“Come on, Maisie, darling! Let’s go and get married!”
She had got her shabby little hat and walked out of the shop with him, and they had gone down to the City Hall. He had been well aware of his condition, and a little afraid that he wouldn’t be granted a license; but he had made a great effort, and had carried it off splendidly.
He had been very happy with Maisie. He had run away. For a time no one knew where he was or what he had done, and they had lived in a big seaside hotel, undisturbed by any thought of the consequences of the thing. He did not like to remember how sweet Maisie had been. He tried to forget the innocent gayety of that fortnight.
Of course he had been discovered, and the monstrousness of the escapade had been shown to him. He had been hectored and wept over and bribed, and he had given in, as he always did.
Maisie was no less docile. She had been told that she must give him up, and she did as she was told.
Her docility was a sore temptation to the Tracys’ lawyer, who saw no reason why they should throw money away on a girl who didn’t want it. He advised them to waive the question of a divorce for the present, but to ask her to sign an informal—and infamous—separation agreement, to accept a very small cash settlement, and to vanish. She saw clearly that no one on earth—alas, not even Lester—cared where she went, or what happened to her.
To the lawyer she seemed to be a singularly insensitive creature. Even Lester was surprised that she gave him up so readily, without even a word of farewell. She would have got more sympathy—and more money—if she had made a scene; but that never occurred to her. She accepted whatever life offered with the blind resignation of a child. She felt herself entirely helpless and ineffectual, and took refuge in a strange inner life of her own, in the most piteous dreams and fancies.
II
Without energy, without bodily or mental vigor, Maisie had the immeasurable strength of fortitude. She could live one day at a time, endure each misery as it came; and in her baby she found a sublime compensation for every sorrow. Her money was exhausted when she left the hospital, but she was accustomed to the idea of a lifetime of work; and now that she had something to work for, a new ambition had awakened in her.
Her brother had taught her to dance. Indeed, they had once laboriously rehearsed a “turn” of his invention which was to thrill the music halls. She knew all the hackneyed steps, the conventional gestures, and performed them with a conscientious and touching grace.