Chapter VII: A Sentimental Journey

During the ensuing days Mason was hopeless for work.

From the office books he found out where she lived, slyly as he supposed, but not so slyly that the information clerk didn't tell someone, who told someone who teased Georgia at the luncheon club, not thereby displeasing her. For he was a good-looking fellow and capable; furthermore, he had always kept himself to himself, so putting several noses out of joint, it was said.

He had moments of anguished self-reproach as he sat in his room in his boarding house, his chair tilted against the wall under the gas jet, his coat on his bed, his derby hat tilted back on his head.

He knew that his life had been utterly unworthy. He had drunk it to the lees, pretty near. But now he was through with all that. Hereafter, for her sake, he would conquer himself and others.

His sense of beauty was limited by inheritance and by disuse, but now he began to draw upon all the poetry in his soul--not to write to her, but to think of her.

His imagination, naturally fertile and strengthened by the practice of his profession, centered itself on the question of his first kiss from her--where, when and how should it happen? He called all great lovers from Romeo to Robert W. Chambers to his aid--it must be under the moon, the fragrance about them. And a lake, a little lake, for the moon to shine upon and magically increase its magic. He remembered the moon on the river back in Rogersville, with the other girl--the first one. What mere children they were. That was puppy love, but this was love; love such as no man ever felt before for a woman.

He was hard hit.

The lake suggested a train of thought, so he packed his bag on Saturday and went to southern Wisconsin. The resort dining room was full of noisy youths and maidens who, in his decided opinion had no proper reverence for love, though they seemed perfectly amorous whenever he suddenly came upon a pair of them as much as one hundred yards from the hotel.

He chartered a flatbottom after supper to row out alone and contemplate the moon and her, but the voices of the night and the frogs were overwhelmed by the detestable mandolins tinkling "My Wife's Gone to the Country, Hurray."

When finally he turned in he discovered there was a drummers' poker party on the other side of the pine partition, so it wasn't until nearly daylight he dozed off, to wake a couple of hours later when the dishes began to rattle.

The boat concessionaire reported pickerel in the lake and he joined the Sunday piscatorial posse. He returned with two croppies and the record of many bites, mostly on himself.

He concluded he wasn't interested in fishing anyway. It was just a device to cheat himself and make himself suppose he was having a good time. He couldn't have a good time and wouldn't if he could, until he knew her, until at least he knew her. Why he had never said ten words to her more than "Good morning" and "Good evening." He would call on her; he had her address. He would go to her apartment and ring the bell and say, "Miss Connor, I have come to call on you. Do you mind?"

No, that would hardly do. It was too bold. He mustn't seem at all crude to her, but mannerly and suave and self-possessed. A girl, and especially one of her sort, would object to crudeness. He must be very courtly, knightly. Flowers on her desk every morning, perhaps, not a card, not a word. A handful of sweet blossoms each day to greet her and bear her silent testimony that there was one who---- She would know, of course, in due time whence they came. Not that he would ever so much as hint at his gifts, but her woman's intuition would tell her. And when she did realize in this way his silent though passionate devotion, she would thank him, gently and sadly, and a bond would be made between them.

But then, what if the other people in the office had intuition, too, or saw him bringing in flowers! No, decidedly that wouldn't do.

And then--just in time for him to catch the 3:40--a blinding flash of warning illumined his whole being. What if, while he was there shilly-shallying at a summer resort, some other fellow was with her in Chicago at that very moment!

"What if"--a ridiculous way to put it. Wasn't it sure in the nature of things, that at that very moment some other man was with her?

He caught the 3:40. He would call on her that very evening and if indeed he didn't declare himself bluntly in so many words--hadn't he heard of numberless women who had been won at first sight!--he would at least intimate to her strongly, unmistakably, that she was the object of his respectful consideration and attention.

There were others in the field. It was time he declared himself in, too.

It wasn't until 5:37, when the train reached Clybourn Junction, that he began to repent his precipitancy. He was going to see her again in the office to-morrow, wasn't he? Wouldn't it look queer if he went out to call on her to-night without warning? She might be wholly unprepared for callers and annoyed.

But his presumable rival bobbed up again and spoiled his supper, so after dropping his bag at home, he walked presently into the entry way of 2667 Pearl Avenue. Her name was not on the left side; perhaps she had moved. No, here on the right, floor 3, in letters of glory--"Connor." Above it, "Talbot."

Who was Talbot? Married sister, roommate or landlady from whom she sublet? He raised his thumb to the bell. He had never before experienced a moment of such acute consciousness.

Wait a second--she might not be in. He walked out and looked up at the third floor right. There was certainly a light, a bright one, and the window was open and the curtain fluttering out.

Somebody was in. It might be Talbot. In that case he wouldn't go up or leave his name either. It certainly was none of Talbot's business, whoever Talbot was.

