Some of Us Are Married/The Shell
THE SHELL
JOHN TAUNTON was dressing in his devastated bachelor quarters—from which his friend Grimshaw had gone to be married the day before—his long, thin figure and long, thin face with its slightly crooked nose, deep-set twinkling eyes and pleasant mouth reflected in the mirror in various arresting stages of abstraction; he was purposing to bring his tentative affairs to their foregone conclusion this evening by asking Elisabeth Willard, whom he had known for years, to be his wife. An epidemic of marriage had struck his friends this last year, leaving him somewhat lonely and a little envious.
To see Grimshaw two nights ago, pipe in his mouth, his honest countenance red and contorted with the effort of clearing out his belongings, it was hard to connect him with the romantic ideal; but it had been given Taunton to catch a glimpse of that lovely little bride after the ceremony, when her eyes were resting on Grimshaw's unconscious face with a look so ineffably charged with reverence and adoration and the high passion of giving, that Taunton had averted his gaze with a swelling of the heart. He shook his head ruefully now at the chance of any such idealization in his case. No woman, so far as he knew, had ever been "in love" with him, with the exception, perhaps, of one he didn't like.
He had always, of course, expected to marry some day; but family demands had absorbed his youth—he had an additional twinge now in the fact that he was really older than he looked—and since then his salary hadn't seemed to keep pace with the latter-day High Cost of Living, though his friends had certainly married unflinchingly even in spite of the reduction of wage which this sudden war depression had wrought.
He had come to a decision now soberly, yet with a real satisfaction and lightness of heart—he was very fond of Elisabeth; if the Great Event wasn't exactly as he imagined it would be, why, it was a truism that few things were.
Reaching for a whisk broom on the bureau he knocked over a Japanese box, the contents of which—studs, dice, damaged scarf pins—went flying over the floor. Taunton uttered an exclamation as a tiny scallop shell met his eye.… He picked it up in his long fingers, looking at it with a strangely awakened expression; it brought back to him the face of a girl who had deeply attracted him four years before. He had met her at a ball. It was not only her animated face, with its clear complexion, limpid blue eyes, and warm red mouth that glued his eyes to her; the set of her small chestnut-crowned head, the accentuated rhythm of her light form in the dance, the indescribably lovely way of placing her feet, breathed a perfection of motion that seemed in some subtle way the outcome of a high and lovely quality of mind. The quality of her voice bore out his thought of her. Her name was Caroline Lovell; her friends called her Carina. He thought of her a good deal afterward, without making any effort to see her. Then a year later he met her with a party at the Beach.
They had talked for an hour, sitting on the sands and watching the waves. She had given him the half of a scallop shell, with the laughing invitation to come and match it with hers when he felt like it.
He had called at her father's apartment, by invitation, in the fall, to find her as delightful as ever, but there were others present. That was more than two years ago and he had not seen her since. Why? It would be hard to say. Perhaps the very force of the attraction acted in its way as a deterrent: any further effort had to be made consciously by himself. There was none of that casual meeting at the houses of friends that insensibly helps along an intimacy.
Taunton stood looking at the shell.… Two years! She might have moved anywhere in that time; she mightn't remember him. He knew that her father had died since. An irresistible impulse possessed him. He made for the telephone book and called up the Chalmere. A hall boy answered, "Yes, Miss Lovell is in." In another moment, as it seemed, unbelievably, he heard her voice: "Who is this?"
"Good evening, Miss Lovell! I hate to be so sudden, but may I bring my half of the shell to match yours?"
He heard a gasp at the other end.
"How very odd! How very odd! Do you know, when you just called me to the telephone I was thinking of you?"
"Were you really? That was strange! And may I see you if I come over now?"
"Why, yes, if you Yes, indeed."
"All right!" His tone had a note of jubilance in it; he felt suddenly as eager as a boy. "Good-bye till then."
"Good-bye."
He hurriedly completed his preparations with, however, a sobering thought as he went out, that this might, after all, prove to be like any other conventional call, more or less inadequate and boring.
