CHAPTER XXI
Dolores never sent her address to Rufus Holt’s secretary, although she came in course of time to need the remittances which were to be forwarded through him. She hated Holt and loved John too much for that. Should that whisper in the night be heard by the world, the fight of the strong would indeed be lost to the weak. There was no choice. She must hide herself that “little while,” guilty though she might appear.
She lived in various places. She found various employment.
There was the naturalized tailor who rented the basement of the house where she had found a room and who seemed to assume from “Mrs. Trevor’s” face that she could baste “straight.” But she did not “naturalize,” either to the shop or his idea of her, and he took to complaining of her work. His subtlety was inadequate to cover his relief when she transferred to a restaurant, one of the sort to which ladies were “cordially” invited. But there came a day when this proprietor, as well, begrudged the price of his mistake.
Even time and time’s tutelage did not take the strangeness from the fact that no one wanted her about any more.
Weeks and months passed—Spring and Summer and another Fall-time. She was forced to look at her funds, also at the necessity to make them do. That grew to be her chief concern—to make them do.
Moving her bags was expensive and thinning an Airedale to the finest “point” of safety entailed anxiety. His canine protests against the experiment were what first lifted her eyes to a sign beside the door of a substantial house. A savoury odor of beef stew wafted from the downstairs windows and attracted the young dog so powerfully that, with ears laid back and muscles straining against his leash, he pulled her up the first two steps. What attracted the girl was the invitation of brass letters laid upon an ebony board:
Retreat for Wayward Girls
For more than two hours they had been walking slowly. Each day now they walked more slowly. And the slower they walked, the more urgent had grown their present landlady’s “want” of their room. The window signs were scarce in this cheap section of the city, said to be congested beyond all record. And such “To Lets” as they had found were said at the doors, after momentary inspection, to be already “taken.”
So now, weariness and the odor of stew on the crisp autumn air decided the dog. The cold sunlight falling upon the topmost, polished word of the sign—RETREAT—decided the girl.
The matron proved to be a quite good imitation of a mother. The girls under her charge were mostly repentant—some she had graduated into good cheer. “Waywardness” was an infliction to be frankly discussed; to be vied over, sighed and cried over with consoling camaraderie. Even the dog was pitied. Indeed, his demands for ready relief were met far too generously for his gastronomic good.
Although the “new girl” did not explain about herself—there was no need of that—she relaxed within the warming atmosphere of the retreat and tried hard to please. Interestedly she listened to tales of the benevolent gentleman who directed the philanthropy. With so many examples of waywardness about her, she came to take a less strained view of her plight.
But the night and day stories poured into her ears—stories of the undying devotion of the varied “friends” in the varied inmates’ cases who, through varied circumstances, had been separated from their hearts’ desires by cruel Fate—filled her with a longing for John Cabot that increased with the approach of her ordeal. Despite her unselfish resolves, she wanted him to know. He must have been hurt if he knew of her seeming desertion. Her past fear of the “risks,” as italicized by Rufus Holt, was wiped off the slate of her mind. The risk of death, which involved the greater risk of loss of love, was writ instead—to stay.
She decided to disregard the lawyer’s caution to the extent of a telephone call to John’s office. But he was not in and she dared not leave name or number. To put anything in writing was dangerous. Holt had warned her, yet a note was the only recourse left—one brief, careful note. Stationery and a pen she secured from the matron; forced herself to write briefly and constrainedly; addressed it to Mr. Cabot’s banking-house. Lest she permit apprehension to change her mind, she placed her finished missive at once on the table in the hall, where it would be given to the postman on his next round.
She was returning to her room—very slowly now—when the ensuing dialogue, first in a woman’s voice, then in a man’s, came to her ears from behind a door marked “PRIVATE” that gave into the hall.
“With a sham like you, there’s nothing to life. Why didn’t I see in time that my husband was the one who should have lived—you the one to die?”
“How like a woman, to shift the blame! Wasn’t the whole scheme your own—the cat-boat, the surprise attack, that weird knowledge of——”
“Hush, for Heaven’s sake!”
