A Day of Fate

  CHAPTER V

  MUTUAL DISCOVERIES

  I must have slept for an hour or more, for when I awoke I saw throughthe window-lattice that the sun was declining in the west. Sleep hadagain proved better than all philosophy or medicine, for it hadrefreshed me and given something of the morning's elasticity.

  I naturally indulged in a brief retrospect, conscious that whilenothing had happened, since the croaking printer's remark, that I wouldcare to print in the paper, experiences had occurred that touched mecloser than would the news that all the Malays of Asia were runningamuck. I felt as if thrown back on to my old life and work in preciselytheir old form. My expedition into the country and romance had beendisappointing. It is true I had found rest and sleep, and for these Iwas grateful, and with these stanch allies I can go on with my work,which I now believe is the best thing the world has for me. I shall goback to it to-morrow, well content, after this day's experience, tomake it my mistress. The bare possibility of being yoked to such awoman as in fancy I have wooed and won to-day makes me shiver withinexpressible dread. Her obtuseness, combined with her microscopicsurveillance, would drive me to the nearest madhouse I could find. Thewhole business of love-making and marriage involves too much risk to aman who, like myself, must use his wits as a sword to carve hisfortunes. I've fought my way up alone so far, and may as well remain afree lance. The wealthy, and those who are content to plod, can gothrough life with a woman hanging on their arm. Rich I shall never be,and I'll die before I'll plod. My place is in the midst of the world'sarena, where the forces that shall make the future are contending, andI propose to be an appreciable part of those forces. I shall go backthe wiser and stronger for this day's folly, and infinitely better forits rest, and I marched down the moody stairway, feeling that I was notyet a crushed and broken man, and cherishing also a secret complacencythat I had at last outgrown my leanings toward sentimentality.

  As I approached the door of the wide, low-browed parlor, I saw MissWarren reading a paper; a second later and my heart gave a bound: itwas the journal of which I was the night editor, and I greeted itsfamiliar aspect as the face of an old friend in a foreign land. It wasundoubtedly the number that had gone to press the night I had brokendown, and I almost hoped to see some marks of the catastrophe in itscolumns. How could I beguile the coveted sheet from Miss Warren's handsand steal away to a half-hour's seclusion?

  "What! Miss Warren," I exclaimed, "reading a newspaper on Sunday?"

  She looked at me a moment before replying, and then asked:

  "Do you believe in a Providence?"

  Thrown off my guard by the unexpected question, I answered:

  "Assuredly; I am not quite ready to admit that I am a fool, even afterall that has happened."

  There was laughter in her eyes at once, but she asked innocently:

  "What has happened?"

  I suppose my color rose a little, but I replied carelessly, "I havemade some heavy blunders of late. You are adroit in stealing away froma weak position under a fire of questions, but your stratagem shall notsucceed," I continued severely. "How can you explain the fact, toopatent to be concealed, that here in good Mrs. Yocomb's house, and on aSunday afternoon, you are reading a secular newspaper?"

  "You have explained my conduct yourself," she said, assuming a finesurprise.

  "I?"

  "You, and most satisfactorily. You said you believed in a Providence. Ihave merely been reading what he has done, or what he has permitted,within the last twenty-four hours."

  I looked around for a chair, and sat down "struck all of a heap," asthe rural vernacular has it.

  "Is that your definition of news?" I ventured at last.

  "I'm not a dictionary. That's the definition of what I've been readingthis afternoon."

  "Miss Warren, you may score one against me."

  The mischievous light was in her eyes, but she said suavely:

  "Oh, no, you shall have another chance. I shall begin by showing mercy,for I may need it, and I see that you can be severe."

  "Well, please, let me take breath and rally my shattered wits before Imake another advance. I understand you, then, that you regardnewspapers as good Sunday reading?"

  "You prove your ability, Mr. Morton, by drawing a vast conclusion froma small and ill-defined premise. I don't recall making any suchstatement."

  "Pardon me, you are at disadvantage now. I ask for no better premisethan your own action; for you are one, I think, who would do only whatyou thought right."

  "A palpable hit. I'm glad I showed you mercy. Still it does not followthat because I read a newspaper, all newspapers are good Sundayreading. Indeed, there is much in this paper that is not good readingfor Monday or any other day."

  "Ah!" I exclaimed, looking grave, "then why do you read it?"

  "I have not. A newspaper is like the world of which it is a briefrecord--full of good and evil. In either case, if one does not like theevil, it can be left alone."