II
Miss Carina Lovell lived in a small apartment in an old-fashioned part of the city. The room, as his large figure followed her into it now, contained only a light stand, a few wicker chairs, and a black jardinière with green branches in it, giving a rather pleasant Japanese effect of bareness. It struck Taunton suddenly that her father had left only debts when he died. But that delightful impression of Miss Lovell was instantly the same. She welcomed him, though her hand barely touched his; he had noticed before a shy personal reservation in her frankest moments. She wore a plain white cotton frock, not an evening frock at all; but the slipper that showed under it was silver-buckled and bronze, like her hair. The first greetings over they sat regarding each other.
"Well!" she said, smiling.
"Well!" he returned. He put his hand in his pocket. "Here's my half of the shell."
She bent over to touch its tiny translucence with her finger tips. "Oh, I've lost mine—I'm so sorry! But it really doesn't matter, does it? I matched the thought. That counts the same, doesn't it?"
"It surely does," said Taunton, his twinkling, deep-set eyes scanning her face. "Tell me, when you answered the telephone you said"
She put out her hand to stop him, as if listening for some sound beyond.
"Wait a moment, I thought I heard … No, it's all right. Yes, I was just thinking of you; I was in a quandary. You remember, when we had that talk at the Beach, we were speaking about making decisions that involved others, and you said that the simplest way out of a difficulty was often the best. I was wondering quite suddenly to-night what you would think the simplest way in this case, and then I heard your voice! Do you mind if I tell you about it all?"
"I'm honoured."
"Well Oh!" She jumped up suddenly and almost flew from the room. He sat wondering for some minutes before she returned. " One has to be so careful; she mustn't move at all—Gladys, I mean. You see, it was like this: Of course, I know she and Bert shouldn't have got married, they were so young and he was making so little, even then." She stopped, her blue eyes raised earnestly to his. "But many people do it, anyway."
"Yes, indeed," said Taunton encouragingly.
"I've been a private secretary in an office since my father died, and Gladys was one of the little telephone girls there, and so pretty. And soon after that Bert lost his job; you know how things have been this winter. Oh, it's terrible not to be able to get work! I can't wonder if he does drink sometimes when he has a few pennies; I might myself! When I see that long line of the unemployed as I go to the office each day … and they're so thin, and so patient, and—their faces" Her eyes, fastened on Taunton, brimmed suddenly, her red lips trembled piteously; she made wild, ineffectual dashes at her gown with her lovely hands.
"I thought I had it here; my handkerchief, I mean. Where can it"
"Take mine," said Taunton hastily, thrusting a clean expanse of linen into her hand. "There, that's right!" he approved cheerily, when her face emerged from its folds,, half smiling, though the eyelashes were still wet.
"It's so perfectly silly of me to act this way," she breathed. "But sometimes it just chokes me all up, because, though I do what I can to help, it is so little! But about Gladys and Bert—ten days ago they were turned into the street on account of the rent. I suppose they never paid it to the poor landlord! I gave Bert money for the lodging house and brought Gladys home with me; and—that night her baby was born."
"Great heavens!" cried Taunton, completely startled out of his calm.
Carina nodded solemnly, looking at him large-eyed.
"Yes, and there are only hall boys here; but at last we did get the doctor and a nurse." She shivered, her eyes grew bigger. "It was—oh, terrible! It's so strange—isn't it?—when you really touch life, and know it's been going on all the time like that, when you never thought of it.… You ought to think of it! But all my friends, and at the office—they are furious at me for having Gladys here. They think it's too much for me to do, though a woman comes for a few hours in the daytime, when I'm away. But Gladys has been so very ill—she couldn't be moved! And they don't understand. Of course the crowd can't come here now, and I can't leave; they think me headstrong. But it would be all right, really, if it were not for Bert."
"Why, Bert?" queried Taunton, deeply moved.
"Well, naturally he wants to see Gladys—and he is a nice boy, and I help out all I can; but the last couple of times he has been—intoxicated; and the people in the house object. You can't blame them! Really, he scared me last time; I had trouble making him go. I don't want to send for the police, on Gladys's account, and yet What he needs is a steady job. It's perfectly foolish, of course, my telling you all this, but I'm afraid he's coming to-night, and I don't know just what to do."
