Chapter II

It was an amazingly pleasant lunch. Horatia was not too sophisticated in this matter of eating with men in public restaurants and under the flattering charm of Jim Langley’s interest and attention she sparkled with excitement and response. She liked him. She liked his easy careless manners and his half-mocking, half-kind indulgence towards her remarks and the real amusement in his smile and the skill he showed in ordering food. And Langley across from her, along with his faint note of self-mockery, showed that he enjoyed himself too, for Horatia’s face was young and her mind was clear and above all she did not seem tired but fresh and vigorous. He asked her about herself, subtly keeping the conversation on her, and she told him of the house on the hill and her married sister and her aunt and uncle and the neighbors.

“They are kind, you know,” she finished, “but they are so simple that they all call me intellectual and set me apart as queer.”

“And you aren’t queer at all,” said Langley, “you’re a perfect product of what the nice cleanliness of West Park would produce with a college education superimposed on it. Why don’t you leave things alone, young lady? Your realities may be stupid but they are clean and straight. Why do you want to get tangled up and wrinkled up? Wouldn’t the West Park High School perhaps be a better solution than the newspaper? Or a good husband?”

She smiled at him.

“You smile now but later you’ll be sorry. You think you know about troubles because you’ve studied sociology and heard a lot of war lecturers. But you really are quite untouched. And life hurts. Even in West Park it must hurt, but in a city, in work--it probably will hurt much more. And besides the world isn’t the place it used to be, with clean-cut issues and a welcome for the young romanticist. It is worn with war, and very tired and a bit unscrupulous and there are no ideals left which haven’t been tampered with----”

“But we have to live in it just the same,” argued Horatia.

“You might enter a convent.” At which they both laughed, for it was so absurd to think of Horatia in a convent.

“Your people will probably object to your taking a job on my paper,” said Langley at length; “maybe you will when you hear more about me. I can’t pay you enough to make it worth your while financially. But perhaps if you want to come and will take the work I can give you and try to increase our circulation, I can find a desk for you anyway.” And having committed himself, the editor looked as if he were calling himself a fool in his thoughts.

“I’ll work for anything you’ll pay me,” said Horatia, “and I don’t think anyone can frighten me away from your paper, Mr. Langley. When can I come?”

“Good luck to begin on Monday.”

“I shall be at the office on Monday morning,” she promised, with a thrill, a young thrill in her voice.

She left the restaurant with all the spirit of the morning reinforced. Friday--Saturday--Sunday--then she would be at work. It wasn’t hard to find work. She would try very hard to make what she wrote interesting and possibly soon people would be buying the newspaper to read what she had written, and Langley would say--even so do fresh college graduates dream. But the college graduate of ten years back walked back to the office over the lake and told Bob Brotherton apropos of nothing that there was always a new way in which to make a damned fool of oneself.

What he was to do with her, why he had taken on an added responsibility just when _The Journal_ seemed on its last legs were doubtless sufficiently irritating questions. But more irritating must have been the flare-up of impulsiveness, the response to youth and romance, which he had been deliberately trying to deaden in himself and which he had hoped were permanently deadened. He had waded through realism and discouragements to a kind of refusal to care about anything more and here he was lending a hand to someone who would go through the same weary mess. She would be far better off in her stupid suburbanism. Someone would marry her and use the youth and the freshness to decorate another suburban home somewhere. She shouldn’t be encouraged. The persistence of the devil that had made all that old stuff leap up in him again!

Horatia went on to Maud’s. Maud was her sister, who had married to the full approbation of West Park and her own satisfaction. It came upon Horatia in the midst of her excitement at the beautiful way things were turning out that she was sorry for people who couldn’t have all this interest in their lives and particularizing she discovered a localized regret that Maud’s life wasn’t more colorful. She hadn’t seen her sister often that summer. Maud’s two babies had come close together, and on the advent of the second they had moved from their first apartment to a house on one of the city boulevards, which pleased Aunt Caroline immensely. Horatia had been in the house only once or twice, for Maud brought the children to West Park on Sundays and that had been almost enough sisterly intercourse for Horatia. But now she wanted to spread out her inspiration and she turned her steps towards Elm Boulevard.

It was a newly-built section of the city which took great pride in its residential restrictions and its extremely up-to-date houses of brick or stucco, each of them representing a vague travesty on some architectural period or “style.” The sleek, small lawns were chopped off neatly, one from another, by little hedges which were not too high to hide any of the beauties or improvements of the place from the passing motorist. Well polished cars stood in front of some of the houses, children in smocked frocks and gaily colored half-socks played in the lawn-swings or walked up and down the sidewalks. It was mid-afternoon and the comfortable-prosperous were enjoying themselves. Horatia felt the still orderliness of the atmosphere and realized again why Aunt Caroline was given to occasional remarks about how “well Maud had done.”

