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CHAPTER XXII
THE SENSIBLE THING

When Miss Winthrop rose the next morning, she scarcely recognized the woman she saw in the glass as the woman she had glimpsed for a second last night when she had risen and lighted the gas. Her cheeks were somewhat paler than usual, and her eyes were dull and tired. She turned from the glass as soon as possible, and donned a freshly laundered shirt-waist. Then she swallowed a cup of coffee, and walked part way to the office, in the hope that the fresh air might do something toward restoring her color. In this she was successful, but toward noon the color began to fade again.

The problem that disturbed her the entire morning long had to do with luncheon. She recognized that here she must strike the keynote to all her future relations with Mr. Pendleton. If she was to eliminate him entirely and go back to the time when he was non-existent, then she must begin to-day. It was so she preferred to handle disagreeable tasks. She detested compromises. When she had anything to do, she liked to do it at once and thoroughly. If she had consulted her own wishes and her own interests alone, she would never have seen him again outside the office. But if she did this, what would become of him during this next month?

The trouble was that Don would get lonesome–not necessarily for her, but for that other. He was the sort of man who needed some one around all the time to take an interest in him. This deduction was based, not upon guesswork, but upon experience. For almost a year now she had seen him every day, and had watched him react to just such interest on her part. She was only stating a fact when she said to herself that, had it not been for her, he would have lost his position months before. She was only stating another fact when she said to herself that even now he might get side-tracked into some clerical job. Give him a month to himself now, and he might undo all the effort of the last six months. Worse than that, he might fall into the clutches of Blake and go to pieces in another way.

There was not the slightest use in the world in retorting that this, after all, was the affair of Don and his fiancée rather than hers. She had brought him through so far, and she did not propose to see her work wasted. No one would gain anything by such a course.

The alternative, then, was to continue to meet him and to allow matters to go on as before. It was toward the latter part of the forenoon that she reached this conclusion. All this while she had been taking letters from Mr. Seagraves and transcribing them upon her typewriter without an error. She had done no conscious thinking and had reached no conscious conclusion. All she knew was that in the early forenoon she had been very restless, and that suddenly the restlessness vanished and that she was going on with her typewriting in a sort of grim content. Half-past eleven came, and then twelve. She finished the letter, and went for her hat as usual, putting it on without looking in the glass.

Don met her a little way from the office, and she fell into step at his side.

“I was sort of worried about you last night,” he said. “You looked tired.”

“I guess I was,” she answered.

“Don’t you get a vacation before long?”

She could have had her vacation a month ago, but there seemed to be no reason for taking it. She had not been able to think of any place to which she wished to go. Then she had forgotten about it.

“I’ve decided to take it next month,” she answered.

She decided that much on the spot.

“I suppose there’s one due me, too,” he said. “Blake said something about it a while ago. But I don’t know what I’d do with a vacation if I took one.”

“I should think you had something very important to do with it,” she answered quickly.

“What do you mean?”

“Take it for your wedding trip.”

The suggestion made him catch his breath. “Look here,” he exclaimed. “That means getting married!”

“Surely it does,” she nodded.

They had reached the little restaurant, and she hurried in. Without waiting for his assistance, she secured a cup of coffee and a sandwich for herself. Then she found a chair and sat down. She did not know how she was ever going to swallow anything, but she had to have something to do to occupy her hands.

“You put that up to a man as if it were the easiest thing in the world,” he observed, sitting in the next chair.

“Well, it is, isn’t it–once you’ve made up your mind?”

“Looks to me as if it was one thing to make up your mind to get married some day, and another really to get married.”

“It’s better to do it than to waste your time thinking about it,” she declared. “When Farnsworth hands you that raise, believe me, he’ll want you to have both feet on the ground.”

“Eh?”

“He won’t want you to be drifting in with only three hours’ sleep, the way you did most of last winter. He has a lot more confidence in married men, anyhow.”

Don laughed.

“That phrase makes a man feel ten years married.”

She had been trying hard to eat her lunch, but without much success. He noticed this.

“What’s the matter with you?” he inquired.

“I don’t happen to be hungry, that’s all,” she answered.

“You didn’t catch cold last night?”

“No.”

“But look here–”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered.

He went to the counter and returned with some doughnuts for himself and a piece of cake for her.