“See, you’re the guilty one. You tremble at the truth. I never had heard of a death-spot in the human ear. I couldn’t have struck true. And I couldn’t have play-acted your grief over the accident. Certainly you ought to grant, Mary, that I was all right then. Expected we’d be married like other folks, once we’d got the business well started on the capital from his life insurance. You say you have no respect for me. Well, there’s more than one cause for a loss of respect. What about mine for you? How can I know when some new lover will tempt you to drive a nail through the lobe of my ear—to throw me into a tide rip? It isn’t a man’s nature, I tell you——”
“Don’t call yourself a man. You have cheated me unforgivably. And yet——”
“‘And yet.’ Thank God we’ve reached argument’s end for to-day! We both know what we know and that I can prove it. More than you hate me you fear me. Come, we might as well be friends.”
“Friends? Remember that I can prove it, too, on you.”
“But you won’t, dear heart. Aren’t you tired yet of threatening me? Eventually you’ll settle to living it out peaceably on my terms. Why not now? Come. Be a sensible soul and agree——”
One of the voices alone might have puzzled Dolores, but together she had recognized both. They had struck her like a blow. As if physically stunned, she had clung to the balustrade for aid in undertaking the first few steps of the stairway. By now, more strength came to her. Quietly and rapidly as she could, she toiled beyond ear-shot up the flight.
Out of breath she collapsed on her narrow iron bed; lay realizing, not only the significance to herself of what she had overheard, but its meaning to the two principals as well.
So that was the hideous bond that tied them. That was why each pretended an affection for, considered and, if need be, defended the other. They had paid a human life for love and found that crime brought only mutual contempt.
Through the realization of what enforced their hostile, yet voluntary companionship came personal anxiety. Her letter—what if he should notice and examine it? Why hadn’t she taken it out and posted it herself?
But there was no time to be wasted over futile afterthoughts. She could not chance his reading so much as the address. She must recover her letter.
From the head of the stairs she could not see whether or not it still lay on the table, which stood in the hall near the street entrance. She could see, however, that the door marked “PRIVATE” was ajar. As no sound of voices came to her, she concluded that the two in the hateful lockstep must have gone. She counted possible costs, then again descended the stairs.
They stood beside the table. Not until she saw their faces would she believe the worst. Not only had he noticed the address of the letter, but had opened and was reading it.
A smile was on his face—the æsthetic, pale-eyed, appealing face of Vincent Seff. His agreeable laugh sounded as he turned to Mrs. Hutton.
“Of all the chickens to come home to roost in the coop of little Vin! You remember that pugilistic Puritan, John Cabot? As addressed to him, Mary, what can these hieroglyphics mean? Listen:
“‘Soon a rosebud will open its petals to the world. I may not stay to care for it. I depend on you.’”
Impulse ruled Dolores. She crossed the hall; stretched out her hand for the letter; faced them.
“It is mine. You have no right to read it.”
For a long moment Seff simply looked at her. Then he took the lavender-bordered ’kerchief from his sleeve and with it wiped his lips.
“Well met,” said he at last, “Miss Nectarine.”
“You have no right to open a sealed and stamped letter intended for the mails,” Dolores insisted. “Will you give it back to me or shall I appeal to the head of this institution?”
“Appeal. I am the head of the institution. I have a right to do whatsoever I see fit within its hallowed walls.” The satisfaction of his smile increased.
Mrs. Hutton, a shade grayer, calmer and handsomer, at first had looked chiefly astonished. Now she intervened.
“Best give it back, Vin. Being what you are—or rather, what you aren’t—you can have no interest in the affairs of this girl, unless that——”
“Unless that I do feel so obligated by my debts and her I owe so much. But take your delicate little effusion. I couldn’t possibly forget a word of it.”
Her letter in hand, Dolores turned and was about to undertake the stairs again, when he stopped her.
“Just a moment, Miss Trent. How long will it take you to retreat yourself out of here?”
“To retreat?” she asked. “But I thought the object of this house——”
“Allow me to explain. The purpose of the institution is to help girls who repent of their waywardness, not to encourage hardened sinners. I have followed your career in the newspapers. I consider it a privilege to have read your latest attempt at extortion. Naturally I assume that, once your present handicap is overcome, you’ll go on, like a brook, purling round the hearts of men—on and on and on. There are public reformatories for persons of your sort. To realize our ideals, we must be somewhat particular here.”