She turned in at her sister’s house and Maud, who was sitting on the porch with her baby in her arms, jumped up to welcome her volubly and to introduce her to two other ladies as cool and plump and white-clad as Maud herself.

“Did you walk out this wretchedly hot day--all the way from town?”

Horatia had not felt the heat but she put a suddenly self-conscious hand up to her hair and hat under her sister’s solicitous inquiry. She found she was hot and moist beside these cool suburban ladies.

“I am hot,” she admitted. “May I go up and wash?”

The inside of the house was pleasanter than she had remembered. It was cool, its shades were drawn against the heat. Clean, pretty colors everywhere, and as she passed the children’s room the whiteness and pinkness of it charmed her.

She went down to the porch refreshed and admiring. Even if the Williams had chosen this location where there was no lake view and the houses were rather closely set, it had distinct advantages. She told Maud so and Maud was obviously greatly pleased.

“I knew I was right in insisting on this part of town,” she said. “A lake view is all right and so is the country. But unless you have oodles of money and three or four cars and a regular estate it is much better to settle in one of the good residence districts.”

“What makes a residence district good?” asked Horatia, quizzically, though she knew perfectly well.

The three suburban ladies looked a little shocked.

“Why the people, the people who live here. This district is restricted. You can’t build houses here that cost less than twelve thousand. That keeps out undesirables.”

“I see,” said Horatia, waiving her rights to controversy.

“Of course, with growing children,” began Maud in an instructive matronly tone.

Growing children, it appeared, were all important to the three ladies. Horatia dropped out of the conversation but kept a look of bright intelligence focused on her informants. Growing children must be carefully watched and not allowed to make acquaintances among those whose residence districts were not restricted. They “picked up everything.” They were the subject of a long conversation which went from schools to carrots. The interest of the three ladies never flagged. Horatia held the baby in her lap and played with its wisps of hair, hardly attending to what was said. She vaguely heard the talk pass from undesirable children to undesirable mothers and the voices became more tense. The names were nothing to her and she was in no mood to combat the intolerances of the others. The baby was so small and pink and clean and desirable. Maud must have a lot of fun. It must be fun to share children with a man---- She heard a familiar name and broke off her thoughts abruptly. What was that they were saying?

“She was seen downtown having lunch with that Jim Langley--and you know what he is.”

“Oh, she doesn’t care what she does,” said Maud. “Whatever happened between her and her husband--do you know?”

“They say that after their baby died, she refused flatly to have any more--and you know how men are. If a woman can’t be tactful about those things and the way she feels--she said outrageous things about not being able to endure more such suffering. And yet when the child was alive she was hardly ever home.”

“That’s the way with those women,” said Maud sagely.

“And then running around with Jim Langley----”

The sick little feeling in Horatia grew acute. She had heard the name rightly.

“Who’s the pernicious gentleman?” she asked lightly enough.

“Jim Langley--no one you ought to know.” Maud was quick to adopt the tone of chaperonage.

“But I should know all about him,” persisted Horatia, easily, “because he’s just given me a job.”

There was a dangerous little pause. Then Maud spoke.

“You’re joking.”

“No--truly. He promised to give me a position on _The Journal_. Reporting, I suppose. I went to all the newspapers this morning.”

A flush had mounted to her sister’s cheeks.

“Horatia,” she said with a tense air of lightness, “where did you get this sudden notion of going to work at all?”

Horatia felt a little sorry. She realized that Maud was being humiliated by the turn the conversation had taken. But still she did want to know about Jim Langley.

“Of course I’ll want to do something. No one sits around any more with folded hands waiting to be married.”

This was a trifle better. It at least showed the callers that the work project was a freak and not a necessity. Maud decided to try to pass it off as a joke and reckon with Horatia later, but before she could speak one of her guests was inquiring:

“Really on Jim Langley’s paper, Miss Grant?”

“Why not?” asked Horatia. “He seems pleasant enough. What is the matter with him?”

“Horatia hasn’t been home except summers for four years,” said Maud shortly. “Why, he’s got a bad reputation, and was mixed up with a dreadful scandal here. He was named in the Hubbell divorce suit.”

“And he didn’t marry Mrs. Hubbell.”

“Should he?” Horatia sought instruction.

Maud rose with an air of exasperation.

“You shouldn’t go about alone to newspaper offices, Horatia,” she said. “It’s ridiculous. As for your working on _The Journal_, you just talk to Harvey and see what he says. Come, let’s see the garden.”

