XXI
“Left hand, please!”
Obediently, Mrs. Barron took her left hand out of the bowl of warm water, and laid it on the towel, carefully, as if it might melt. And the manicurist bent over it with her nice air of earnest attention.
All this was agreeable to Mrs. Barron. She was rather proud of her hands; she was altogether comfortable and tranquil; she had a pleasant, restful day before her.
In the afternoon she and her daughter were going to look at fur coats, which was really better than the actual buying; and, in the evening, they were all going to a play. The sun was shining, too, and the formal sitting room of her hotel suite was cheerful and warm, and filled with the perfume of the roses that stood all about.
“It’s good to be home again,” she remarked. “At my time of life traveling is not—” The telephone bell rang. “Answer that, my dear. It’s dangerous to touch a telephone with damp hands—Oh! A gentleman to see Miss Barron? What a strange time to call—ten o’clock in the morning! Ask his name, my dear. He was on the Farragut with us? But how very strange! Why doesn’t he give his name? But ask him to come up.”
She dried her hands and arose, majestic even in her frivolous negligee.
“Very strange!” she murmured.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” she said.
The door opened—and it was Mr. Ross! She took a step forward, with a welcoming smile; then she stopped short.
“Mr. Ross!” she cried. “But—Mr. Ross!”
He did not fail to notice the change in her tone, the vanishing of her smile. It did not surprise him. He stood in the doorway, hat in one hand, the little girl clinging to the other, and he felt that, to her piercing glance, he was a sorry enough figure. He felt shabby, as if he had been long battered by wind and rain; he felt that somehow the emptiness of his pockets was obvious to any one.
“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you. I thought perhaps I could see Miss Barron, just for a moment.”
“Come in!” said Mrs. Barron, and, turning to the manicurist, “Later, my dear!” she said.
Ross came in, and the manicurist, gathering her things together on her tray, made haste to escape. She went out, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron, in the same tone of stern wonder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I’m afraid I’ve dis—”
“But, my dear boy, what has happened?” she cried.
He was absolutely astounded by her voice, by the kindly anxiety in her face.
“I just thought—” he began.
“Sit down!” said she. “Here! On the sofa. You do look so tired!”
“I—I am,” he admitted.
“And such a dear little girl!” said Mrs. Barron. “Such a dear little mite.”
She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible—he marveled that he had ever thought her formidable.
“You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you must wait.”
“By George!” cried Ross.
For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind—
“Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about this child. She’s a—sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”—he paused a moment—“alone.”
Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child, very thoughtfully.
“I don’t know any one in this country,” he went on, “so I thought if you’d advise me. I want to find a home for her. A[Pg 483]—a real home, you know, with people who’ll—be fond of her. Just for a few months; later on I’ll take her myself. But, just now—” His dark face flushed.
“I’m a bit hard up just now,” he said; “but I’ll find a job right away, and I’ll be able to pay for her board and so on.”
Mrs. Barron continued to look thoughtful, and it occurred to him that his request must seem odd to her—very odd. The flush on his face deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, coldly; “but there are a good many things I can’t explain—”
“Yes, you can!” Mrs. Barron declared, in her old manner. “And that’s just what you’re going to do. As soon as I set eyes on you, on board that ship, I knew what you were. And I am never deceived about character. Never, Mr. Ross! I knew at once that you were to be trusted. I said to Phyllis: ‘That young man has force of character!’ I knew it. Now you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble of some sort, and you’ve come to me—very properly—and you’re going to tell me the whole thing.”
“I can’t!” Ross protested.
“Oh, yes, you can! Here you come and tell me you haven’t a penny, and don’t know a soul in this country, and here’s this poor little child who’s been foisted upon you—Don’t look surprised! I know it very well! She’s been foisted upon you by selfish, heartless, unscrupulous people, and you can’t deny it! Now, tell me what’s happened.”
He did. And what is more, he was glad to tell her.
There were a good many details that he left out, and he mentioned no names at all, but the main facts of his amazing story he gave to her. Especially was he emphatic in pointing out that he had now no name and no money, and he thought that would be enough for her.
But when he carefully pointed this out, she said:
“Nonsense! You’ve got your own name, and you can go right on using it. As for money, you’re never going to let that horrible, wicked woman rob you like that—”
“Look here, Mrs. Barron!” said Ross. “I am. I give you my word, I’ll never reopen that case again. It’s finished. I’m going to make a fresh start in the world and forget all about it.”