Mrs. Hutton, as well as the girl, looked at him. Drawn to the full of his dapper height, his face lit by artistic appreciation of his own pose, his gesture delicately drawn, he might have impressed a stranger as the benevolent of the inmates’ praise.
But Mary Hutton was not a stranger. That equivocally proud yet contemptuous smile was on her lips as she turned to Dolores.
“You at least will have a child. I have nothing—nothing,” she remarked. “Don’t be annoyed by a little thing like Vincent Seff turned to philanthropy and good works.”
The ultimatum of the head of the Retreat increased the urgency of Dolores’ letter. She posted it herself before setting out to find a new place. She was fortunate, however. Before night she had located a rooming-house “lady” sufficiently in need, sufficiently pessimistic, sufficiently old and shiftless and poor-spirited to waive references and accept two weeks’ rental in advance. Here she laid in what she still could pay for toward her needs; here lived along and waited with hard-dying hope.
Since she had found the place so soon, she regretted the hasty posting of her note. Rather than chance another of those risks to John, of which the deposed shop-keeper’s suggestions had increased her fear, she had given her new address to that quite good imitation of a mother, the matron of the Retreat, for the forwarding of mail or the convenience of any friends who might telephone about her or call to see her.
The incidents of her days became the variation from morning confidence to evening despondency; of her nights, the discarding, under crush of the blackness, of one after another of her schemes for a second and more direct message. And, whether in the daytime or at night, a bark of the dog at an unaccustomed sound would rouse her to radiance—to heart-hammering joy; or his growling return to the tedium of his life would bring her back to heart-stilling disappointment. Either John had made no response to her appeal or the matron had failed to supply the address.
Heavier upon her pressed thoughts of the power of her enemies. Where would her note lead Catherine Cabot if it chanced into the hands of her hirelings? What might not Seff reveal? How much might those omniscient detectives learn from their watch of John?
So far Fate had conspired against her with a nice regard for every detail. She became possessed by the pertinent query: Why should she expect the mind of Fate to change?
Any question over the advisability of telephoning Rufus Holt was answered by her inability to go out in search of a booth. Just before one fevered dawn the idea of advertisement came and crowded out the sickening controversy over whether John or the matron was to blame. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? In a return of expectation, she composed a “personal” that seemed to her adequately “covered”—recognizable only to him addressed. There was piquancy in the thought that the Press which had been her enemy should now serve her as a friend. Fortunate that she knew which of the morning papers he was accustomed to read with care—doubly fortunate that there still was enough left of her hoard to pay for a single notice.
The poor-spirited landlady looked especially pessimistic over the errand on which she was asked to go, any chance of a reward depending upon its success. Her new tenant was likely to be a great deal of trouble, she anticipated aloud, and she never before had been reduced to taking dogs. Had not the room been so long vacant, she would not have considered the pair of them. She suspected, moreover, from the things they were doing without, that they had about reached the limit of their wherewithal. However, none could say but what she always looked on the bright side of things and she’d do her best about getting all the display the money would buy for the personal.
Dolores’ confidence increased after the old woman had gone. Such doubts as crowded in, she exorcised with the reminder that her advertisement would have succeeded or failed in one day’s time. Often in the past she had deplored the fact that the marvelous output of the press should die in a day; now she rejoiced in the fact. By to-morrow he would have come or—But she would not—dared not face the alternative.
That night her baby was born.
The old woman did what she had time for and the charity doctor stayed a while. Afterward, Dolores must have sunk into a state of semi-consciousness—must have slept or dozed away the time, for she roused to incredulity on being told that it was noon of the next day.
Two other facts penetrated her listlessness. The life of that day’s Times must soon be spent and her child was a girl.
Suppose he did not come. That meant that another girl-child was fatherless. Already, in the world’s opinion, she would be accounted worse than motherless.
As before, time became merely a variation of hope and despondency.... What was that? Surely, an Airedale bred to watchfulness would not grow so excited had he not recognized a step or voice!... But no, he was a silly dog, silly and extremely bored. He and she, too, must have imagined the step and the voice.
