The Great God Success Part 6

"I never was in here before," she said. "You've got lots of pretty things. Whose picture is this?"

"That? Oh, my sister-in-law out in Chicago."

Howard did not then understand why she became so gay, why her eyes danced with happiness, why as soon as she went into the hall she began to sing and kept it up in her own room, quieting down only to burst forth again. He did not even especially note the swift change, the, for her, extraordinary mood of high spirits. It was about this time that their relations began to change.

Howard had thought of her, or had thought that he thought of her, only as a lonely and desolate child, to be taught so far as he was capable of teaching and she of learning. He was conscious of her extreme youth and of the impa.s.sable gulf of thought and taste between them. He did not take her feelings into account at all. It never occurred to him that this part of friend and patron which he was playing was not safe for him, not just and right toward her.

One night he took her to a ball at the Terrace Garden--a respectable, amusing affair "under the auspices of the Young-German-American-Shooting-Society." The next day a reporter for the _Sun_ whom he knew slightly said to him with a grin he did not like: "Mighty pretty little girl you're taking about with you, Howard. Where'd you pick her up?"

Howard reddened, angry with himself for reddening, angry with the _Sun_ man for his impudence, ashamed that he had put himself and Alice in such a position. But the incident brought the matter of his relation with her sharply and clearly before his mind and conscience.

"This must stop," he said to himself; "it must stop at once. It is unjust to her. And it is dragging me into an entanglement."

But the mischief had been done. She loved him. And with the confidence of youth and inexperience, she was disregarding all the obstacles, was giving herself up to the dream that he would presently love her in return, with the end as in the story books. Indeed love stories became her constant companions. Where she once read them for amus.e.m.e.nt, she now read them as a Christian reads his Bible--for instruction, inspiration, faith, hope and courage.

One evening in July--it was in the week of Independence Day--Howard's windows and door were thrown wide to get the full benefit of whatever stir there might be in the air. He was sprawled upon the lounge, the table drawn close and upon it a lamp shedding a dim light through the room but enough near by to let him read. He had dropped his book and was thinking whether a stroll in the Square in the moonlight would repay the trouble of moving. There were steps in the hall and then, peeping round the door-frame was the face of his young neighbour.

"h.e.l.lo," he said, "I thought you were out somewhere. Come in."

"No, I'm going to bed," she answered, nevertheless gradually edging into the room. She was wearing a loose wrapper of flowered silk, somewhat worn and never very fine. Her black hair hung in a long thick braid to her waist and she looked even younger than usual.

"Where have you been all evening?" asked Howard.

"Oh, I've been up to see a friend. She lives in Harlem, and she wants me to come and live with her."

"Are you going?" Howard inquired, noting that he was interested and not pleased. "The house wouldn't seem natural without you."

She gave him a quick, gratified glance and, advancing further into the room, sat upon the arm of the big rocking-chair. "She gave me a good talking to," she went on with a smile. "She told me I ought not to live alone at my age. She said I ought to live with her and meet some friends of hers. She said maybe I'd find a nice fellow to marry."

Howard thought over this as he smoked and at last said in an ostentatiously judicial tone: "Well, I think she's right. I don't see what else there is to do. You can't live on down here alone always.

What's become of Nellie?"

"Nellie's got to be a bad girl," said Alice with a blush and a dropping of the eyes. "She's in Fourteenth Street every night. She says she doesn't care what happens to her. I saw her last night and she wanted me to come with her. She says it's of no use for me to put on airs. She says I've got no friends and I might as well join her sooner as later."

"Well?" Howard was keeping his eyes carefully away from hers.

"Oh, I sha'n't go with her. As long as a girl has got anything at all to live for, she doesn't want that. Besides I'd rather go to the East River."

"Drowning's a serious matter," said Howard with a smile and with banter in his tone.

"Yes, it is," said the girl seriously, "I've thought of it. And I don't believe I could."

"Then you'd better go with your friend and get married."

"I don't want to get married," she replied, shaking her head slowly from side to side.

"That's what all the girls say," laughed Howard. "But of course you will. It's the only thing to do."

"Then why don't you get married?" asked Alice, tracing one of the flowers in her wrapper with her slim, brown forefinger.

"I couldn't if I would and I wouldn't if I could."

"Oh, you could get a nice girl to marry you, I'm sure," she said, the colour rising faintly toward her long, downcast lashes.

"But who would get the money? It takes money to keep a nice girl."

"Oh, not much," said Alice earnestly, yet with a queer hesitation in her voice. "You oughtn't to marry those extravagant girls. I've read about them and I think they don't make very good wives, real wives to save money and--and care."

"You seem to know a good deal about these things for your age," said Howard, much amused and showing it.

"I don't care," she persisted, "you ought to get married."

Howard felt that this was the time to clear the girl's mind of any "notions" she might have got. He would be very clever, very adroit. He would not let her suspect that he had any idea of her thoughts. Indeed he was not perfectly certain that he had. But he would gently and frankly tell her the truth.

"I shall never get married," he said, sitting up and talking as one who is discussing a case which he understands thoroughly yet has no personal interest in. "I haven't the money and I haven't the desire. I am what they would call a confirmed bachelor. I wouldn't marry any girl who had not been brought up as I have been. We should be unhappy together unsuited each to the other. She would soon hate me. Besides, I wish to be free. I care more for freedom than I ever shall for any human being.

As I am now, so I shall always be, a wandering fellow without ties. It is not a pleasant prospect for old age. But I have made up my mind to it and I shall never marry."

The girl's hands had dropped limp into her lap; her face was down so that he could barely see the burning blush which overspread it.

"You don't mean that," she said in a voice that was queer and choked.

"Oh yes, I do, little girl," he answered, intending to smile when she should look up.

When she did lift her eyes, his smile could not come. For her face was grey and her lips bloodless and from her eyes looked despair. Howard glanced away instantly. With rude hand he had suddenly toppled into the dust this child's dream-castle of love and happiness which he had himself helped her build. He felt like a criminal. But partly from a sense of duty, chiefly from the cowardice of self-preservation, he made no effort to lighten her suffering.

"I should only prolong it," he thought, "only make matters worse.

To-morrow--perhaps."

If she had been worldly wise, even if she had not been so completely absorbed in her worship of him that her woman-instincts were dormant, she would herself have found hope. But she had not a suspicion that these strong words of apparent finality were spoken to give himself courage, to keep him from obeying the impulse to respond to the appeal of her youth to his, her aloneness to his, her pa.s.sion to his. She believed him literally.

There was a long silence. He heard her move, heard a suppressed cry and glanced toward her again. She was darting from the room. A second later her door crashed. He started up and after her, hesitated, returned to his book--but not to his reading.

Toward noon the next day, he pa.s.sed her room on his way out. The door was wide open; none of her belongings was in sight; the maid was sweeping energetically. She paused when she saw him.

"Miss Alice left this morning," she said, "and the room's been let to another party."

VI.

IN A BOHEMIAN QUICKSAND.

Howard could have got her new address; and for many weeks habit, at first steadily, afterward intermittently, teased him to look her up.

He was amazed at her hold upon him. At times the longing for her was so intense that he almost suspected himself of being in love with her.