Part 8 (1/2)
I shook my head. ”Of course I'm not thinking of leaving you.” I waved my hand in response to his wave of the bottle, and, not seeing where I went, I turned the corner and, head bent to keep out of my face the tiny particles of sleet and snow beginning to fall, walked for some distance before noticing where I was.
Much of my city, unknown to me a short while ago, was now familiar, but to much I was still a stranger, and presently I was wondering concerning the occupants of the houses I was pa.s.sing. The shabby gentility and dull respectability of the latter was depressing, and to escape the radiation of their dreariness I turned into first one street and then another, and as I walked the girl with the boyish face walked with me, the face with its hunted fear. She had held the baby as if frightened, and when she turned the corner she was running. She was so young. Could the baby be hers? It must be hers. Nothing but a mother-face could have in it what hers had. Why was she afraid, and of what?
The streets were becoming rough and unpaved before I noticed I was nearing the city limits, and, cutting across afield, I got into the Avenue, toward the end of which was Selwyn's house. As I neared it my steps slowed. For years the Thorne property had been on the outskirts of the city, but progress had taken it in, and already houses, flagrantly modern and architecturally shameless, offered strong contrast to its perfect lines, its conscious dignity, its calm aloofness, and its stone walls which s.h.i.+elded it from gaping gaze and gave it privacy. The iron gates were closed, the shutters drawn, and from the place stillness that was oppressive radiated, a stillness that was ominous.
Pride was undoubtedly Selwyn's dominating characteristic. Pride in his name, in its unstained honor, in the heritage of his fathers; and in the presence of his house it seemed an ugly dream--the picture ever in my mind, the picture of Selwyn walking slowly with a young girl in the dark of a winter afternoon in a section of the city as removed from his as sunlight is removed from shadow. In his nature was nothing that could make such a.s.sociation imaginable. If no higher deterrent prevented, pride would protect him from doubtful situations. He was sensitive to higher deterrents, however, as sensitive as I.
Pa.s.sing the gates, on the stone columns of which the quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned lamps of former days were still nightly lighted, I glanced through them at the snow-covered lawn and the square-built, lonely house, occupied now only by Selwyn and his younger brother Harrie, then again hurried on. The Avenue with its great width and unbroken length, its crystal-coated trees and handsome houses, was now deserted save for hurrying limousines and an occasional pedestrian; and safe in the fierceness of the snow, from encounter with old friends, I decided to walk home through the section of the city which was the only part I once knew well, and just as I decided I knocked into some one turning a corner as I approached it.
”Oh, Miss Heath!” The woman drew back. ”The snow was so thick I didn't see you. Did I hurt you?”
”Not a bit.” I wiped my face, damp with melted flakes which had brushed it. ”What are you doing up here? You look as frozen as I feel. Have you got on overshoes?”
The woman shook her head. ”I haven't got any. I wouldn't have come out, but I had to bring some work back to Mrs. Le Moyne. If she'd paid me I'd have bought a pair of rubbers. But she didn't pay me.
She said she'd let me have the money next week.”
”Next week! You need it this minute. How much does she owe you?”
”Four seventy-five for these last things, and four twenty-five for those I made last week. I don't know what I'm going to do.” The woman's hands, cold and stiff, twisted nervously. ”I don't reckon she's ever had to think about rent, or food, or fuel, or overshoes.
People like that don't have to. I wish they did, sometimes.”
”So do I. Come on; it's too cold to stop. We'll go down to Benson's and get something hot to warm us up. I forgot about lunch. Turn your coat-collar up--the snow is getting down your neck--and take my m.u.f.f. I've got pockets and you haven't.”
As we started off a large limousine with violets in the gla.s.s vases of its interior, upholstered in fawn-colored cloth, stopped just ahead of us, and a woman I did not know got out of it, followed by one I knew well. Fur coats entirely covered their dresses, and quickly the chauffeur opened an umbrella to protect their hats. As we pa.s.sed I started to speak to Alice Herbert, but, turning her head, she gave me not even a blink of recognition. At first I did not understand; then I laughed.
”Who is that?” Mrs. Beck's voice was awed. ”Ain't they grand? Do you know them?”
”No.” I put my hands in the pockets of my long coat. ”I used to know one of them, the feeble-minded one. We'd better go over to High Street and take a car to Benson's. The storm's getting worse. We'll have to hurry.”
The street lamps were being lighted as we reached Scarborough Square, and at sight of the house, in the doorway of which Mrs. Mundy was standing, I hurried, impelled by impulse beyond defining. Mrs. Beck had left me at the corner, and as Mrs. Mundy closed the door behind me she followed me up the steps.
”I've been that worried about you I couldn't set still long at a time, and Bettina's been up three times to see that your fire was burning all right. I knew you didn't have your umbrella or overshoes. It's a wonder you ain't froze stiff. I'll bring your tea right up.”
”I've had tea, thank you.” I held out first one foot and then the other to the blazing coals, and from the soles of my shoes came curling steam. ”It's a wonderful storm. I'd like to walk ten miles in it. I don't know why you were worried. I'm all right.”
”I know you are, but”--she poked the fire--”but I wish you wouldn't go so hard. For near two weeks you haven't stopped a minute. You can't stand going like that. I wish I'd known where to find you.
Mr. Thorne was here this afternoon. He was very anxious to see you.”
”Mr. who?” I turned sharply, then put my hands behind me to hide their sudden twisting. I was cold and tired, and the only human being in all the world I wanted to see was Selwyn. It was intolerable, this tormenting something that was separating us. ”When was he here?” I asked, and leaned against the mantel.
”He came about three, but he waited half an hour. He didn't say much, but he was powerful put out about your not being home. He couldn't wait any longer, as he had to catch a train--the four-thirty, I think.”
”Where was he going?” I sat down in the big wing-chair and the fingers of my hands interlaced. ”Did he say where he was going?”
”He didn't mention the place, just said he had to go away and might be gone some time. He'll write, I reckon. He was awful disappointed at not seeing you. He asked me--” Mrs. Mundy, on her knees, unb.u.t.toned my shoes and drew them off. ”Your feet are near 'bout frozen, and no wonder. Your stockings are wet clean through, and I'm letting you sit here in them when I promised him I'd see you didn't kill yourself doing these very things. You just put your feet on the fender while I get some dry clothes. He says to me, says he: 'Mrs.
Mundy, the one human being she gives no thought to is herself, and will you please take care of her? She don't understand'”--
”Oh, I do understand!” My voice was wearily protesting. ”The one thing men don't want women to do is to understand. They want us to be sweet and pretty--and not understand. Selwyn talks as if I were a child. I am perfectly able to take care of myself.”