  "Which do you think predominates in that paper?"

  "Oh, the good, in the main. There is an abundance of evil, too, but itis rather in the frank and undisguised record of the evil in the world.It does not seem to have got into the paper's blood and poisoned itswhole life. It is easily skipped if one is so inclined. There are somejournals in which the evil cannot be skipped. From the leadingeditorial to the obscurest advertisement, one stumbles on iteverywhere. They are like certain regions in the South, in which thereis no escape from the snakes and malaria. Now there are low places inthis paper, but there is high ground also, where the air is good andwholesome, and where the outlook on the world is wide. That is thereason I take it."

  "I was not aware that many young ladies looked, in journals of thischaracter, beyond the record of deaths and marriages."

  "We studied ancient history. Is it odd that we should have a faintdesire to know what Americans are doing, as well as what theBabylonians did?"

  "Oh, I do not decry your course as irrational. It seemsrather--rather--"

  "Rather too rational for a young lady."

  "I did not say that; but here is my excuse," and I took from a tablenear a periodical entitled "The Young Lady's Own Weekly," addressed toMiss Adah Yocomb.

  "Have not young men their own weeklies also--which of the two classesis the more weakly?"

  "Ahem! I decline to pursue this phase of the subject any further. Toreturn to our premise, this journal," and I laid my hand on the oldpaper caressingly. "It so happens that I read it also, and thus learnthat we have had many thoughts in common; though, no doubt, we woulddiffer on some of the questions discussed in it. What do you think ofits politics?"

  "I think they are often very bad."

  "That's delightfully frank," I said, sitting back in my chair a littlestiffly. "I think they are very good--at any rate they are mine."

  "Perhaps that is the reason they are so good?"

  "Now, pardon me if I, too, am a trifle plain. Do you consider yourselfas competent to form an opinion concerning politics as gray-headedstudents of affairs?"

  "Oh, certainly not; but do I understand that you accept,unquestioningly, the politics of the paper you read?"

  "Far from it: rather that the politics of this paper commend themselvesto my judgment."

  "And you think 'judgment' an article not among a young woman'spossessions?"

  "Miss Warren, you may think what you please of the politics of thispaper. But how comes it that you think about them at all? I'm sure thatthey interest but comparatively few young ladies."

  Her face suddenly became very grave and sad, and a moment later sheturned away her eyes that were full of tears. "I wish you hadn't askedthat question; but I will explain my seeming weakness," she said, in alow, faltering voice. "I lost my only brother in the war--I wasscarcely more than a child; but I can see him now--my very ideal ofbrave, loyal manhood. Should I not love the country for which he died?"

  Politics! a word that men so often utter with contempt, has beenhallowed to me since that momen
t.

  She looked away for a moment, swiftly pressed her handkerchief to hereyes, then turning toward me said, with a smile, and in her formertones:

  "Forgive me! I've been a bit lonely and blue this afternoon, for theday has reminded me of the past. I won't be weak and womanish any more.I think some political questions interest a great many women deeply. Itmust be so. We don't dote on scrambling politicians; but a man as atrue statesman makes a grand figure."

  I was not thinking of statecraft or the craftsmen.

  "By Jove!" I exclaimed mentally, "this girl is more beautiful than my'perfect flower of womanhood.' Night-owl that I am, I am just gainingthe power to see her clearly as the sun declines."

  I know my face was full of honest sympathy as I said, gently andreverently:

  "Tell me more of your brother. The thoughts of such men make me better."

  She shot a quick, grateful glance, looked down, trembled, shook herhead as she faltered:

  "I cannot--please don't; speak of something far removed."

  The feeling was so deep, and yet so strongly curbed, that itsrepression affected me more deeply than could its manifestation. Hersorrow became a veiled and sacred mystery of which I could never bewholly unconscious again; and I felt that however strong and brilliantshe might prove in our subsequent talk, I should ever see, back of all,the tender-hearted, sensitive woman.

  "Please forgive me. I was cruelly thoughtless," I said, in a voice thattrembled slightly. Then, catching up the paper, I continued, withattempted lightness, "We have found this journal, that we mutuallyread, a fruitful theme. What do you think of its literary reviews?"

  Mirth and tears struggled for the mastery in her eyes; but sheanswered, with a voice that had regained its clear, bell-like tone:

  "In some I have seen indisputable proof of impartiality and freedomfrom prejudice."

