the house of Charley Sands, which an early stirring laborer had pointed out to him. He had planned that hour. He had also looked up the time of the train he meant to take--when he had finished. It was due to his self-respect to make a valiant effort to escape, although he didn’t really care.

It was a trim white house surrounded by placid lawns. He went up to it with careless audacity, his hand grasping the revolver in his pocket. What did he care? Let Sands see him, let him ask what he wanted; he would soon find out!

Brecky had made himself neater, after his horrible night, than almost any other man could have done; but at best he looked haggard and menacing. He knew it, and was glad.

The weather had cleared, but he was still wet to the skin and cold, although he was not aware of it. He walked along the gravel path, which crunched under his firm tread. He was making no effort to conceal his presence. He wished to be observed, to bring this thing to its climax, to be done with it.

He ran up on the veranda, and, with one of those queer impulses of an abstracted mind, instead of ringing the bell, he knocked sharply on the door. He heard some one coming down the stairs, and he smiled. If it was Charley--

But it was not. It was an entirely strange young woman, who looked at him with distrust. He was so taken aback that he could not speak. He stared and stared at her.

“Well?” she demanded impatiently.

“Sands here?” he managed to ask.

“What do you want with him?”

Brecky hesitated. His tired brain, flung loose from the pivot of his fixed idea, spun round helplessly. He couldn’t really think at all. Another woman here!

He was roused by the sight of her preparing to shut the door in his face. He set his foot against it.

“I want to see him,” he said. “You call him!”

She was alarmed then, and began to call “Charley!” in a shrill voice.

Down the stairs came bounding the fat and owlish young man.

“Well!” he cried. “Brecky!”

The young woman frowned.

“He didn’t say who he was,” she said. “I didn’t know. Come in!”

Brecky entered, still dazed. They didn’t seem at all surprised to see him, even at that hour of the morning, and in the lamentable state he was in. He sat down uninvited, threw off his cap, and lighted a cigar.

“This is my wife, Brecky,” said Sands, in a tone of severe rebuke. “Kathleen’s second cousin, you know.”

“All right!” said Brecky.

His manners, usually punctilious, had deserted him entirely. What he wanted was for these people to clear out of their own room, and let him think for a moment; but the young woman sat down opposite him. She was rather nice-looking, in a shrewish way, but obviously hostile.

“She’s here,” she said.

Brecky sprang up.

“Let me see her!” he cried.

“I don’t think she wants to see you,” said the young woman. “I don’t blame her. If she takes _my_ advice, she’ll never go back to you!”

Brecky looked at her steadily. He felt, however, that it was better not to say what he thought just then.

“You’re just making a drudge out of her,” the other went on. “It’s a shame--a pretty, lively young girl like Kathleen shut up in that awful place! All you care about is getting your meals cooked. I wouldn’t do it for any man. She’s sick and tired of it, I can tell you--being your cook. If she takes my advice, she’ll go back to her old job, where she’ll have a little money to spend and see a little life.”

“All right!” said Brecky again. “But maybe she doesn’t want to take your advice. Anyway, I’d like to ask her.”

“Well, I hope she won’t see you. I know what you’ll do--make all sorts of promises, till you get her back there again, and then she can go right on cooking!”

“Do I see her, or don’t I?” asked Brecky, still quite calm.

“I’ll see,” said the peppery young woman, and went off and left him alone.

He had a new idea to contend against, and one for which there was in his experience no precedent. He could comprehend an elopement, but any subtler reason for his wife’s leaving him was extremely hard for him to grasp. It was his habit, though, to face facts, and he tried now.

He tried to imagine Kathleen as a human being, and not as his wife; but he failed. What more could the girl want? He was filled with rage at her ingratitude, and at the humiliating position she had got him into. He was certainly being made a fool of, for the first time. He had done his best, had worked for her, had been sober, kind, loyal. What more could the girl want?

Whatever it was, she wouldn’t get it--that she wouldn’t! She had left him, and she could come back, if she wished; but he wasn’t going to ask her.

“That’s not my way!” he said to himself, with a grimace. “I won’t crawl for any one. I haven’t done anything. It’s all her fault!”

He was half inclined to walk out of the house then and there, but if by any chance Kathleen was going to be sorry, he didn’t want to miss it. He discovered that he was extremely anxious for her to be sorry, and that if she were, he might perhaps not be so very angry. She needn’t even say it. One nice smile, and the thing would be over.

“I don’t know,” he thought. “Maybe it has been hard for her. She’s only a kid. Of course, it doesn’t excuse her running away like that, and making such a fool of me, but--well, I don’t know. Maybe, later on, I’ll get a servant for her. I could afford it.”

VI

Brecky wheeled about, for some one had entered the room. It was the rebellious Kathleen herself. She seemed to him to have grown miraculously prettier overnight, and he was still less angry.

“Well, Johnny?” she demanded.

He resented that tone very much.

“Well!” he said affably.

There was a long silence.

“I’m taking the nine forty train home,” said Brecky. “Coming?”

“No,” said she.

Without another word, he picked up his cap and made for the door; but he was met by Charley Sands.

“Here! Here!” said he. “Stay and have some breakfast first, old son!”

