Chapter 21

( Originally Published 1915 )

IN WHICH NEWS IS EXPECTED, AND COMES; BUT FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER

BLINK went directly to his own room. Adele was sit- ting by the baby, sewing. And so Hilda, a very few moments later, finding on inquiry that Adele felt no inclination to go out, announced that she would take a long walk.

Her first thought was to go over to the American Express and inquire for mail. But by the time she had reached the corner she had changed her mind. The mail might bring problems. Her life was entering, this day, upon a new epoch. She must get as far as possible from problems and from people. So she walked over to the Boulevard Malesherbes, and through to the Champs Elysees by way 'of the Rue d'Anjou and the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honore, turning off to the left finally at the President's Palace.

It was a sunny spring afternoon, and not cold. The great park-like avenue was alive with children and their nurses. She went over to the Punch and Judy show, near the Theatre Marigny and stood for a time outside the enclosure, studying the delight of the children in the age-old antics of ugly little Mr. Punchinello. The little girls particularly held her eye and thoughts. She fell to wondering bow it would seem to have—her mind hovered hesitatingly over the phrase, and her pulse suddenly quickened its beat —to have her own little girl grown up to an enjoyment of outdoor play.

She walked on. The booths of the toy venders were doing a good deal of business. Children eyed the balls and hoops wistfully—so wistfully, in the case of one great-eyed child with black curls, that Hilda bought her a hoop and passed on with a glow in her heart.

She followed, without particularly intending it, the route she and Blink had traversed so often in their walks. They would be a pleasant memory, those walks. They would, at times, be a poignant memory; for they were a part of the one real companionship of her life.

She was right; it would be wrong to marry Blink. It simply wouldn't work. But he had been a wonderful companion. She would never forget his honesty, his simplicity, the magnetic attracting power of his strength and grace. And then, he had kissed her. For a long time her mind dwelt on that kiss.

She wished it hadn't happened. She did not blame him, but she wished it hadn't happened. It was not any the easier, this way, to put him out of her mind. Or to put the thought of love out of her mind. For she had been stirred. And now she was going to be lonelier than ever. . . . with youth and love and the natural joys of the senses put forever behind her. She was crossing a line—the great line. Soon, dreadfully soon, she would be close to the borders of middle age.

"Middle age !" . . . The prosaic time of life that precedes the last decline. One is "sensible" then, if ever. One is subdued. One is "steady." One works better, yes—and is easily casual in manner, and inclined to be careful about diet and about the proper clothing for winter. No more of that wonderful eager questioning of life itself. No more risks; no more blind thrilling dashes at the game of life !

No more ! . . . She was away out now on the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, walking more rapidly than was necessary. She slowed her pace. She must have passed the Arc de Triomphe without knowing it.

She turned off to the right by the taxi rank at the Porte Dauphine, and followed the line of the old fortifications through the narrow street that borders them on the inner side, between the high earthworks and the railway cut. Half-way through this passage she suddenly remembered that it was a reputed haunt of the Apaches. It was not an altogether safe place for a youngish woman to walk alone, even in. the afternoon. For a moment the thought brought only recklessness. She seemed not to care greatly what might happen. There was not any too much to live for—just problems, and tangles of responsibilities, and endless, wearing work in a hostile world—in a rather ugly world. . . . But then pictures of the baby rose again in her mind, vivid pictures. There, now, was something, to work for. There was an aim. She must take good care of herself for the baby's sake. She must rebuild her health—even, if the thing could be done, regain some part of the enthusiasm, the buoyancy, that had carried her thus far. The baby would help her to be young again—or younger.

She walked more rapidly; and was relieved, a few moments later, to find herself emerging quite safely on the familiar open Place within the Porte Maillot.

When she returned her room was empty. Adele was out. Evidently she was airing the baby in the new English perambulator Hilda had bought, at a price that had frightened Adele a little. It had not occurred to the little dancer that a baby carriage could cost so much.

Hilda found she was too restless to stay alone in the room; so she went out again, this time for her mail.

There was only one letter for her—from her mother. Margie, it appeared, had decided to announce her engagement; and all the disturbance, the wistful heartsickness, which the mother must conceal from the younger daughter, was discharged in this letter to the elder. But after a few moments, while she was walking back to the hotel, Hilda found herself rather welcoming the burden. It gave her something outside herself to dwell on. Then, too, she seemed to have a better understanding of her mother's sorrows; the gulf between them, the inevitable gulf between two generations, was certainly not so wide as formerly. She decided to give up the evening to writing a long helpful letter. For the first time it occurred to her that her mother, too, was, as she now phrased it, "stale on her job." And then and there she made up her mind to bring her mother East immediately after Margie's wedding and settle down to housekeeping with her. That would be good for both of them. And of course it would help with baby.