  "In what did that proof consist?"

  "In the evident fact that the reviewer had not read the book."

  "You are severe," I said, coloring slightly.

  She looked at me with a little surprise, but continued:

  "That does not happen very often. It is clear that there are severalcontributors to this department, and I have come to look for theopinions of one of them with much interest. I am sure of a careful andappreciative estimate of a book from his point of view. His one faultappears to be that he sees everything from one perspective, and doesnot realize that the same thing may strike other intelligent peoplevery differently. But he's a fixed and certain quantity, and a goodpoint to measure from. I like him because he is so sincere. He sitsdown to a book as a true scientist does to a phase of nature, to reallylearn what there is in it, and not merely to display a little learning,sarcasm, or smartness. I always feel sure that I know something about abook after reading one of his reviews, and also whether I could affordto spend a part of my limited time in reading it."

  "I have singled out the same reviewer, and think your estimate correct.On another occasion, when we have more time, I am going to ask how youlike the musical critic's opinions; for on that subject you would be athome."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "Miss Yocomb told me that you taught music in the city, and music isabout the only form of recreation for which I have taken time in mybusy life. There are many things concerning the musical tendencies ofthe day that I would like to ask you about. But I hear the clatter ofthe supper dishes. What do you think of the editorial page, and itsmoral tendencies? That is a good Sunday theme."

  "There is evidence of much ability, but there is a lack of earnestnessand definite purpose. The paper is newsy and bright, and, in the main,wholesome. It reflects public opinion fairly and honestly, but doeslittle to shape it. It is often spicily controversial, sometimestiresomely so. I do a good deal of skipping in that line. I wish itsquarrels resulted more from efforts to right some wrong; and there isso much evil in our city, both in high and low places, that ought to befought to the death. The editor has exceptional opportunities, andmight be the knight-errant of our age. If in earnest, and on the rightside, he can forge a weapon out of public opinion that few evils couldresist. And he is in just the position to discover these dragons anddrive them from their hiding-places. If, for instance, the cleverparagraphist in this column, whose province, it seems, is to comment atthe last moment on the events of the day, were as desirous of sayingtrue, strong, earnest words, as bright and prophetic ones, in which thenews of the morrow is also outlined-why, Mr. Morton, what is thematter?"

  "Are you a witch?"

  She looked at me a moment, blushed deeply, and asked hesitatingly:

  "Are-are you the paragraphist?"

  "Yes," I said, with a burst of laughter, "as truly as yours is the onlywitchcraft in which I believe-that of brains." Then putting my fingeron my lips, I added, _sotto voce_: "Don't betray me. Mr. Yocomb wouldset all his dogs on me if he knew I were an editor, and I don't wish togo yet."

  "What have I been saying!" she exclaimed, with an appalled look.

  "Lots of clever things. I never got so many good hints in the same timebefore."

  "It wasn't fair in you, to lead me on in the dark."

  "Oh, there wasn't any 'dark,' I assure you. Your words werecoruscations. Never was the old journal so lighted up before."

  There were both perplexity and annoyance in her face as she lookeddubiously at me. Instantly becoming grave, I stepped to her side andtook her hand, as I said, with the strongest emphasis:

  "Miss Warren, I thank you. I have caught a glimpse of my work andcalling through the eyes of a true, refined, and, permit me to add, agifted woman. I think I shall be the better for it, but will make noprofessions. If I'm capable of improvement this column will show it."

  Her hand trembled in mine as she looked away and said:

  "You are capable of sympathy."

  Then she went hastily to the piano.

  Before she could play beyond a bar or two, little Zillah bounded in,exclaiming:

  "Emily Warren, mother asks if thee and Richard Morton will come out totea?"

  "I may be in error, but is not a piano one of the worldly vanities?" Iasked, as she turned to comply. "I did not expect to see one here."

  "Mrs. Yocomb kindly took this in with me. I could scarcely live withoutone, so you see I carry the shop with me everywhere, and am so linkedto my business that I can never be above it."

  "I hope not, but you carry the business up with you. The shop may be,and ought to be, thoroughly respectable. It is the narrow, mercenaryspirit of the shop that is detestable. If you had that, you would leaveyour piano in New York, since here it would have no money value."

  "You take a nice view of it."

  "Is it not the true view?"

  In mock surprise she answered:

  "Mr. Morton, I'm from New York. Did you ever meet a lady from that citywho was not all that the poets claimed for womanhood?"