“All right!” said Brecky.

He wanted breakfast badly. He also wanted to show Kathleen how unconcerned he was, that he was not hurt and bewildered and angry. He stood in the hall, talking to Charley. He was aware of Kathleen’s voice in a near-by room, talking to that vixenish young woman.

“Married life’s a great thing!” said Charley dismally.

“Sure is!” said Brecky.

He couldn’t imagine how any man could marry if he couldn’t marry Kathleen. He despised and hated Kathleen, but in common justice he had to acknowledge to himself that she was the prettiest and sweetest girl in the world, and utterly superior to all other women. She was--

Just then he heard her speaking. She had a clear voice that carried well.

“No,” she was saying. “I think I’ll make some pancakes for Johnny’s breakfast. But see here--you needn’t tell him I made ’em, Grace. I don’t want him to think--but he looks dead tired, and he does love pancakes!”

That did for Brecky. He ran down the hall and pushed open a door. It opened into the kitchen, and Kathleen, in an apron, stood at the table, before a large bowl. He paid no attention to the second cousin. He darted around the table and took Kathleen in his arms.

“Oh, come on home!” he said.

She began to cry at once, very comfortably, with her head buried in his coat.

“Don’t be silly!” he said anxiously. “See here, Kathleen! Listen! We’ll get a cook. We’ll go to the theater, and--”

His wife raised her head and kissed him vehemently.

“Oh, Johnny!” she began, but stopped short, dried her eyes, and went on with great dignity. “Johnny,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind cooking and all that, for you, if you didn’t--kind of expect it. _That’s_ what made me mad last night. You just expect--”

“Well, I won’t any more,” he assured her. “You come home, and I’ll be darned surprised every time I get a meal!”

* * * * *

A few minutes later they all sat down to enjoy Kathleen’s matchless pancakes. Eating them, Brecky also partook of the fruit of knowledge.

“You’re one grand little cook, Kathleen,” he thought; “but this time I won’t say it!”

EDITORIAL NOTE--The short story entitled “The Strong Man,” published in the September number of this magazine, was the work of Robert T. Shannon, but by an unfortunate error the name of John D. Swain was given as the author. We apologize to both these popular writers for the accidental confusion of their names.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

MARCH, 1923 Vol. LXXVIII NUMBER 2

The Aforementioned Infant

THE STORY OF A YOUNG WOMAN WHO LOVED HER BABY

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

The lawyer read the document aloud to her, but she did not understand.

“What was that?” she asked timidly. “Free--”

“‘Free access to the aforementioned infant,’” he repeated. “That means that you may see your child at any time--any reasonable time, of course,” he hastened to add.

It did not take Maisie long to discover that there was no reasonable time. No matter at what hour she came to the house, she had to wait in the hall, sitting in a high-backed chair against the wall, humble, patient, like a child herself. The servants passed and repassed as often as they could find pretexts, for the sake of staring at this creature who had trapped young Mr. Lester into a scandalous marriage. The fact that she had not been notably successful as an adventuress stirred no one to pity. They had married, and it must have been due to Heaven knows what beguilement on her part.

Maisie had little charm for the casual observer. She was small, fragile, with untidy black hair and gray eyes immense and sorrowful. She dressed like a schoolgirl in a blue sailor blouse and a short dark skirt. Her pale face had the rounded contour of extreme youth. If the reckless Mr. Lester had betrayed her, one might have felt compassion for her as a forlorn and lovely child; but the fact that he had married her proved her to be basely calculating.

After a long time she would be taken up to the nursery. If the baby was asleep, she would stand beside the crib, her hands clasped, tears raining down her face. She would wait patiently until it awoke. Then she would lift the sturdy little thing, strain it to her childish breast, kiss its faint, silky hair, and press her own cheek against its plump one. She scarcely dared to whisper her passionate endearments, for the trained nurse was always there, looking at her critically.

“I don’t like to see her pick up the baby,” the nurse said to Mrs. Tracy. “She doesn’t look healthy.”

“I dare say she’s not,” replied Mrs. Tracy, with a sigh; “and who knows what she’s been doing, or where she comes from? But I suppose it can’t be helped. She had a legal right to see the child, of course. My son is very strict about her rights, and so on--very generous.”

Her son himself was not always so sure of his generosity. He had moments when he thought himself little short of contemptible. Only moments, though; he was no rebel, and if his world was inclined to condone his offenses, or even to deny them, who was he to contradict it?

He was young himself--only twenty-two; a good-looking, silly, sweet-tempered boy. His life was one folly after another, always repaired by some one else. He did not imagine that he could do no wrong, but he felt pretty sure that any wrong that he might do could easily be undone by some one else.

He had found Maisie behind the counter of a candy shop, where he went to buy lavish presents for other girls. Her luminous and innocent eyes, her soft little English voice, had taken his fancy. She was quite alone in the world. She had come to America with her brother, a third-rate actor, a hard-working, ambitious fellow, for whom she was to keep house.

“But he died,” she said simply. “So I’m working here.”

