Rose of Dutcher's Coolly Part 40

There was nothing there but a vista of pleasures, certain relief from toil and worry. What a marvelous thing to be suddenly relieved from all fear of hunger and every hara.s.sing thought about the future! And it was not a question of an old man of wealth, or a man of repulsive appearance; it was a question of taking a bright, handsome, clean-souled man, together with his money. She felt the power to put out her hand and claim him as her own.

She liked him, too; he amused her and interested her. She admired his splendid flesh and his clear, laughing eyes. It seemed the easiest thing in the world--to an outsider. She felt that Isabel was working hard to have her see young Harvey at his best, and she felt, too, that Mrs.

Harvey was taking unusual interest in her, and in her secret heart she knew she could marry into that fine family, but--

Liking was not love. She did not s.h.i.+ver when he clasped her hand, as she did when Mason greeted her. She feared Mason. When he came by, her judgment blurred and her eyes fell. She couldn't tell what his traits were, and she didn't know whether he was a good man or not. She hungered to see him, to hear his voice; beyond that she hardly dared consciously go.

His att.i.tude toward her she could not understand. Sometimes he seemed anxious to please her, sometimes he seemed equally determined that she should understand how inconsequential she was in his life--and always he dominated her.

She did not once think it might be indecision in his mind, after the usual stupidity of love's victims. She thought his changes of manner due in some way to her. She had acted foolishly, or she was looking so badly he was ashamed of her.

In this condition of mind, it may be imagined, she did not do much studying or writing. She went to the library regularly, but she could not concentrate her thoughts upon her book. She grew surly and changeable with Mary, who no longer dared to talk unguardedly with her.

Mary's eyes were not gla.s.s marbles; she could see things with them, and she said gleefully to Owen one night:

"She's in love, that's what is the matter with her. I don't mind it.

She'll be all right after a while. She's short as pie-crust with me, but I know how it is myself. She's in love with some high-flyer she's met at Dr. Herrick's house."

Then she wondered why Owen made no reply.

CHAPTER XXI

MASON TALKS AGAIN

Not seeing Mason for some days, Sanborn took a walk one night, and turned up about nine o'clock at his rooms. He found him sitting before his open grate fire, smoking meditatively.

"h.e.l.lo, Sanborn! Glad you came over." He did not rise, but Sanborn was untroubled by that.

"Got another chapter turned off?"

"Possibly. Fill up and draw up."

Sanborn obediently filled a pipe and drew up a chair.

"You look tired."

"I am. I have written a column editorial on the labor question, one on the Chinese treaty, a special article on irrigation for the Sunday issue, not counting odd paragraphs on silver, anarchy, and other little ch.o.r.es of my daily grind."

"That's not as bad as poulticing people."

"Bad! There's nothing any worse, and my novelistic friends are always saying, 'Why don't you turn in and finish up your novel?' What can an intellectual prost.i.tute do?"

"Get out of the business, one would suppose."

"Well, now, that brings me to the point. In the midst of all my other worriments, I am debating whether to marry a rich girl and escape work, or a poor girl and work harder, or to give the whole matter of marriage up forever."

"These are actual cases, not hypothetical, this time?"

Mason turned a slow eye upon him.

"I have no need to fly to hypothetical cases," he said, dryly. "In the first place, my hero--if you incline tonight to that theory of the case--my hero is equally interested in two young women. This is contrary to the story books, but then only an occasional novelist tells the truth. I'm to be that one."

He seemed to be going off upon some other line of thought, and Sanborn hauled him back by asking a pertinent question:

"You mean to say both of these young ladies have that glamour?"

"O, not at all! They did have, but it has faded in both cases, as in all previous cases, yet more seems to have remained, or else I am getting a little less exacting. In the case of the sculptress--she's the poor girl, of course--she's a genius. The first time I saw her she read a paper on 'The Modern in Sculpture' (it was good, too). She was dressed beautifully, in cheese-cloth, for all I know--I only know she put to shame her sculptured copies of Hope and Ariadne. The glamour was around her like rose-colored flame. It was about her still when I stepped up to her. She was tall, and strong as a young lioness. Her clean, sweet eyes were level with mine, and she made me ashamed of every mean thing I had uttered in my whole life."

"Well, well!" exclaimed Sanborn.

"She was flattered and exalted to think 'the editor' was pleased with her essay, and the rest was easy. I went to call on her a day or two later----"

"And the glamour--the glamour?"

Mason shook his head. "Faint! She was in her study, and the hard, cold light was merciless. She was handsome, even then, but her face had a pinched look, and there was a heavy droop to her lips. The color so beautiful that night when flushed with excitement had faded from her cheeks, and gathered in some unfortunate way about her eyes and nose.

She was a fine woman, but--the glamour was gone."

"What an eye for symptoms! you should have been a physician," Sanborn put in.

"At the same time she grew upon me. She's an artist. She has the creative hand--no doubt of that. She has dreams, beautiful dreams of art. She glows, and dilates, and sings with the joy of it. She could bring into my life something of the dreams I myself had as a youth.

She's going to make a name for herself, without question."

"Why, that's glorious, Warren, old man; she's just the wife for you! And she really inclines toward you?"

"She does." Then his self-crucifying humor came in. "That's really her most questionable virtue. However, if Love can laugh at locksmiths, I suppose he can laugh at a bald head. But this is only one phase of the matter. Like all spectators, you are informed of only one side of the banner. Let's look at the other.

"I manage to live here and support this fire, which is my only extravagance. I keep the establishment going, and a little more. I'll antic.i.p.ate the usual arguments. Suppose, for a little while, it would not increase expenses. It would not do to bring a woman here, it would not be right. When children came--and I should hope for children--they should have a home in the suburbs; I don't believe in raising children in a flat. That would mean an establishment which would take every cent I could hook on to, and it would mean that the whole glittering fabric would be built upon my own personal palm."

"But she might earn something--you say she's a genius."

"She is, that's the reason she'll never make money. Holding the view I do, I could not require her to toil. I do not believe marriage confers any authority on the husband--you understand my position there?"

"Perfectly--and agree with it, to a limited extent, of course."

"Going back, therefore--I do not believe I can a.s.sume the risk involved.

I'm not capable of twenty years' work at my present rate. I'd break down, some fine day, and then my little home, upheld upon my Atlas palm, would tumble. No, I can't take the risk. I'm getting too foxy; I haven't the bounce I once had. Besides, her career is to be considered. I don't believe I can afford to let her marry me."

"That's mighty kind of you," Sanborn dryly remarked.

"Thank you. I think it is an error of judgment on her part. She is younger, and as her adviser I think I must interfere and save her from the power of a vivid imagination and abounding vitality. You see, there are a great many considerations involved."

"Real love, I must repeat, would not consider."

"I wish you wouldn't repeat it, it does you an injustice. The animal pa.s.sion of youth would not consider. With youth, it is marry--marry, even if within the year you are picked up by the patrol wagon, a vagrant in the streets. The love of my time is not so heedless nor so selfish; it extends to the question of the other party to the transaction."