Horatia saw the garden obediently and the guests’ departure, followed close by the bedtime ceremonies at which Maud helped and presided, forced the matter out of the way. It was only as they sat at dinner that the topic rose again. Maud had composed herself and, considering that Horatia’s conversation had merely shown inexperience and ignorance, was no longer angry. She was rarely angry for any length of time. Now, looking at her husband over the neat central fern-dish, she said, half-jocularly, “You’ll really have to take Horatia in hand, Harvey. She is dreadful. Here she went and saw this Jim Langley person today and asked him for a position on his paper.”

“But the point is, Maud, that he gave me a job.”

Harvey looked at his sister-in-law and came at the question from a man angle.

“You don’t want to work on his paper, Horatia. If you want that kind of work, try either _The Tribune_ or _The Reporter_. Langley’s paper is one of those enterprises that run themselves into the ground early. He’s always uncertain--no policy, no circulation to amount to anything. And then of course--Langley, himself.”

Horatia leaned towards him.

“But tell me about it, Harvey. There was a chorus of horror when I mentioned his name this afternoon. And he was the only gentleman I met this morning. I did try _The Tribune_ and _The Reporter_. I even tried _The Buzz-saw_.”

Harvey threw back his head and roared.

“That’s a modern young woman. Why didn’t you take a job on that?”

“They offered me one--a scandal column, but I turned it down. Seriously, tell me about Mr. Langley.”

“Why, there’s not so much to tell,” said Harvey. “He’s in pretty bad odor, that’s all. The women are all interested in him because he was co-respondent in a divorce suit. Isn’t that it, Maud?”

“Don’t be silly, Harvey. You know what he is and you ought to tell Horatia.”

Harvey tried again with that disinclination to hurt the personal reputation of a man which most men show in such discussion.

“Jack Hubbell sued his wife for divorce and named Langley, who’d been philandering a lot. Langley always did that. He was a University man about my time and a tremendous fellow. Everybody worshipped his footsteps.”

“I’ve heard of him there,” said Horatia.

“He had a little money and started this newspaper, which would have been all right if he hadn’t refused to tie himself up with any political party and hadn’t also refused to make any concessions to advertisers. Seemed to have an idea that newspapers are run like books. Then he got a lot of booze-fighters working for him and sort of lost his grip. That’s all there’s to it. When his money gives out his paper will go to the wall.”

“But the divorce suit?”

“You’re as bad as the rest of them,” sighed poor Harvey. “Stick to the scandal. It never came to trial at all. Hubbell killed himself after the suit was filed.”

Maud finished.

“And he didn’t marry the woman or make any attempt to justify the situation. Just stopped going places and refused to explain anything. Naturally people assume the worst.”

Horatia felt a little pale. She could hear his kind voice, with the tinge of bitterness in it. And his remark, “Probably you won’t want to work for me after you hear what people say.” Well, she had heard. And she did want to work for him. They’d outlawed him from their silly society because he’d held his tongue. Probably none of it was true. And if it was true it didn’t matter. She brought her last reflection into words.

“But after all it doesn’t much matter, does it? He doesn’t want me to marry him or to take stock in his newspaper. All he offers is a job and even if all these things are as dreadful as they are reported to be, they don’t enter in. I’m old enough to be incorruptible surely. And I need newspaper experience.”

“I think, maybe I could get you on _The Tribune_ if I talked to Weissner,” said Harvey.

“There,” said Maud, “why didn’t you come to us first? Of course it’s the thing just now to work, since the war. Dorothy Macdonald is studying stenography and you know how rich she is. And lots of others. But you might have asked us or Uncle George.”

“I wanted to find work for myself,” said Horatia, the memory of that morning’s somewhat torn glory still shining in her eyes. “And I’ve promised Mr. Langley, Maud. I couldn’t work on another paper. It would be too insulting.”

“You don’t want to ruin your reputation and the reputation of all the rest of us, do you?” asked Maud sharply.

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, you know, Maud,” interposed her husband. “Langley pays his bills and is in good standing at his clubs. Of course he isn’t getting anywhere, but it wouldn’t hurt Horatia’s reputation. Nothing hurts a girl’s reputation any more,” added Harvey, chuckling. “Debutantes appear in banks and come delivering laundry. You never know when you’ll come on them next. Let her do as she likes.”

“You’re a darling, Harvey. And I promise you, Maud, that I’ll tell you all the scandal from the inside and you can flourish it, copyrighted, around the boulevard.”

At which sally they all laughed; but the last thing Horatia heard that night as she climbed into Maud’s guest-room bed was Maud’s voice from her dressing-room, somewhat muffled but distinct, as she talked to her husband.

“I don’t like it, Harvey. He’s probably fascinated her, and they say he hasn’t any principles.”

“Oh, come dear, let it wear itself out. Horatia’s not a child and she can look out for herself. Come here, sweetheart, and take a look at these white flannels. Are they fit for tennis?”