She had been pitifully ready to love. She had taken all Lester Tracy’s extravagant speeches in perfect seriousness. She didn’t know how to conceal her sweet delight; and he had been very much touched by her artless affection. There was no one like little Maisie.

He often took her out to dinner, and to save his life he could see nothing in her to find fault with. She was always gentle, quiet, appealing. What if she was a shop girl? He knew plenty of girls of his own sort who might have learned much from Maisie. She was no gold digger, for she demanded nothing, expected nothing. She was happy if he took her out, but she was quite as happy if he stood in the vestibule of the wretched apartment house where she lived, and talked to her and kissed her.

She cared nothing at all for his money. He had tried to explain that, but no one would believe it.

He couldn’t explain his marriage very well. He had come into the candy shop, one day, on his way home from a wedding breakfast, where he had had a good deal too much to drink. He had leaned across the counter and said to Maisie:

“Come on, Maisie, darling! Let’s go and get married!”

She had got her shabby little hat and walked out of the shop with him, and they had gone down to the City Hall. He had been well aware of his condition, and a little afraid that he wouldn’t be granted a license; but he had made a great effort, and had carried it off splendidly.

He had been very happy with Maisie. He had run away. For a time no one knew where he was or what he had done, and they had lived in a big seaside hotel, undisturbed by any thought of the consequences of the thing. He did not like to remember how sweet Maisie had been. He tried to forget the innocent gayety of that fortnight.

Of course he had been discovered, and the monstrousness of the escapade had been shown to him. He had been hectored and wept over and bribed, and he had given in, as he always did.

Maisie was no less docile. She had been told that she must give him up, and she did as she was told.

Her docility was a sore temptation to the Tracys’ lawyer, who saw no reason why they should throw money away on a girl who didn’t want it. He advised them to waive the question of a divorce for the present, but to ask her to sign an informal--and infamous--separation agreement, to accept a very small cash settlement, and to vanish. She saw clearly that no one on earth--alas, not even Lester--cared where she went, or what happened to her.

To the lawyer she seemed to be a singularly insensitive creature. Even Lester was surprised that she gave him up so readily, without even a word of farewell. She would have got more sympathy--and more money--if she had made a scene; but that never occurred to her. She accepted whatever life offered with the blind resignation of a child. She felt herself entirely helpless and ineffectual, and took refuge in a strange inner life of her own, in the most piteous dreams and fancies.

II

Without energy, without bodily or mental vigor, Maisie had the immeasurable strength of fortitude. She could live one day at a time, endure each misery as it came; and in her baby she found a sublime compensation for every sorrow. Her money was exhausted when she left the hospital, but she was accustomed to the idea of a lifetime of work; and now that she had something to work for, a new ambition had awakened in her.

Her brother had taught her to dance. Indeed, they had once laboriously rehearsed a “turn” of his invention which was to thrill the music halls. She knew all the hackneyed steps, the conventional gestures, and performed them with a conscientious and touching grace.

The stage was out of the question--she knew that. She had no stage presence, no commercial value; but she could teach. Her naïve confidence in her ability to do so convinced the manager of the Palace Dancing Academy, and he engaged her as a “lady instructor.” The hours were irregular. She had to be on call from ten in the morning till ten at night, and was paid by the lesson.

She bought an evening dress from a secondhand dealer, an amazing affair of tarnished spangles and frowzy net, in which she looked incredibly dowdy. She could never learn to dress her hair. There were always silky threads waving as she moved, and one dark lock that insisted on falling across her forehead. One of her pupils said privately that dancing with her was like dancing with a rag doll. She seemed boneless and unsubstantial.

On the whole, however, she was well liked, for she took the greatest pains, was never impatient, never discouraged. Neither did she resent anything whatever. Some of her clients went far in their compliments, but her pale cheeks never flushed. She simply didn’t care. She had done with men, and all her steadfast and gentle heart was given to her baby. The Maisie who went dancing about in the Palace Academy was an automaton, whose soul was locked up at home.

She knew nothing at all about babies. She didn’t even know that there was anything to know. She read the label on a package of infant food, and followed the directions given. For the rest, she had vague ideas about keeping it swathed in flannel, giving it a daily bath, and taking it out in the fresh air whenever she could. She knew nothing of infant hygiene, and had never been told that the child should be let alone in order to develop naturally and healthily. She never let it alone, if she could avoid doing so; and still it developed mightily.

When she went out to give her lessons, she simply locked the room and left the baby in the crib. Sometimes she worried about fire, but she had no idea that what she did was wicked and shocking. On the contrary, she thought it inevitable.

She hadn’t told any one that there was a baby, but Mrs. Tracy found it out, and was very much agitated. Her grandchild! Try as she would to let well enough alone, the idea tormented her. It was an intolerable shame that her grandchild should be brought up in squalor and degradation by this girl!

She went again to her lawyer, and he gave her sage advice.

“I’ve no doubt she’d be willing to give up the child for a suitable consideration,” said he. “She seems to be a matter-of-fact young person.”

So he went with Mrs. Tracy to offer the suitable consideration. They found the miserable furnished room and knocked at the door. It was locked, but the baby inside began to cry.

“I guess Mrs. Tracy’s out,” said the landlady, who was interested in these imposing visitors.