________________________________________________
_ On the last Saturday in April, the New York "Times"
published an account of the strike complications
which were delaying Alexander's New Jersey bridge,
and stated that the engineer himself was in town
and at his office on West Tenth Street.
On Sunday, the day after this notice appeared,
Alexander worked all day at his Tenth Street rooms.
His business often called him to New York,
and he had kept an apartment there for years,
subletting it when he went abroad for any length of time.
Besides his sleeping-room and bath, there was a
large room, formerly a painter's studio, which he
used as a study and office. It was furnished
with the cast-off possessions of his bachelor
days and with odd things which he sheltered
for friends of his who followed itinerant and
more or less artistic callings. Over the fireplace
there was a large old-fashioned gilt mirror.
Alexander's big work-table stood in front
of one of the three windows, and above the
couch hung the one picture in the room, a big
canvas of charming color and spirit, a study
of the Luxembourg Gardens in early spring,
painted in his youth by a man who had since
become a portrait-painter of international
renown. He had done it for Alexander when
they were students together in Paris.
Sunday was a cold, raw day and a fine rain
fell continuously. When Alexander came back
from dinner he put more wood on his fire,
made himself comfortable, and settled
down at his desk, where he began checking
over estimate sheets. It was after nine o'clock
and he was lighting a second pipe, when he
thought he heard a sound at his door. He
started and listened, holding the burning
match in his hand; again he heard the same
sound, like a firm, light tap. He rose and
crossed the room quickly. When he threw
open the door he recognized the figure that
shrank back into the bare, dimly lit hallway.
He stood for a moment in awkward constraint,
his pipe in his hand.
"Come in," he said to Hilda at last, and
closed the door behind her. He pointed to a
chair by the fire and went back to his worktable.
"Won't you sit down?"
He was standing behind the table,
turning over a pile of blueprints nervously.
The yellow light from the student's lamp fell on
his hands and the purple sleeves of his velvet
smoking-jacket, but his flushed face and big,
hard head were in the shadow. There was
something about him that made Hilda wish
herself at her hotel again, in the street below,
anywhere but where she was.
"Of course I know, Bartley," she said at
last, "that after this you won't owe me the
least consideration. But we sail on Tuesday.
I saw that interview in the paper yesterday,
telling where you were, and I thought I had
to see you. That's all. Good-night; I'm going now."
She turned and her hand closed on the door-knob.
Alexander hurried toward her and took
her gently by the arm. "Sit down, Hilda;
you're wet through. Let me take off your coat
--and your boots; they're oozing water."
He knelt down and began to unlace her shoes,
while Hilda shrank into the chair. "Here, put
your feet on this stool. You don't mean to say
you walked down--and without overshoes!"
Hilda hid her face in her hands. "I was
afraid to take a cab. Can't you see, Bartley,
that I'm terribly frightened? I've been
through this a hundred times to-day. Don't
be any more angry than you can help. I was
all right until I knew you were in town.
If you'd sent me a note, or telephoned me,
or anything! But you won't let me write to you,
and I had to see you after that letter, that
terrible letter you wrote me when you got home."
Alexander faced her, resting his arm on
the mantel behind him, and began to brush
the sleeve of his jacket. "Is this the way you
mean to answer it, Hilda?" he asked unsteadily.
She was afraid to look up at him.
"Didn't--didn't you mean even to say goodby
to me, Bartley? Did you mean just to--
quit me?" she asked. "I came to tell you that
I'm willing to do as you asked me. But it's no
use talking about that now. Give me my things,
please." She put her hand out toward the fender.
Alexander sat down on the arm of her chair.
"Did you think I had forgotten you were
in town, Hilda? Do you think I kept away by accident?
Did you suppose I didn't know you were sailing on Tuesday?
There is a letter for you there, in my desk drawer.
It was to have reached you on the steamer. I was
all the morning writing it. I told myself that
if I were really thinking of you, and not of myself,
a letter would be better than nothing.
Marks on paper mean something to you."
He paused. "They never did to me."
Hilda smiled up at him beautifully and
put her hand on his sleeve. "Oh, Bartley!
Did you write to me? Why didn't you telephone
me to let me know that you had? Then I wouldn't
have come."
Alexander slipped his arm about her. "I didn't know
it before, Hilda, on my honor I didn't, but I believe
it was because, deep down in me somewhere, I was hoping
I might drive you to do just this. I've watched
that door all day. I've jumped up if the fire crackled.
I think I have felt that you were coming."
He bent his face over her hair.
"And I," she whispered,--"I felt that you were feeling that.
But when I came, I thought I had been mistaken."
Alexander started up and began to walk up and down the room.
"No, you weren't mistaken. I've been up in Canada
with my bridge, and I arranged not to come to New York
until after you had gone. Then, when your manager
added two more weeks, I was already committed."
He dropped upon the stool in front of her and
sat with his hands hanging between his knees.
"What am I to do, Hilda?"
"That's what I wanted to see you about,
Bartley. I'm going to do what you asked me
to do when you were in London. Only I'll do
it more completely. I'm going to marry."
"Who?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter much! One of them.
Only not Mac. I'm too fond of him."
Alexander moved restlessly. "Are you joking, Hilda?"
"Indeed I'm not."
"Then you don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, I know very well. I've thought
about it a great deal, and I've quite decided.
I never used to understand how women did things
like that, but I know now. It's because they can't
be at the mercy of the man they love any longer."
Alexander flushed angrily. "So it's better
to be at the mercy of a man you don't love?"
"Under such circumstances, infinitely!"
There was a flash in her eyes that made
Alexander's fall. He got up and went over to
the window, threw it open, and leaned out.
He heard Hilda moving about behind him.
When he looked over his shoulder she was
lacing her boots. He went back and stood
over her.
"Hilda you'd better think a while longer
before you do that. I don't know what I
ought to say, but I don't believe you'd be
happy; truly I don't. Aren't you trying to
frighten me?"
She tied the knot of the last lacing and
put her boot-heel down firmly. "No; I'm
telling you what I've made up my mind to do.
I suppose I would better do it without telling you.
But afterward I shan't have an opportunity to explain,
for I shan't be seeing you again."
Alexander started to speak, but caught himself.
When Hilda rose he sat down on the arm of her chair
and drew her back into it.
"I wouldn't be so much alarmed if I didn't
know how utterly reckless you CAN be.
Don't do anything like that rashly."
His face grew troubled. "You wouldn't be happy.
You are not that kind of woman. I'd never have
another hour's peace if I helped to make you
do a thing like that." He took her face
between his hands and looked down into it.
"You see, you are different, Hilda. Don't you
know you are?" His voice grew softer, his
touch more and more tender. "Some women
can do that sort of thing, but you--you can
love as queens did, in the old time."
Hilda had heard that soft, deep tone in his
voice only once before. She closed her eyes;
her lips and eyelids trembled. "Only one, Bartley.
Only one. And he threw it back at me a second time."
She felt the strength leap in the arms
that held her so lightly.
"Try him again, Hilda. Try him once again."
She looked up into his eyes, and hid her
face in her hands. _
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