A girl, their babe—a hapless, little human, who was not to inherit even such paternal affection and care as could be spared from poppy paste. Another girl she had brought into a world which had no justice for unprotected girls.... Perhaps, if he did not come, it would be best that their baby be spared the learning of life—the humiliations, the disillusionments, the death-stab of love that lied.... Since he had not come, love must have lied. Both her messages would not have gone astray. There was significance in this second failure. Too late to protect her from his weakness had come his strength. If he did not, would not come——
She must be very ill; must have dozed off a while—that is, if the old woman told the truth about night having come again.... Likely she had told the truth, for the room was quite dark, except for the one dim gas-jet lit in the old-fashioned chandelier.
The landlady had come in to say that she wanted the room as soon as Dolores was able to get about. A refined adult—a single gentleman—had enquired about it that day. Mrs. Trevor should remember her saying from the first that she never took in dogs or babies. She knew what babies were—just one sick spell after another. And she had no space in the back-yard for regular laundry. She was a kind-hearted woman and honest about her bargains, the Lord knew. But she had herself to think of and the other folks in the house. She wasn’t one to worry a fellow woman sick-a-bed, but the gent had said he would stop in the morning for his answer. Naturally, she would need to name the exact day he could come. Her soft heart always had been her worst enemy, but business was business.
After the old woman had dismalled herself out, Dolores’ gaze again strayed to the gas-jet. The turned-down flame fascinated her and seemed to make a light in her mind. It flickered an answer to the embarrassing question of when she could give over the room.... What time was it now?... Nine o’clock.... The day that was the life of a news sheet was long since done....
There were three jets to the chandelier. It wasn’t going to take long. Already she was affected by the fumes. The dog was sniffing suspiciously, whining protest....
“A life for a life,” she told him unfeelingly, thinking of Jack, the only one who ever had loved without harming her. But then—the Airedale, after all, had not asked Jack’s life any more than she had asked her mother’s.... She arose, tottered to the door, took him by the nape of the neck and thrust him into the pure air of the hall.
Fortunately the babe was too young to realize or complain; would never know about life—never know. Dolores held the small form to her heart and shuddered anew over what life might have meted out to so tiny and helpless a creature.
“There is the mark of the seal they call the signet of Solomon,” she mumbled through the dark to the chandelier. “There are to will and to have your will. There are your social ideas, your excesses, your pleasures that end in death——”
Who was it had reminded her of Maupassant not so very long ago? Oh, yes.... That night.... What, indeed, was folly but “a riotous expenditure of will”?... He had not seemed a man to shirk the obligations of his folly—John Cabot—that night. Yet he had not come.... So tender he had seemed in his madness for her; so willing to deny himself; so determined to consider her. He had made her realize the happiness which she and Jack had tried to learn from a bird.... Still, where now—happiness?... And God—where was God?
Who was bending over her?... Amor—could that be the gallant love-lad, so broken and so gaunt? Had he come to mock her?... And was it Innocentia clinging, peaked and weeping, to his hand?
Sorry comforters, the two. Their visit distressed her more than the nauseous fumes from the jets.
There were Vincent Seff and Mary Hutton, now. Why were they still together?... Strange that whichever died first, the other would be there, attentive to the end lest the fear of God overcome the fear of man in a death-bed repentance.... They could be sure of each other’s company to the end.... Hate, then, bound people closer than love.... Love? How lonely was love!
“I never—knew God, but I knew—you. Why—why hast thou—forsaken—me?”
The gasp was wrung from her stress of body and soul. In the darkness and the aloneness it quavered heartbrokenly upward with her thought of John Cabot.
Then she remembered the lady she had admired in the railway station, long, long ago—the lady who had sneezed. She hadn’t made the usual fuss about it; had just leaned out and done it, neatly and composedly.... What was human life but a sneeze? Birth was the warning; youth the preparation; life the sniffing and death the wiping of eyes. After death perhaps one settled back into composure.... The lady had proved a good example in so many crises of her life. It was well to have remembered her in death.... She must make no fuss; must do it neatly and composedly.
She threw back her head; set her lips hard; breathed deep and long ... deep and long ... deep and long....