“I shan’t argue with you now,” said Mrs. Barron, firmly. “You’re too tired. And if you want a position—for awhile—Mr. Barron will find you one. The little girl will stay here with us, of course. Now, take off your coat and make yourself comfortable until lunch time.”
“No!” said Ross. “No! I—don’t you see for yourself? I don’t want to see—anybody.”
“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron. “I’m not young any longer. I’ve lived a good many years in the world, and I’ve learned a few things. And one of them is—that character is the one thing that counts. Not money, Mr. Ross; not intellect, or appearance, or manners; but character. What you’ve done is very, very foolish, but—” She leaned across the child, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “But it was very splendid, my dear boy.”
Ross grew redder than ever.
“Just the same, I’d rather go,” he muttered, obstinately.
“Here’s Phyllis now!” cried Mrs. Barron, in triumph.
So he had to get up and face her—the girl he had run away from when he had had so much to offer her. He had to face her, empty-handed, now; heartsick and weary after his bitter adventure.
And she seemed to him so wonderful, with that dear friendly smile.
“Mr. Ross!” she said.
She held out her hand, and he had to take it. He had to look at her—and then he could not stop. They forgot, for a moment; they stood there, hands clasped, looking at each other.
“Didn’t I know he’d come!” cried Mrs. Barron.
THE END[Pg 484]
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
OCTOBER, 1926
Vol. LXXXIX NUMBER 1
Human Nature Unmasked
A CYNIC SEES THE TRUE CHARACTERS OF HIS FRIENDS REVEALED BY A SEARCHING TEST, THE LURE OF A MILLION DOLLARS
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
WILDER sprang off the train, jostled his way through the crowd on the platform, and dashed up the steps to the street, scowling with impatience; and yet, when he got there, he stopped short.
The trolley car that met the train was waiting in front of him, and there was a rush of commuters toward it. He had meant to get on that car, but he could not. He was too tired, too mortally sick and tired of his fellow creatures. He could not and would not be crowded in there. He wanted miles of uninhabited space about him. He felt that it was impossible to endure the sight of a human face or the sound of a human voice.
Then, just behind him, some one called out cheerily:
“Hello, Wilder!”
He pretended not to hear, and set off down the street, with that headlong gait of his.
“Let me alone!” he said to himself. “Oh, Lord! I’m so tired!”
All he asked was to be let alone, but he never was. At this moment Marian was waiting for him.
“Let her wait!” he thought.
But, just the same, he hurried home to her.
“I’m a slave!” he thought. “I’m a fool, an ass, an idiot, an imbecile!”
These weaknesses were not obvious in Leonard Wilder’s appearance. A big fellow, well set up, lean and vigorous, he looked like one abundantly able to take care of himself. His face, with its big, bold nose, its keen gray eyes, and that out-thrust underlip, looked like a clever face. He was by no means handsome, but there was something about him that pleased the eye. People were inclined to stare at him. People who knew him detested and loved him at the same time. He was impossible to get on with; yet, once you got used to him, it was hard to get on without him.
He was an architect; but he said that if he could choose again, he would be a house wrecker. There was, he said, no room on earth for an architect until ninety-five per cent of all buildings now standing had been razed to the ground. Feeling as he did, he nevertheless helped in the erection of more monstrosities. The owners of a “development park” employed him to design houses.
“Regular little love nests!” said Connolly, the senior partner.
“Why d’you call these things ‘nests’?” asked Wilder. “Haven’t you ever seen a nest? Don’t you realize the fundamental decency of birds? Why, man, birds hide their nests! ‘Love nests,’ eh? Sheep pens, you mean!”
Connolly laughed; but he always arranged to keep his architect and his clients as far apart as possible. When this could not be done, he took care to explain in advance that Wilder was a genius. Connolly believed this. He believed that only a genius could be so outrageous; that only a genius would do such good work for so little money. He liked geniuses.
Leonard’s own opinion of himself was less flattering. He called himself a fool. For instance, here he was, hurrying home, when he so violently did not want to go home, simply because it would upset Marian if he were late. He always hurried home, and not out of good will. He felt no good will toward anybody on earth. He was the complete cynic. He did not love his fellow man. If he caught trains,[Pg 486] it was only through a very contemptible weakness.