“This looked so good I thought you might like it,” he said, as he placed it on the arm of her chair. “It’s so much easier to talk when eating. I want to hear more about this scheme of yours for marrying me off.”

“It isn’t exactly my suggestion.”

“You proposed it a minute ago.”

“All I said was that if you mean to get married, you’d better do it right away and be done with it.”

“During my vacation?”

She brought her lips together.

“Yes.”

“Do you know, that rather appeals to me,” he answered thoughtfully.

She turned aside her head.

“It’s the only sensible thing,” she assured him.

“It would give a man a chance to settle down and attend to business.”

“And give his wife a chance to help him.”

“By Jove, I’m going to propose that to Frances the day she lands!” he exclaimed.

He was finishing his last doughnut. Miss Winthrop rose. Once outside, she could breathe freely. She said:–

“Her–her name is Frances?”

“Frances Stuyvesant,” he nodded.

“When do you expect her home?”

“The first of September.”

“Then you’d better put in a bid to have your vacation the first two weeks in September,” she advised. “Business will begin to pick up right after that, and Farnsworth will need you.”

CHAPTER XXIII
LOOKING AHEAD

It was now the first week in August. If she could sustain his interest in the project for three weeks and get him married in the fourth, then she could settle back into the routine of her life. It was the only possible way of straightening out the tangle. Once he was safely married, that was the end. Their relations would cease automatically. The conventions would attend to that. As a married man he, of course, could not lunch with her or spend Saturday afternoons in the park with her, or Sunday in the country with her, or mid-week evenings anywhere with her. He would be exiled from her life as effectively as if he himself should go to Europe. In fact, the separation would be even more effective, because there would not be any possible hope of his coming back. For her it would be almost as if he died.

Back in her room that night, Miss Winthrop saw all these things quite clearly. And she saw that this was the only way. In no other way could she remain in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. If he did not marry in September,–she had applied that afternoon for her own vacation to parallel his,–then she must resign. Unmarried, he would be as irresponsible this coming winter as he was last, and if she remained would be thrown back upon her. She could not allow that–she could not endure it.

She had lost so many things all at once. She did not realize until now how much dreaming she had done in these last few months. Dreams of which at the time she had scarcely been conscious returned to-night to mock her with startling vividness. It was not so much that she wished to be loved as that she wished to love. That was where she had deceived herself. Had Don made love to her, she would have recognized the situation and guarded herself. But this matter of loving him was an attack from a quarter she had not anticipated.

In the next three weeks she left him little chance to think of anything but of his work and of Frances. She talked of nothing else at lunch; she talked of nothing else on Saturday afternoons and on Sundays and whenever they met on other days. This had its effect. It accustomed him to associate together the two chief objectives in his life until in his thoughts they became synonymous. For the first time since their engagement, he began to think of Frances as an essential feature of his everyday affairs.

He began to think about what changes in the house would be necessary before she came. He talked this over with Miss Winthrop.

“I wish you could come up and look the place over before Frances gets here,” he said to her one day.

If the color left her face for a second, it came back the next with plenty to spare. The idea was preposterous, and yet it appealed to her strangely.

“I wish I could,” she answered sincerely.

“Well, why can’t you?” he asked.

“It’s impossible–of course,” she said.

“I could arrange a little dinner and ask some one to chaperon,” he suggested.

“It’s out of the question,” she answered firmly. “You can tell me all about it.”

“But telling you about it isn’t like letting you see it,” he said.

“It is almost as good, and–almost as good is something, isn’t it?”

There was a suppressed note in her voice that made him look up. He had caught many such notes of late. Sometimes, as now, he half expected to find her eyes moist when he looked up. He never did; he always found her smiling.

“I’d have Nora give everything a thorough cleaning before September,” she advised.

“I’ll do that,” he nodded.

He wrote it down in his notebook, and that night spoke to Nora about it. She appeared decidedly interested.

“It’s possible that in the fall you may have some one else besides me to look after,” he confided to her in explanation.

“It’s to be soon, sir?” she asked eagerly.

“In September, perhaps,” he admitted.

“It would please your father, sir,” she answered excitedly. “It’s lonesome it’s been for you, sir.”

He did not answer, but he thought about that a little. No, it had not been exactly lonesome for him–not lately. That was because he was looking ahead. That was it.