"All right, let him come," said Taunton promptly. "I'll take care of Bert."
"Oh, will you really?" said Carina. She clasped her exquisite hands, leaning forward breathlessly, her chin slightly raised; the most charming attitude, Taunton thought, he had ever seen. Her total unconsciousness of self, the quick and lovely changes of expression, her generous warmth of heart and unfailing sense of justice, all touched him inexpressibly.
"I don't know just how to thank you enough … Hark!"—as a tiny wail made itself heard—"That is the baby." She vanished from the room as she spoke, but after a minute she returned with a white worsted bundle in her arms. "He mustn't wake his little mother. I've brought him in for you to see."
"No!" said Taunton, rising in alarm and backing as she advanced. "No, no!"
"Yes, you must. How perfectly ridiculous!" She came after him more swiftly as he retreated around the room again and again, her face suddenly all a-sparkle with noiseless laughter. "Why, you were once a baby like this yourself."
"Well, I don't remember it," argued Taunton, cornered by the mantelpiece. "Take it away!"
"I won't do anything of the kind." Her voice changed. "He's so little, the littlest thing I ever saw, and so warm and dear." She held out the bundle. "You've got to look at him, or you'll hurt my feelings dreadfully. Nobody will take any interest in him but me! It's dreadful to have nobody like him.… Please!… There—I knew you would." She took up an infinitesimal pink velvet fist and smoothed Taunton's cheek with it. "We know our friends, don't we, little blessed? He loves his own Carina! Isn't he cunning?"
"He's not so bad," said Taunton soberly, looking down into the tiny rounded face in its white worsted nest. "Shake, old fellow! I wish you luck."
"That was just sweet of you," she said, with a little tremor in her voice. "Oh, there's the bell!" She dashed over to the button and pushed it, the baby still held fast in one arm, and stood for a moment nodding, large-eyed and confirmatory, at Taunton as the sound of a voice swiftly drew near. "Yes, that's Bert.… No, I'll open the door.… Oh, Bert, you must not make so much noise, they won't let us stay here if you do."
"I'll paste the whole lot of 'em in the snoot," said the boy—he was no more than a black-haired youth, his face red and inflamed.
"What are you keeping my wife and kid here for, living on the fat of the land, and me in the gutter? How many hours did I wait in line to-day?—tell me that—and you living so soft here! You tell me I'll get a job, to keep me out of the way, that's all it is. You give me that kid; you can't turn me out as long as I've got him. He's mine—give him to me, I say!"
He made a futile grab at Carina, shrinking backward, with the child held closer, his arm arrested in mid-air by Taunton's grip.
"Le' go my arm, I say; le' go my arm! you; le' go my arm! "
"Yes, I will not!" said Taunton pleasantly. "You're going to walk straight out of the door with me, just like this. Good-bye, Miss Lovell. I'll telephone you. I'll see he doesn't bother you again!"
His hand took an extra grip on the thin arm he held. "Brace up, will you? If you don't go down these stairs without any noise, I'll choke you.… I'm going to take you to my place for a scalding hot bath and a supper and a bed somewhere—just let that sink into your head. We'll look up a job for you to-morrow. Now, don't cry … Here, brace up!"
As Taunton walked down the street with his stumbling, weeping charge, he was looking forward to recounting the whole adventure to Elisabeth; it was, without exception, the most extraordinary evening call he had ever made in his life.
III
The glow of new effort remained with him all the following day, which he had begun by putting Bert temporarily in the hands of the janitor. He had telephoned early to Carina, to receive her grateful approval, with the addition of a ridiculous message that the boy was saying "Hello" to him. Later, after some nerving of himself up to it, he had telephoned again that with her permission he would send some soup and delicacies for the baby's mother. He had an amused feeling that he had a ready-made family on his hands; there was an odd sort of pleasure in it.
To add to his sense of living in a different world, he received hurried word from Elisabeth that she was starting south that evening with a sick aunt. Taunton saw them off on the train; Elisabeth, tall, dark, and capable as usual in her charge of the invalid relative, adjuring him to purchase a thicker overcoat she was always managing things for people—amid the hasty and fragmentary adieus and promises to write. He had no chance to talk to her about Miss Lovell.