He pressed the button under her name. "Yes?" Heavens above, it was she, Georgia, the woman herself.

"Yes, who is it!" came the voice once more.

"Stevens."

"Mr. Stevens?" with a decided tone of interrogation. Evidently she did not place him at all. Probably not, with so many other men about her. It would be absurd to suppose anything else. She didn't place him--might not even recognize him out of the office.

"Mason Stevens of the office."

"Oh, Mr. Stevens of the office. How do you do?" and she spoke with a delightful access of cordiality. "Will you come up?"

"Just for a minute, if I may. I won't keep you long."

"Wait, I'll let you in." The click-click-click sounded and he was on his way upstairs. She opened the door for him.

A quick glance. There was no other man in the room, anyway.

"Good evening," she said. "Won't you come in?"

"Why, yes," then very apologetically; "that is, if I'm not putting you out."

"No, indeed." He sat and paused. She smiled and did not help him.

"You're nicely located here, Miss Connor."

"Oh, yes, we like it."

"Near the express station?"

"Yes. I usually get a seat in the morning, but not coming back, of course."

"About three blocks, isn't it?"

"Three long ones."

"A nice walk."

"Yes, this time of year, but not so nice in winter when they don't clean the snow off the sidewalks."

He felt that it was a bit jerky. Perhaps he should first have asked her permission to call. What a goat he was not to think of that beforehand instead of now. He paused until the pause grew uncomfortable.

She tried to help him out, "We're out of the smoke belt, that's one thing."

He was seated in a rocking chair and began to rock violently, then suddenly he stopped and leaned toward her, his elbows on his knees.

"I've been slow getting to the point," he remarked abruptly, "but I came here on business."

"Oh, I wasn't just sure what."

Stevens took half a dozen life insurance advertising folders from his pocket. "You know this literature we're using," he said, running two or three through his fingers and indicating them by their titles, "'Do You Want Your Wife to Want When She's a Widow?' 'Friendship for the Fatherless,' 'Death's Dice Are Loaded.'"

"Oh, yes." She took them from him and read aloud. "'Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,' with a photograph of it, 'Will Your Little Girl Have to Scrub?' with thumbnail pictures of scrub ladies. Ugh, what a gloomy trade we're in, aren't we, Mr. Stevens?"

"This is the line of talk that gets the business." He spoke earnestly, tapping the folders. "You can't make papa dig up premiums for forty or fifty years unless you first scare him and scare him blue about his family."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"And what I came for is--well, will you--would you just as soon help me get up some more of these?"

"You mean work with you on them?" She was truly surprised.

"Exactly."

She hesitated and then she said it was impossible, but that she appreciated his kind compliment, was flattered by it and thanked him deeply, deeply. For, of course, she realized that Mr. Stevens was one of the very best men in town at that sort of work and she was afraid she couldn't possibly be of any real use to him.

"Not at all, not at all;" he was talking business now and waved aside her objections with his customary confidence. Everybody always objected to his plans for them when he began talking, but in the end he was apt to change their minds. That was why he was considered a premier solicitor. "You've a clear head and a good ear for words, that's what's needed, and----"

"But--" she tried to interrupt.

"And ideas, that's the point, ideas. You're clever."

"What makes you think so?"

"I don't think so; I know."

"I'm flattered," she said firmly. "But no--really."

"Well, I won't take that for a definite answer yet." Of course not. He never did. "I want you to think it over. I have the utmost confidence in the scheme and your ability to carry it out. You can tell me Monday in the office what you decide."

"I can tell you now, Mr. Stevens."

He rose. "Think it over anyway. You may change your mind."

She rose, too, not encouraging him to stay.

"Miss Connor," he spoke gravely, "there was something else I came to ask you. I'd like to know you personally as well as in a business way, if you'd just as soon. May I come to see you now and then?"

She did not answer. She saw that it counted with him. He seemed really to care. She must not be brusque with him. He must not think her merely light-minded, unappreciative of the compliment of his interest. She must tell him of her marriage.

"Of course, if you'd rather not for any reason, why, that settles it," there was a check in his voice, "and we'll say no more about it." Still she did not answer. He held out his hand. "Well, good-bye, then."

"Good-bye."

He went to the door and opened it.

"Mr. Stevens."

"Yes, Miss Connor."

"I think you ought to know that isn't my name."

"What is it, then?"

"Mrs. Connor."

"Mrs. Connor? Missis Connor?"

"Yes."

He came down into the room. His glance traveled rapidly to the four corners, like a wild animal dodging men and dogs. He had one question left, one chance of escape.

"Are you a widow?" he said.

"No, a married woman."

Stevens went slowly out of the door without replying. The woman whom he loved belonged to another man. It was like the end of the world.