“It hasn’t seemed quite natural for you to be living on here alone, sir,” she ventured.

“Dad lived here alone,” he reminded her.

“Not at your age, sir,” answered Nora.

From that moment there was much ado in the house. Don came home at night to find certain rooms draped in dusting clothes, later to appear as fresh and immaculate as if newly furnished. This gave him a great sense of responsibility. He felt married already. He came downtown in the morning a little more serious, and took hold of his work with greater vigor.

The next few weeks passed rapidly. Frances had finished her trip to Scotland and was on her way back to London. She was to sail in a few days now. He cabled her to let him know when she started, and three days later she answered. He showed her reply to Miss Winthrop.

Sail Monday on the Mauretania, but Dolly wants me to spend next two weeks after arrival in the Adirondacks with her.

Miss Winthrop returned the cable with a none too steady hand.

“She mustn’t do that,” she said firmly.

“Of course she mustn’t,” he agreed. “You see, she doesn’t know she is to be married right away. Do you think I ought to cable her that?”

“I don’t think I would,” Miss Winthrop replied. “But I would let her know I didn’t approve of her arrangement.”

“Supposing I just say, ‘Have other plans for you’?”

“That would do,” she nodded.

So he sent her this message, and that evening at dinner Miss Winthrop spoke to him of another matter.

“I don’t think you have shown much attention to her parents this summer. Oughtn’t you to see them and let them know what you intend?”

“Tell Stuyvesant?” he exclaimed.

“Why should he object?” she asked.

“I don’t know as he will. Then again he might. You see, I’ve never told him just how Dad tied things up.”

“What difference does that make?” she demanded. “With the house and what you’re earning, you have enough.”

“It isn’t as much as he expects a man to give his daughter, though,–not by a long shot.”

“It’s enough,” she insisted. “Why, even without the house it would be enough.”

“Yes,” he answered, with a smile. “When you say it–it’s enough. I wish Stuyvesant knew you.”

The blood came into her cheeks. She wished he wouldn’t say things like that.

“It seems to me you ought to see him and tell him,” she said thoughtfully.

He shook his head.

“What’s the use of seeing him until I’ve seen Frances?”

“It’s all settled about her.”

“That she’ll marry me in September?”

“Of course,” she answered excitedly. “Why, she’s been waiting a whole year. Do you think she’ll want to wait any longer? As soon as she knows how well you’ve done, why–why, that’s the end of it. Of course that’s the end of it.”

“I wish I were as confident as you!”

“You must be,” she answered firmly. “You mustn’t feel any other way. The house is all ready, and you are all ready, and–that’s all there is to it.”

“And Frances is all ready?”

“When she promised to marry you she was ready,” she declared. “You don’t understand. I guess women are different from men. They–they don’t make promises like that until they are quite sure, and when they are quite sure they are quite ready. This last year should have been hers. You made a mistake, but there’s no sense in keeping on with the mistake. Oh, I’m quite sure of that.”

She was wearing a light scarf,–this was at Jacques’,–and she drew it over her shoulders. Somehow, the unconscious act reminded him of a similar act on the beach at Coney…

CHAPTER XXIV
VACATIONS

During this next week–the week Frances was on the ocean and sailing toward him–he gained in confidence day by day. Miss Winthrop was so absolutely sure of her point of view that it was difficult in her presence to have any doubts.

Frances was due to arrive on Monday, and for Sunday he had arranged at Jacques’ a very special little dinner for Miss Winthrop. Miss Winthrop herself did not know how special it was, because all dinners there with him were special. There were roses upon the table. Their odor would have turned her head had it not been for the realization that her trunk was all packed and that to-morrow morning she would be upon the train. She had written to an aunt in Maine that she was coming–to this particular aunt because, of the three or four she knew at all, this aunt was the farthest from New York.

As for him, he had forgotten entirely that Monday marked the beginning of her vacation. That was partly her fault, because for the last week she had neglected to speak of it.

Ordinarily she did not permit him to come all the way back to the house with her; but this night he had so much to talk about that she did not protest. Yes, and she was too weak to protest, anyway. All the things he talked about–his fears, his hopes, speculations, and doubts–she had heard over and over again. But it was the sound of his voice to which she clung. To-morrow and after to-morrow everything would be changed, and she would never hear him talk like this again. He was excited to-night, and buoyant and quick with life. He laughed a great deal, and several times he spoke very tenderly to her.