He couldn't help wondering, as he strolled home afterward, how the latter was getting along.
It was barely nine o'clock now. He hesitated, and then went to the telephone.
Yes, Carina's voice answered; there was a faint note of surprise in it—how a voice "gives itself away" in its delicate gradations over the telephone, with the modifying face of the speaker unseen!—that made Taunton quickly apologize.
"I just thought that you'd like to know that the janitor here thinks he's got Bert a job."
"Oh that's very kind of you!" The tone was warmer. "Gladys will be so glad to hear it. She has taken some of the soup you sent. Thank you for calling me up."
"And the baby's all right?"
"Oh, yes, he slept like an angel to-day; you turned his luck."
"That's good. I'll escort Bert around to-morrow evening, if you'll let me, to see that he doesn't get into trouble on the way."
"Thank you ever so much. Good-night."
"Good-night."
The reflection came to him as he hung up the receiver that he couldn't call her up again before seeing her the next evening.
His rooms were in dreary disorder. Grimshaw had been the orderly one; Grimshaw, who was reaping undeserved benefits now from that too-charming bride.
Taunton sat, pipe in mouth, given up to disconnected yet deeply interesting thought. When Elisabeth was in charge, after they were married—they might be married pretty soon—they could invite Carina Lovell over to little dinners, and "help her out." There was something fine about that girl, when you came down to it, actually doing the brave, kind things that people would like to do and couldn't. It struck him afresh that she had no ties of her own to interfere.
He had a sudden almost irresistible impulse to call her up, for the fourth time, and say jovially, comrade-like:
"Hello, are you asleep yet? Well, neither am I!" But he knew that it couldn't be done—absolutely it could not.
IV
Taunton, during the weeks following, was a busy man; work at the office crowded down on him by the lessening of the force; his own salary was trenchantly cut in half, just as he had became used to feeling a pleasant ease of expenditure, yet it did not seem to change his plans. He had broached the subject of Carina's affairs, after all, in writing to Elisabeth, but her well-meant replies were somewhat disappointing; she would be glad to help him in any way, though she heard that Miss Lovell, who was very self-willed, was always taking care of queer people. Later he began to resent Elisabeth's capable advice, as if she were in charge of the situation instead of he; he needed no suggestions from outside as to Carina's welfare; that wasn't the point.
He did not go to Carina's that next evening with Bert, because Bert had disappeared, but he went there to tell her so.
Bert, strangely, did not return at all, and there were few evenings in which Taunton's large, steadily pacing form hadn't gone down that narrow hall of the tiny apartment on his way to consult or report a conjecture, even though his stay might be only for a few moments.
Gladys did not get well as fast as she should, she was very weak and apathetic; Taunton had had pitiful glimpses of her shrinking figure with long braids down the back, her white, drawn child's face, and drooping lids. But the baby thrived, and Carina's pride in him grew. Taunton began to take a curious half interest in the development of "the boy," who slept out on the fire escape in a box which Taunton had sent over from a grocer's and helped to contrive into a nest. The infant evolved an absurd one-sided effect of smiling with his tiny mouth when one touched the corner of it gingerly with a long forefinger. Taunton would have liked to touch the corner of Carina's mouth in the same way.…
Carina was always extraordinarily herself, swiftly moving, indescribably warm, her clear eyes waiting on his, whole-heartedly interested in every phase of the situation—which remained problematic from day to day—as long as it did not touch the personal note; any impulsive effort at that on his part glanced off as if from invisible armour. Her own affairs were her own. She evidently regarded it as only natural that he should be as deeply concerned in the fate of the unemployed as she, even if Bert hadn't responded as he should, though every day she expected his return. Taunton insisted upon contributing in small ways to the support of Carina's guests—sending fresh eggs and tonics for Gladys at the doctor's order and a warm cloak and hood for "the boy," for which he gravely counted out three dollars into Carina's soft palm—with the sternly resisted desire to kiss it!—after a battle over that money first. He had to admire the baby afterward when thus robed. He had found out that when Carina wanted anything very much for her charges, she always fought him desperately about it before he experienced the masterful pleasure of making her give in. It seemed as if things might go on this way pleasantly forever. But at the end of the fifth week he had begun to notice a change in her; she was thinner and her fairness seemed in some way translucent; her eyes were extraordinarily bright, her swift movements charged with some new quality. She made absurd jests and laughed at little things; although Gladys had gone back to bed again with a cold, she refused to be discouraged. She was sure Bert would turn up some day to make a nice little home for his family.
