Part 26 (1/2)

”Good-by. Go--go!”

”But you will at least let me know where you are? Don't be quite lost to me.”

”I shall be here for some time. But you won't come. I mustn't see you. I demand that much.”

”No, no. I won't come, you may be sure. And you, on your part, promise that if you have need of money you will let me know? That is the least I can expect of you.”

”I will; but go. I will have you in my--memory. Only go from me now, if you--love--”

”Good-by, then. I do not understand, but good-by. I am all in, Winnie; but still, good-by. G.o.d bless you--”

He kissed her hand and went. Her skin was cold to his lips, and, in a numb way, he wondered why. A moment after he had disappeared she called his name, but in an awful, hushed voice which he could not hear; and she fell at her length on the couch.

”Rex! My love! My dear love,” she moaned, and yet he did not hear, for the sky had dropped on him.

There she lay a little while, yet it was not all pain with her. There is one sweetest sweet to the heart, one drop of intensest honey, sweeter to it than any wormwood is bitter, which consoled her--the consciousness of self-sacrifice, of duty done, of love lost for love's sake. Mrs. Carshaw had put the girl on what Senator Meiklejohn cynically called ”the heroic tack”; and, having gone on that tack, Winifred deeply understood that there was a secret smile in it, and a surprising light. She lay catching her breath till Miss Goodman brought up the tea-tray, expecting to find the cheery Carshaw there as usual, for she had not heard him go out.

Instead, she found Winifred sobbing on the couch, for Winifred's grief was of that depth which ceases to care if it is witnessed by others. The good landlady came, therefore, and knelt by Winifred's side, put her arm about her, and began to console and question her. The consolation did no good, but the questions did. For, if one is persistently questioned, one must answer something sooner or later, and the mind's effort to answer breaks the thread of grief, and so the commonplace acts as a medicine to tragedy.

In the end Winifred was obliged to sit up and go to the table where the tea-things were. This was in itself a triumph; and her effort to secure solitude and get rid of Miss Goodman was a further help toward throwing off her mood of despair. By the time Miss Goodman was gone the storm was somewhat calmed.

During that sad evening, which she spent alone, she read once more the letter making the appointment with her at East Orange. Now, reading it a second time, she felt a twinge of doubt. Who could it be, she wondered, whom she would have to see there? East Orange was some way off. A meeting of this sort usually took place in New York, at an office.

Her mind was not at all given to suspicions, but on reading over the letter for the third time, she now noticed that the signature was not in the handwriting of the agent. She knew his writing quite well, for he had sent her other letters. This writing was, indeed, something like his, but certainly not his. It might be a clerk's; the letter was typed on his office paper.

To say that she was actually disturbed by these little rills of doubt would not be quite true. Still, they did arise in her mind, and left her not perfectly at ease. The touch of uneasiness, however, made her ask herself why she should now become a singer at all. It was Carshaw who had pressed it upon her, because she had insisted on the vital necessity of doing something quickly, and he had not wished her to work again with her hands. In reality, he was scheming to gain time.

Now that they were parted she saw no reason why she should not throw off all this stage ambition, and toil like other girls as good as she. She had done it. She was skilled in the bookbinding craft; she might do it again. She counted her money and saw that she had enough to carry her on a week, or even two, with economy. Therefore, she had time in which to seek other work.

Even if she did not find it she would have not the slightest hesitation in ”borrowing” from Rex; for, after all, all that he had was hers--she knew it, and he knew it. Before she went to bed she decided to throw up the singing ambition, not to go to the appointment at East Orange, but to seek some other more modest occupation.

About that same hour Rex Carshaw walked desolately to the apartment in Madison Avenue. He threw himself into a chair and propped his head on a hand, saying: ”Well, mother!” for Mrs. Carshaw was in the room.

His mother glanced anxiously at him, for though Winifred had promised to keep secret the fact of her visit, she was in fear lest some hint of it might have crept out; nor had she foreseen quite so deadly an effect on her son as was now manifest. He looked care-worn and weary, and the maternal heart throbbed.

She came and stood over him. ”Rex, you don't look well,” said she.

”No; perhaps I'm not very well, mother,” said he listlessly.

”Can I do anything?”

”No; I'm rather afraid that the mischief is beyond you, mother.”

”Poor boy! It is some trouble, I know. Perhaps it would do you good to tell me.”

”No; don't worry, mother. I'd rather be left alone, there's a dear.”

”Only tell me this. Is it very bad? Does it hurt--much?”

”Where's the use of talking? What cannot be cured must be endured. Life isn't all a smooth run on rubber tires.”