The Foolish Virgin. Jr. Thomas Dixon
don't see it,” Mary answered emphatically. “Your ideal is fame, achievement, the applause of the world—mine just a home and a baby——”
Jane laughed softly.
“And that's all you know about me?”
“Isn't it true?”
“You've been in this room five years, haven't you?” the older girl asked musingly.
“Yes——”
“And though you've kept your lamp trimmed and burning, you haven't yet seen a man whom you could recognize as your equal.”
“I'm only twenty-four.”
“In these five years I've met a hundred men my equal.”
“And smashed the conventions of Society whenever you saw fit.”
“Without breaking a single law of reason or common-sense. In the meantime I've met two men who have really made love to me. I thought I loved one of them—until I met the other. The second proved himself to be an unprincipled scoundrel. If I had held your views of life and hated my work, I would have married this man and lived to awake in a prison whose only door was Death. But I loved my work. Life meant more than one man who was not worth an hour's tears. I turned to my studio and he slipped back into the gutter where he belonged. I'll meet MY Fate some day, too, dear. I'm waiting and watching—but with clear eyes and unafraid. I'll know mine when he comes, I shall not be blinded by passion or the fear of drudgery. Can't you see this bigger world of realities?”
The dimple flashed again in the smooth red cheek.
“It's not for me, Jane. I'm just a modest little home body. I'll bide my time——”
“And eat your foolish heart out here between the narrow walls of this cell you've built for yourself. I should think you'd die living here alone.”
The girl flushed.
“I'm not lonely——”
“Don't fib! I know better. Your birds and kitten occupy daily about thirty minutes of the time that's your own. What do you do with the rest of it?”
“Sit by my window, watch the crowds stream through the streets below, read and dream and think——”
“Yes—read love stories and dream about your Knight.”
“Well?”
“It's morbid and unhealthy. You've hedged yourself about with the old conventions and imagine you're safe—and you are—until you meet HIM!”
“I'll know how to behave—never fear.”
“You mean you'll know how instantly to blindfold, halter and lead him to the Little Church Around the Corner?”
Mary moved uneasily.
“And what else should I do with him?”
“Compare him with other men. Weigh him in the balances of a remorseless common-sense. Study him under a microscope and keep your reason clear. The girl who rushes into marriage in a great city under the conditions in which you and I live is a fool. More girls are ruined in New York by marriage than by any other process. The thunderbolt out of the blue hasn't struck you yet, but when it does——”
“I'll tell you, Jane.”
“Will you, honestly?”
The question was asked with wistful tenderness.
“I promise. And you mustn't think I don't appreciate this visit and the chance you've given again to enter the `big world' you're always telling me about. I just can't do it, dear. It's not my world.”
“All right, my little foolish virgin, have it your own way. When you're lonely, run up to my studio to see me. I won't ask you to pose or meet any of the dangerous men of my circle. We'll lock the doors and have a snug time all by ourselves.”
“I'll remember.”
The clock in the Metropolitan Tower chimed the hour of five, and Jane Anderson rose with a quick, business-like movement.
“Don't hurry,” Mary protested. “I know I've been stubborn, but I've been so happy in your coming. I do get lonely—frightfully lonely, sometimes—don't think I'm ungrateful——”
“You're dangerously beautiful, child,” the artist said, with enthusiasm. “And remember that I love you—no matter how silly you are—good-by.”
“You won't stay for a cup of tea? I meant to ask you an hour ago.”
“No, I've an engagement with a dreadful man whom I've no idea of ever marrying. I'm going to dinner with him—just to study the animal at dose range.”
With a jolly laugh and quick, firm step she was gone.
Mary snatched the kitten from his snug bed between the pillows of the window-seat and pressed his fuzzy head under her chin.
“She tempted us terribly, Kitty darling, but we didn't let her find out—did we? You know deep down in your cat's soul that I was just dying to meet the distinguished Gordon—but such high honors are not for home bodies like you and me——”
She dropped on the seat and closed her eyes for a long time. The kitten watched her wonderingly sure of a sudden outbreak with each passing moment. Two soft paws at last touched her cheeks and two bright eyes sought in vain for hers. The little nose pressed closer and kissed the drooping eyelids until they opened. He curled himself on her bosom and began to sing a gentle lullaby. For a long while she lay and listened to the music of love with which her pet sought to soothe the ache within.
The clock in the tower chimed six.
She lifted her body and placed her head on a pillow beside the window. The human torrent below was now at its flood. Two streams of humanity flowed eastward along each broad sidewalk. Hundreds were pouring in endless procession across Madison Square. The cars in Broadway north and South were jammed. Every day she watched this crowd hurrying, hurrying away into the twilight—and among all its hundreds of thousands not an eye was ever lifted to hers—not one man or woman among them cared whether she lived or died.
It was horrible, this loneliness of the desert in an ocean of humanity! For the past year it had become an increasing horror to look into the silent faces of this crowd of men and women and never feel the touch of a friendly hand or hear the sound of a human voice in greeting.
And yet this endless procession held for her a supreme fascination. Somewhere among its myriads of tramping feet, walked the one man created for her. She no more doubted this than she doubted God Himself. It was His law. He had ordained it so. She had grown so used to the throngs below her window and so loved the little park with its splashing fountain that she had refused to follow her landlady uptown when the brownstone boarding-house facing the Square had been turned into a studio building.
Instead of moving she had wheedled the landlord into allowing her to cut off a small space from her room for a private bath and kitchenette, built a box couch across the window large enough for a three-quarter mattress and covered it with velour. For five dollars a week she had thus secured a little home in which was combined a sitting-room, bed-room, bath and kitchenette.
It had its drawbacks, of course. The Professor downstairs who taught music sometimes gave a special lesson at night, and the Italian sculptor who worked on the top floor used a hammer at the most impossible hours. But on the whole she liked it better than the tiresome routine of boarding. She was not afraid at night. The stamp-and-coin man who occupied the first floor, lived with his wife and baby in the rear. The janitress had a room on the floor above hers. Two elderly women workers of ability in the mechanical arts occupied the rear of her floor, and a dear little fat woman of fifty who drew designs for the New England weavers of cotton goods lived in the room adjoining hers.
She had never spoken to any of