Thursday, as it happened, Georgie Frost, a nice young fellow with an upstanding thicket of black hair, and a dimpling smile that concealed a real talent for "business" Taunton envied Georgie his good looks—held forth illuminatingly at the lunch hour.
"No, believe me, I'm not coming any kick about my salary being cut; I think I'm lucky each week I hold down my job. Dorothy, she's my sister, you know, got fired from her position with a bunch a couple of weeks ago. Of course she's got a home and all that sort of thing anyway; but it's hard for some others. Ever meet Miss Lovell—Carina Lovell?"
Taunton nodded soberly. "Yes."
"She's a perfectly corking girl. Well, Dorothy says she hasn't a penny. She has to give up the apartment she's in. The janitor is to sell the furniture—not that she has much—to pay her back rent. Dorothy has been trying to get her to come to my mother's for a while, to tide over; but she won't, just because she needs to; she's so proud it gives you a pain. She used to go a lot with the crowd at one time, but she's been taking care of a gang of the poor and sick lately—spending all she had on 'em. Guess she'll have to give that up now; Dorothy says she hasn't enough to eat herself. Gee, she's a queen, that girl! I'd do anything for her myself, only the trouble is you can't—she'd stand in the bread-line first."
"You're all right, Georgie," said Taunton, with strange huskiness. "Have another on me."
Carina losing her job—Carina in the fearsome, pitiful ranks of the Unemployed!
Carina in actual need! The thought threatened to burn with a raging fire as the day went on, until he desperately set himself to the business of control.
If he could find some way to handle the situation.…
He hurried from the office, dressed with unusual care, and then dashed over to the Chalmere without the formality of telephoning first, arriving there a little breathless but composed.
To his sharpened gaze, as Carina opened the door, it seemed as if she had been crying; but she smiled up at him, although she was evidently a little surprised.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Taunton! I didn't expect you so soon." Her eyes searched his face. "Had you heard the news about Bert?"
He shook his head as he looked down at her with an effect of extreme and courteous gentleness when he spoke.
"No, I hadn't heard. You can tell me about it later. I would like you to do me a favour, if you will. I want you to put on your hat and things and dine with me at a little Italian place where there's a sort of garden effect that's rather pretty."
She drew back instantly. "Oh, I can't. Gladys is upset; I"
"I wish you would," he persuaded. "Gladys will be all right; the boy is asleep. Do, please! You see it's, er—it's, er—my birthday, and I don't want to eat my dinner alone. You'd be doing me a great kindness."
"Oh, well, if that's it." She yielded generously, though still a little surprised. "I will be ready in a few moments."
He heard Gladys's querulous voice and Carina's soothing one. A couple of times before, when she had let him go with her on an evening errand, he had felt the invisible wall between them; it was odd that when they were off alone together she always seemed farther from him. He almost whisked her bodily out of the house when she appeared in her dark walking suit and the little black velvet hat with the tiny rose-coloured feather; but they walked for the most part in silence, until, turning down a quiet, old-fashioned street, they entered a basement in the rear of which the softly lighted, leaf-branched, glassed-over garden was enshrined. It was a pretty place, with the seductive air of space and emptiness as yet. Taunton drew a breath of relief when seated at the little table, while the waiter scurried for bread and olives. He looked at his companion with tender admiration, as with her coat thrown back over the chair she sat leaning forward, in her white embroidered waist.
"What's this about Bert?" he asked abruptly.
Her face became alight with interest.
"Gladys had a letter from him this morning. He's enlisted in the United States Army. It's bad enough, of course; but it might be worse. He might have When people can't get work, there are so many temptations."
"How about Gladys?"