When she entered the hotel, Blink was in the manager's office, turning the pages of a thick little book that Hilda recognized for a railway guide. It gave her an odd flutter. But she might have known that Blink, once the decision was made and his course laid, would not hesitate. His time had come. He had said it.

He heard her, and glanced up. It seemed to her that he must surely have seen her as she moved by the door toward the stairs. She had a smile ready for him—perhaps not a radiation of good cheer, but still a smile.

But he lowered his eyes to the book.

Probably, she thought, it was just self-consciousness. A man is entitled to a little of that when he leaps precipitately toward matrimony. It seemed to her that he had reddened; but she could not be sure, moving by so rapidly.

The baby was back in her basket now. The door to the adjoining room was ajar, and beyond it Adele was moving about and humming a "rag" tune. She had a sweet little voice. A few moments later Blink came into her room from the hall, and Adele, with a glance in at Hilda and a mumbled pretext—something about not disturbing the baby—shut the door.

It brought a pang to Hilda. Curiously, it made her feel old, as well as painfully alone. But it was better so. When a man and a woman join hands and choose the single path, no others should be near. It is a very personal, an exclusive time. Friends will reappear later; in this occasion they can have no part.

The afternoon was nearly gone now. Hilda made herself physically comfortable in a negligee and began the letter to her mother, composing it with care. For it was to be a very important letter, marking the end of one great critical period of her life. Her mother must find support in it, and courage—the courage of a daughter who was young and strong and successful, quite able to provide a comfortable home, and to bring into it health and good cheer.

Just before dinner Adele, very self-conscious, came in for a moment.

Hilda said—"Don't stay in unless you want to, Adele. I shall not be going out again."

"Oh," replied the girl, "all right. Perhaps I will go then."

Nothing more was said. Their eyes did not meet. There had been, of late, no reason why Adele should wish to go out. Neither dwelt on this fact. Thus, simply, tacitly, was the great change in their lives recognized and accepted.

Hilda ate alone in her room. Then she set the tray out in the hall, and drove herself back at her letter.

Adele was still out when Hilda gave the baby her ten o'clock bottle and went to bed. It was lonely, this room where so much had occurred to stir her feelings. She decided that it would be well to move right away. She would take a small apartment. Even if Adele should stay in with her for a little while—and surely some small time must elapse before the wedding—it would not be quite so bad. The surroundings, at least, would be new.

Yes, she would insist that Adele stay on. She would not be weak or sentimental now. It would do her good to shut away her own feelings—stop this interminable thinking about herself—and make the girl comfortable until the day of the great change.

She recalled that glimpse of Blink studying the railway guide. It would be like him to rush matters to a conclusion. Since his new plan implied giving Adele a home, he would permit neither her nor himself to drift a day longer than might be necessary. That was where Hilda herself could step in.

Yes, she would be good to Adele. The child had never known happiness. Now, at last that the great happiness was coming to her, she should experience the satisfaction, so deeply pleasing to a girl, of feeling that everything was being done "right."

After all, despite the wrench at her own tired heart Hilda decided that it would even, in a way, be pleasing to herself to take a part in the fascinating preliminaries to a wedding. The very fact of Adele's humility—the fact that she would expect nothing—would intensify the pleasure of giving.

She would deliberately make the girl, for once in her rather battered young life, the center of her small stage. She would help select the modest trousseau. It need not cost very much; and it would bring a light of heavenly happiness to Adele's eyes. She recalled her first impression of those "cow eyes," as she had seen them across a writing table at the American Express. Yes, it would be a pleasure to light them up. For a time she occupied herself in mentally going over Adele's scant wardrobe and checking off her needs.

She lay quietly in bed, the light out, the building across the street dimly visible through the open casement. She seemed to feel less depressed now. Her thoughts of Adele had operated to restore the sensation of Blink's steady friendship, that had come to mean so much in her life.

She dwelt on this. After all—despite her moments of weakness, despite his grotesquely matter-of-fact proposal of marriage, despite the one kiss—that had been the predominant quality in their relationship, friendship. A very fine friendship !

She felt again that she had taken the right course. To have permitted the stir of passion really to enter their relationship would have destroyed the friendship. This way, they still had it, would always have it. Yes, she would make Adele happy, for once. Blink would understand and appreciate it. There was even, now, a warm little glow at the thought. In this mood she drifted easily to sleep.

After breakfast, on the following morning, she heard Adele and Blink talking in the next room. Their voices were low and guarded. Then Blink went back to his own room. Hilda could hear his familiar light step in the corridor, and then the opening of his door.