They had reached her door, and something in her eyes–for the life of him he could not tell what–caused him to look up at the stars. They were all there in their places.

“Look at ’em,” he said. “They seem nearer to-night than I’ve ever seen them.”

She was a bit jealous of those stars. It had been when with her that he had first seen them.

“You aren’t looking,” he complained.

She turned her eyes to the sky. To her they seemed farther away than ever.

“Maybe Frances is looking at those same stars,” he said.

She resented the suggestion. She turned her eyes back to the street.

“Where’s the star I gave you?” he asked.

“It’s gone,” she answered.

“Have you lost it?”

“I can’t see it.”

“Now, look here,” he chided her lightly. “I don’t call that very nice. You don’t have a star given you every night.”

“I told you I didn’t need to have them given to me, because I could take all I wanted myself. You don’t own the stars too.”

“I feel to-night as if I did,” he laughed. “I’ll have to pick out another for you.” He searched the heavens for one that suited him. He found one just beyond the Big Dipper, that shone steadily and quietly, like her eyes. He pointed it out to her.

“I’ll give you that one, and please don’t lose it.”

She was not looking.

“Do you see it?” he insisted.

She was forced to look. After all, he could afford to give her one out of so many, and it would be something to remember him by.

“Yes,” she answered, with a break in her voice.

“That one is yours,” he assured her.

It was as if he added, “All the rest belong to Frances.”

She held out her hand to him.

“Thank you for your star,” she said. “And–and I wish you the best of luck.”

He took her hand, but he was confused by the note of finality in her voice.

“I don’t see any need of being so solemn about saying good-night,” he returned.

He continued to hold her hand firmly.

“But it’s good-bye and–God-speed, too,” she reminded him.

“How do you make that out?”

“You’re going on a long journey, and I–I’m going on a little journey.”

“You? Where are you going?”

He didn’t want her to go anywhere. He wanted her to stay right where she was. Come to think of it, he always wanted her to stay right where she was. He always thought of her as within reach.

“My vacation begins to-morrow,” she answered.

“And you’re going away–out of town?”

She nodded.

“You can’t do that,” he protested. “Why, I was depending upon you these next few days.”

It was difficult for her to tell at the moment whether the strain in her throat was joy or pain. That he needed her–that was joy; that he needed her only for the next few days–that was not joy.

“You mustn’t depend upon any one these next few days but yourself,” she answered earnestly. “And after that–just yourself and her.”

“That’s well enough if everything comes out all right.”

“Make it come out right. That’s your privilege as a man. Oh, that’s why it’s so good to be a man!”

“You ought to have been a man yourself,” he told her.

She caught her breath at that, and insisted upon withdrawing her hand.

“I used to think I’d like to be,” she answered.

“And now?”

She shook her head.

He had swung the talk back to her again, when the talk should have been all of him and Frances.

“It’s in you to get everything in the world you want,” she said. “I’m sure of that. All you have to do is to want it hard enough. And now there are so many things right within your grasp. You won’t let go of them?”

“No,” he answered.

“Your home, your wife, and your work–it’s wonderful to make good in so many things all at once! So–good-bye.”

“You talk as if you were not coming back again!”

“I’m coming back to Carter, Rand & Seagraves–if that’s what you mean.”

“And you’re coming back here–to your home?”

“Yes; I’m coming back here.”

“Then we’ll just say s’long.”

“No. We must say good-bye.”

She had not wished to say this in so many words. She had hoped he would take the new situation for granted.

“When I come back you must look on me as–as Mr. Farnsworth does.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“No; it’s very, very good sense. It’s the only thing possible. Can’t you see?”

“No.”

“Then Frances will help you see.”

“She won’t want to make a cad of me; I know that.”

“I’m going in now.”

She opened the door behind her.

“Wait a moment,” he pleaded.

“No, I can’t wait any longer. Good-bye.”

She was in the dark hall now.

“Good-bye,” she repeated.

“S’long,” he answered.

Softly, gently, she closed the door upon him. Then she stumbled up the stairs to her room, and in the dark threw herself face down on her bed.