"She doesn't seem to mind so much; she's been so ill it's dulled her, I think. At any rate, she wrote to her stepmother last week, and she's coming to take Gladys and the baby to the farm. I shall hate to have them go, but it will be best for them, I know; think of little Goo-Goo growing up with the chickens and all the green things! That's fine, isn't it?"
"Yes, indeed," he assented. "This soup isn't bad, is it? You're getting a little more colour."
He hesitated, then went on with careful diplomacy as he watched her.
"Well, I think perhaps their going may be a relief to you in some ways. What I mean is that when so many people are losing their places in these days—it might happen to you as well as anybody else, you know! And then if you had a family depending on you, you'd feel it pretty badly. Of course, when you only have yourself to care for, it's just your own lookout, and no great matter, but"
"Why, that's just exactly what I say," broke in Carina; her eyes glowed. "People made such a fuss about it when I lost my job a couple of weeks ago! They simply had to cut down the force at the office, though they hated to the worst way, and it did make me anxious about Gladys and the baby; but now, as you say, it's 'nothing!' Sooner or later I'll catch up again, and in the meantime—what is it? Of course I don't need the apartment any longer."
"I should say not!" agreed Taunton. "You must help eat up this nice chicken; there are two more mushrooms for you."
"Just a bed anywhere to sleep would do for me. Do you know"—she began to laugh with a daring, mischievous gleam in her eye—"I've often thought I'd like to sit up all night in the park; it would be such an experience!"
"All right; you let me know when you want to, and we'll make a picnic of it," said Taunton stoutly. "But you'd better choose a little warmer weather. By the way"—he knitted his brows slightly—"if you don't mind my obtruding my own affairs"
"Certainly not."
"Well, I have a little money, not much; but it's lying idle. These are times when one needs all one's income."
"Yes, indeed."
"And I was wondering if you knew of any one, you yourself even, who would like to borrow, say, twenty-five, or even so small a sum as ten dollars, at a fair interest. Of course, it's merely a business matter that a man thinks nothing of."
She had raised her head involuntarily as he spoke; but his matter-of-fact tone reassured her, as she said half absently, "I'll remember, though I don't think I'd care to borrow, myself."
"Does Gladys need any help?"
She shook her head. "No, the stepmother will pay her way."
As the dinner went on the conversation veered around to other themes. Taunton had her laughing with that delightful laugh of hers by pointing out a resemblance between a fat baby-cheeked man opposite and little Goo-Goo. And when they reached the apartment again he came upstairs for a moment at his inspired suggestion, generously acceded to, to take a last look at little Goo-Goo asleep in his box on the fire escape, all nested down under the stars. But she lifted him out, rolled up in blankets like a cocoon, and offered him, plump and round-eyed, to Taunton's gaze.
"Goo-Goo wants you to hold him a minute.… You ridiculous thing, he can't hurt you! Hold out your arms. There!" She stood off for a brief instant. "Do you know what he's doing? He's wishing his big friend luck now, in his turn."
"Why, that's white of you, old fellow," said Taunton, quite absurdly pleased, before she snatched the child away to deposit him once more on his aërial perch.
She came back to Taunton with outstretched hand; her upraised eyes showed very bright as if from some slight moisture. "Good-bye. Don't think I haven't appreciated all your kindnesses—and to-night—I'm not so stupid that I didn't know."
"Kindness nothing!" said Taunton hotly.
"Oh, yes! I knew! I never quite realized before how understanding you are. All my other friends—they mean it well—but they batter you so. I don't think it helps much to be battered at, even if you deserve it, do you?"
"I hate it myself," said Taunton truthfully. "Well,"—he still lingered hesitatingly; sweet as she was, he began to feel the barrier again—"and you move out to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"You'll let me know your address?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Not right away, perhaps, but of course, I'll let you know. I'm looking forward to the change—it starts you off in new ways… So, good-night!"