A little time passed before Adele tapped softly and opened the door. She had her coat and hat on.

She evidently had something on her mind to say, something that she found difficulty in saying. After a moment's hesitation she knelt by the basket and played with the baby's little hands. They were not thin hands now; there was a dimple at each knuckle.

"Hilda," Adele asked, still plainly gaining time, "don't we need milk?"

Hilda looked into the tin ice-box. "Yes," she replied, "we do."

"All right. I'll go around by the Rue des Mathurins and order it."

As she lifted the baby's small fist in her own left hand, Hilda saw a ring on her third finger, a very new ring, set with a single rather large diamond. It was a good stone, she thought. But, then, it would be. Blink would do it that way. She saw that Adele was smiling down with a new womanly softness at the morsel of life in the basket. She was glad that it was all working out so well.

"Hilda," said Adele then, suddenly serious. "Blink and I are going out to Auteuil to-day."

"Oh, are you?"

"Yes—to the hospital. I don't know if they'll let us see Juliette. If they won't, it's all right, of course. There isn't any hurry, with everything going so well here. But if she is strong enough, we'll—we'll talk with her."

For a moment Hilda's heart stood still. Quite unconsciously she had been coining more and more to take the success of her own new plans for granted. But now, thus abruptly brought face to face with the issue, she was caught in an uprush of misgivings. She covered her confusion by saying in her most matter-of-fact voice

"Well, I ought to know pretty soon, Adele, if I'm to plan things."

"Yes," Adele murmured, "I suppose that's so." She moved to the door. "I'll see you later in the day, Hilda. And we'll ask for your mail while we're out." Then she went into her own room, closing the door behind her. A moment later Hilda heard her outer door open and close.

Toward noon, Hilda began to watch for their return. She sat for a while by the open window, looking idly down into the street. Though it occurred to her, as the noon hours wore away, that they would lunch somewhere outside. Too, Auteuil might be some little distance from the city. She did not know just where it was.

The morning had been raw, but at noon the sun appeared. She continued in her room until about two o'clock. She made various efforts to read, but with no success. Her thoughts had followed Adele and Blink to that invalid girl in a hospital that until this day had been little more than a myth to her. It was now suddenly, painfully real. This Juliette, whom she had never seen and whom, for days at a time, she had all but forgotten, was now real, as well. It was as hard to write letters as to read books. Her mind would not come down to it. She was thinking, thinking—what if this faint remote shadow should close in about her now, all at once, darkening her life.

She faced this thought, not with the resentment that, a month or two later, would have blazed up in her spirit, but with a humble sort of dread. If Juliette should be better—if Juliette should be unable to see the wisdom of permitting her fatherless little girl to be reared in a good home, with every advantage . , . try as she would, it was extremely difficult to face this contingency. She had known of it, of course; yet she realized now that she had been taking the opposite for granted—altogether too much for granted.

She dropped on the floor by the basket, and sat there for a long time, watching every motion of the baby; rearranging, with loving fingers, the coverings that the vigorous small legs would insist on kicking aside, responding to the wonderful little smiles with tears that came rushing into her eyes and made it hard for her to see.

She felt that this was an unwholesome indulgence, and at two o'clock took baby out for an airing. She had not been out a quarter of an hour before that deep, deep anxiety drove her back to the hotel. No, they had not returned. She felt strongly, as she wheeled the carriage off for the second time, that she must bring her nerves and thoughts under control. There must be no more "going to pieces." If she had any character, now was the time to show it. Deciding that she did have some character, she went resolutely away, and did not return until a little after four. Even then she did not hurry, but deliberately walked up the stairs with the baby in her arms.

Still they had not come back. At least they were not here. They might, of course, have come in and gone out again.

She laid the baby back in the basket, and made her comfortable, while putting a bottle to heat. Then she saw that Adele's door was open. It seemed to her that it had been closed. Yes, surely, Adele had shut it when she went away in the morning.

She looked in. A parcel had been dropped on the bed. And on the table stood a box of American chocolates, opened and partly eaten. Hilda smiled faintly as she glanced at them.

She came back into her own room. As she went over to the wardrobe to hang up her coat, she saw a white envelope on the chair by the door. She had walked right by it when she came in. So Adele had been here, and had not waited to give her the news. That seemed a little—well, heedless. For she must have known how anxiously Hilda would be waiting. And Blink, too—he would think of that. Still, no news was, in a way, good news. That box of chocolates was surprisingly reassuring. They had been having a good time, a boy and girl sort of time. Even allowing for the thrill of their new relationship, even allowing for Adele's sudden, deep happiness, they surely would not have been staying away for hours, playing like children, nibbling chocolates, were they the bearers of bad news.