The sun had gone, but it was not yet dusk. As he reached his own corner, the street lamps suddenly came alive, glowing with a faint, luminous violet against the pallor of the sky. He was startled and enchanted by the effect. He stopped, to stare up at them, to watch the delicate changes in the sky.
“Extraordinary thing!” he thought. “I spend my life looking for the beautiful line—the clean, strong, inevitable line; and here is beauty without line, almost without form or color—half tints, shadows—of nothing. Why is this beautiful to me?”
He wanted a formula, and could find none. He lit a cigarette, and leaned back against the lamp-post, meditating. Marian saw this from the window. She saw her brother-in-law standing on the street corner, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky, when he knew very well that dinner was ready. Let him! She made up her mind that she would not say one word. She put everything into the oven to keep hot, went out on the veranda, and sat down there.
When, at last, Wilder came down the street, and saw her, he knew by her face that she was not saying a word. Instead of admiring this forbearance, a fierce exasperation rose in him. He wanted her to say a word, so that he could reply in other words. He desired a barrage of peppery words. He had stopped, just to look at the sky—and she begrudged him that!
“Good evening, Leonard,” she said, quite politely.
“Oh! Good evening!” said he, as if surprised. “You here?”
Then he sat down on the top step and lit another cigarette.
“And here I sit until you do say something!” he thought.
“I will not be drawn into a dispute with Leonard,” thought Marian. “He’s simply looking for a chance to be nasty; but I shan’t say a word.”
From inside the house came a sound of hammering. It was Evan Wilder, doing some little carpentering job; and this—this creditable and helpful thing—filled Leonard with still greater exasperation.
He was weary and hot. He wanted peace. He wanted a dim and lofty dining room, a silent and highly competent manservant, and a rare sort of dinner; and when he thought of what he was actually going to get—
He had meant not to speak, but that hammering was too much.
“Peter Pan, the Boy Scout who never grew up,” he observed. “What good turn is he doing now?”
Marian still said nothing, but the effort she made to hold her tongue vibrated through the air.
“He is misguided,” Leonard went on. “If he were to follow our example, Marian! Here we sit, developing serenity of soul in contemplation. I’m happy to see you contemplative, Marian. Don’t you feel strengthened by it?”
“Leonard,” she replied, in a voice unsteady from many suppressed emotions, “if, instead of sneering at Evan—”
“Shan’t I put dinner on the table?” interrupted a voice.
It was the voice of Marian’s young sister, Violet. Leonard rose.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” he asked sternly.
“Why should I?” returned Marian. “I didn’t want to disturb you in your soulful contemplations.”
She, too, had risen. He admitted that she was a nice looking girl, but it exasperated him to see that she was tired. It made him feel that every one in the world was tired. He thought of Marian working all day in this detestable little house. He thought of Evan sitting in his office, waiting for the patients who did not come. Everything was awful!
Violet disturbed him. He was sorry for her, just entering upon life in all its awfulness; and she was so unsuspicious. She did not look either tired or discouraged. She was a designer, working in a fashion studio, and she did not seem to mind it.
There she stood in the doorway. The light behind her shone on her bright hair, making it glitter like gold wire. She had a nice color in her cheeks, and across her nose was a band of freckles that seemed to Wilder funny and very touching. She had serious blue eyes. She was a serious girl altogether, but he always felt that the seriousness was not quite honest. He strongly suspected that there were moments when she laughed.
She glanced at Leonard as he came in, and smiled seriously. He would have said that he was sorry he was late, only that Marian would have heard, and it would[Pg 487] have been mean to be sorry to Violet and not to her.
As he went upstairs to wash, he met his brother Evan coming down, with a clean collar, and his dark hair still damp. He looked neat and subdued, yet cheerful. Evan was always cheerful. His valiant smile did not soothe the cynic, who came downstairs worse than ever.
They all sat down at the table.
“Ah! Tomato soup!” said Evan, bravely and brightly.
“Tomatoes have gone up awfully,” observed Marian.
“Listen!” said Violet. “That taxi—isn’t it stopping here?”
“Good Lord!” cried Evan, springing up. “A patient!”
“Probably an accident who can’t afford to pay,” said Marian.
Evan retired, so that he might be mysteriously invisible to any patient, and Marian went to open the door.