This time he held her hand a second longer. There was a sweet friendly expression in her eyes before her palm slipped, as ever, from his. As he looked back from the stairs she was still by the open door; her smile made a light for him. He went down the street with a sort of strange, wistful happiness, below which lay a quickening anxiety. After all, she had given no address, she didn't want to see him again for a while. As he entered his own rooms he felt reproached that they were so securely comfortable; how willingly he would move out and leave her there if it were possible! Why wasn't it—why couldn't you do a simple human thing like that? Carina would have found some way to make it possible, if she were in his place! Perhaps Elisabeth could, when she returned this week. And Carina didn't care to see him again for some time! By an odd transition of thought that discouraging mirror opposite seemed to show him a little homelier and heavier-looking than before. He was a good, efficient friend, perhaps, but no winner of hearts.
Early the next morning he received a night letter from Elisabeth saying that they would be arriving in town that day convoyed by a Mr. Clarence Thrush who had been very kind to Aunt. Mr. Thrush was a man for whom Taunton, in the masculine phrase, had no use; though he was glad, of course, of Elisabeth's return. The letter seemed extraordinarily colourless, though she would try and aid Carina.
He plunged into the hustling stress of a business morning without much success, however.… Why, under heaven, hadn't he made Carina tell him where she was going? Why had he submitted so tamely to her will? The thought was unbearable.
At the lunch hour he took the subway up to the Chalmere. He feared sickeningly that she had already gone; but the door opened to his push on the button and he stood aside before ascending the stairs, as he met a procession of men carrying off her poor little goods and chattels under the supervision of the janitor; the chairs he had sat on, the little round table, the Japanese screen, the bed Gladys had occupied, and another little brass one that must have been Carina's. Taunton felt the blood mounting to his forehead—these things were so much a part of her!
When the way was clear he dashed up and went in at her still open door. She was standing there in the dark little street suit, her hat on, looking like a flower in the bare room. The sunlight poured through the window; Goo-Goo's sleeping box, the only thing left, showed on the fire escape. She gave a little cry of surprise as she saw him.
"How on earth did you come here at this time?"
"I had business up-town, and thought I'd look in. By the way, you forgot to give me that address last night."
"Yes. It—well, it hardly seems worth while. Nobody could come and see me there; it's quite decent, but there isn't any parlour. I'm to share Susy Steiner's room—you don't know her—for a few days; I hate to tell people, they make such a fuss! It's very cheap." Something in his waiting attitude seemed to drag the words from her against her will; she mentioned a number far over on the East Side. "The room is dark; but I shall be out all day hunting a job, so that won't matter!"
"No," said Taunton carelessly. He went over to the fire escape, and bringing in Goo-Goo's box, turned it bottom up beside her. "Sit down; you're tired."
She obeyed with a sigh, saying, "There's room for you, too."
"All right," he said happily. They both sat a couple of minutes in silence, Taunton looking straight ahead of him. A faint sound made him turn suddenly. Carina's slight form was shaking so that the little rose-coloured feather in her hat vibrated; her face was buried in her hands.
"You're not crying!" he exclaimed in horror.
"Oh, I never act this way, never! I don't know what's got into me." He made out the words between her convulsive sobs. "Oh, no, no, it isn't what you think. I don't care where I live or what I do, not in the least. But—I miss them so!" Her voice rose uncontrollably. "Gladys and the ba-a-aby! I'd taken care of Goo-Goo more than she had. Gladys was so glad to go—I don't blame her; but they both seemed to belong to me so much and now they don't need me at all! You do what you can for people and, after all, you're only a stranger."
"Don't you care," said Taunton. He took down the hand from her eyes, and after a moment's instinctive resistance she let it lie passively in his.
"It's—it's so silly—isn't it?—to be hurt because you don't happen to be needed any more." She tried convulsively, with the aid of a tiny handkerchief, to get back her composure.
"I wouldn't let that bother me," said Taunton; he put his other hand, big and warm, over hers. His voice had a gentle steadiness, with the suspicion of a tremor underneath. "You see, I need you, Carina; I need you very much." He could feel a surprised, arrested tension in her. "I think I've been in love with you ever since I first met you, though I didn't know it then; but I do now! Oh, I know it now! If you'd only let me marry you and take you home to my little flat"
A strange dizziness seemed to come over him with the words; he forced himself to forge stumblingly ahead in the face of her silence: "I don't suppose the prospect is particularly attractive—I'm a homely sort of a fellow with a crooked nose"—a ghost of a smile crept around the corner of her mouth; she made a quick movement as of denial—"and I'm not wildly exciting, and I'm rather poorer than I'd like—and I'm not as young as I was ten years ago—I don't know that you could ever care for me.… Well?"