She hung up her coat; then moved over to the chair to pick up the letter. It was a long plain envelope, a "legal size" envelope.

Before her outstretched hand touched it, she wavered, bent closer, looked.

It was from Harris Doreyn, and was postmarked "London."

She picked it up, and turned it over and over in her hands. It was thick. Either he had written a long letter, or else there were enclosures. Hardly the latter, though, for he certainly had nothing of hers.

He was still in London, then. Or he had been, a short twenty-four hours earlier; the postmark bore the imprint, "April 1, 10 a. in." To-day was the second—Wednesday, the third.

He had been in London all this time, weeks and weeks.

Yet the last she had heard from him had been that brief note, written at Chicago in midwinter, announcing that he was coming to New York to see her.

She carried it over to the window. Strong as was her curiosity, she delayed opening it. She wondered what he had been doing in London all this time.

Then she wondered, suddenly confused, how he had found her address. Doubtless he had got it in New York as he passed through. Then he had known, all this time, where she was. He could have communicated with her. But he had not done so. He had always had the power to stir her to resentment—to unaccountable little resentments that flared up unexpectedly and laughed at logic. She was flaring up now; but not so strongly. Her life had deepened of late. Still, she was flaring up. She felt the color rushing into her face.

She deliberately dropped the still sealed letter on the bureau. It occurred to her that in her preoccupation of the morning she had actually forgotten the baby's bath. Though, for that matter, baby usually slept better at night if bathed near the end of the day instead of in the morning. She must not bathe her just yet, of course, so soon after the bottle; but she would get the bath ready, all but heating the water. She wanted to do something with her hands. She could not read that long letter—that letter from the one man who had brought love into her life—while this nervous flush was on her cheeks, while that confusion of queer little resentments was stirring within her. So she brought the light papier-mâché tub from the wardrobe and set it on its familiar chair. She got out the towels and soap. She filled the kettle from the water pitcher and set it over the alcohol lamp. Within the half-hour it would be all right to start the water heating.

There was nothing more she could do in this direction. So she went over and sat by the window and looked out. She decided that she would read the letter as soon as this absurd flutter of the nerves should have passed.

What she had told Blink was what she really felt; deep in her heart and in her reason. She was pretty sure of this. Even should Harris Doreyn come to her as a free man and ask her to become his wife, she would have to say no. For too much time had passed. Surely he had changed, almost as she had. As she had said to Blink, too much water had run under the bridge.

Yes, more and more strongly she felt, as she sat there—hands relaxed in her lap, deliberately inhaling deeply the crisp outside air, gazing apparently toward the building across the way, but really looking far, far into the past—that the time when she might have married successfully had long since gone by. It occurred to her that this was a selfish thought; it had to do only with her own success in life, her own happiness. Still, was it wrong to consider these things? Would it be sound, would it be honorable even, to bring to the man that loved one only a deep unrest, a great unhappiness ?

She turned slowly in her chair and looked for a time at the very little person in the basket who had lately come to play so engrossing a part in her life. Baby was awake. She could see the little hands waving about. She could hear, now and then, a gentle gurgling and cooing.

Her eyes filled again. She got up and walked to Adele's door—stood irresolutely there, looking in at the box of chocolates on the table. Adele was a child—a nice child. She must try to make Adele happy.

But she wished—nervous and restless again—that Adele would come back. It was all right, of course. Such indications as there were pointed toward good news rather than bad. But it was a strain, waiting like this.

She raised her arm and looked at the watch on her wrist. It was getting on toward five o'clock. Why didn't they come ?

She looked again at the watch. It was the one Blink had given her. She recalled, poignantly, the moment, there in the corridor just outside her door, when he had caught her arms and drawn her for an instant back against him—and how she had thought, in a flash of memory, of the moment when Harris Doreyn had caught her in the same way, passing from the dining car to the sleeper of the Chicago train.

What a tangle ! What a blind tangle—no way out ! She felt it almost as a pain.

"Life is terrible," she thought.

She came back, and stood looking down at the letter. She thought then that she had better open it. Why, since she felt reasonably certain that it could not seriously affect her life now, should she hesitate in this way ! One might almost think that she was afraid of it.

Then a warm curiosity surged within her; and the color returned to her cheeks. Why had he written that painfully brief note asking permission to see her in New York ? Why, receiving no reply, had he gone on to London? And why, of all things, had he waited for weeks in London, appar ently knowing her address, yet making no effort to see her?

It occurred to her, with a sharp, wrench of feeling, that he might have been ill. Something might have happened.

She held the long envelope up to the light, shook it, and carefully tore off the end.