Carina inclined her head half childishly. "Oh, I'm afraid—I might," she said. "But"
"But what, dear?" He tried to draw her closer, but she withstood him.
"How about Miss Willard?"
Taunton felt suddenly struck down and stunned.
"Yes; aren't you bound to her?"
"No—not exactly."
"Oh, but really, even if not exactly. I know a friend of hers who told me.… If she loves you—if you've given her the right to think you cared—you did, didn't you?"
"I—perhaps."
"Then you must fulfill your part. I couldn't do that kind of thing, ever—take a man from another woman that way. You must go to her first."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you'll have to ask her to marry you as you meant to, before"
"But, Carina!" He thought hotly of Georgie's words: "She's so proud she gives "you a pain." "I can't; it's all changed."
"Yes, you can; you'll have to! You really are fond of her, even if you don't think so now. At any rate, I couldn't have any respect for you if you didn't: if you weren't honourable. You owe it to her to let her decide. You do owe it to her, don't you?"
"Oh, if you say so!" said Taunton half sullenly.
"And you mustn't see me any more until—unless A tremor went over her as if she might break down into weeping again, but she went on unflinchingly: "And you mustn't bother about me at all. I'll be all right! You've been so lovely to me."
She had drawn her hand from his as they both rose. There was a light of exaltation in her eyes; Taunton drew a long breath.
"Very well," he said abruptly. "I accept the conditions, if I must."
"Good-bye."
"No, it's not good-bye. I'll see you to-night sometime—afterward anyway—even if it's late."
There was one thing going over and over in his brain, as he walked away, sending a more and more exultant, indescribable thrill through him—his words, "I don't suppose you can ever care for me," and hers, "Oh, I'm afraid I might; oh, I'm afraid—I might!" They sang themselves into the very beatings of his heart: "Oh, I'm afraid I might!"
Was it true that only six short weeks ago he had been dressing to go over and ask Elisabeth to marry him? What had deflected him? Could it have been so slight a thing as a shell, brought up from the depths of the ocean by the winds and waves for this very purpose? If he hadn't knocked that box over—if this had been lost out of his life
He stopped dead short, in sudden overpowering revolt. Going from Carina now—why? Because she had told him to.
"I'll be hanged if I will," he said to himself wrathfully. "I'll be hanged if I will!" He turned and dashed back up the street. He couldn't get to her fast enough to repudiate that monstrous bargain; but she had already gone! It seemed years before evening came, and he was free to seek her again.
The narrow, dingy, brick iron-railinged house of which Carina had given him the address was flanked with garbage cans. An old and unshaven man in shirt sleeves came to the door; he was indicating the way to the room of Miss Steiner and her friend, on the fourth floor, when Carina herself, still in the little dark street suit, appeared on the stairs.
"I was looking out for you," she said rapidly. "Susy says sometimes we can see people in the dining room; it's terribly funny, isn't it? Come down in the basement."
Taunton silently followed her to the designated spot, nearly filled with a long table set for a breakfast, the rolled up napkins of the guests ornamented with various strings for identification. By the dim light of the turned-down gas jet Carina seemed a pale, shadowy presentment of her warm and lovely self, yet something in her eyes made his heart bound. His arms were around her before he knew. The touch of her was more exquisite and wonderful than anything he could have imagined.
"You've been to her?" she breathed.
"No, I haven't been to her, and I'm not going to, no matter what you say. You're going to do just as I say this time! You've run yourself long enough without anybody to stop you; it's idiotic, it's suicidal! Do you hear? You're going to do just as I say. I am the Master of your fate, I am the Captain of your darling soul in this instance! What—what, dear—what? Why—Carina!"
The blood suddenly mounted to his face—she was looking at him as that lovely bride had looked at Grimshaw.