Book: The Iron Woman

M >> Margaret Deland >> The Iron Woman




"You'll have to be extra nice to Elizabeth when we are not here,"
Mrs. Richie instructed him. David's mother was very anxious to be
nice to Elizabeth herself; which was a confession, though she did
not know it, of her old misgivings as to David's choice.

"Be nice? _I_?" said Mr. Ferguson, and snorted; "did you
ever know me 'nice'?"

"Always," she said, smiling.

But he would not smile; he went back to his garden for some more
roots; when he returned with a wedge taken from his bed of lemon-
lilies, he said crossly, "David can manage his own affairs; he
doesn't need apron-strings! I think I've mentioned that to you
before?"

"I think I recall some such reference," she admitted, her voice
trembling with friendly amusement.

But he went on growling and barking: "Foolish woman! to try the
experiment at your age, of living in a strange place!"

At that she laughed outright: "That is the nicest way in the
world to tell a friend you will miss her."

Robert Ferguson did not laugh. In fact, as the winter passed and
the time drew near for the move to be made, nobody laughed very
much. Certainly not the two young people; since David had left
the medical school he had worked in Mercer's infirmary, and now
they both felt as if the world would end for them when they
ceased to see each other several times a day. David did his best
to be cheerful about it; in fact, with that common sense of his
which his engagement had accentuated, he was almost too cheerful.
The hospital service would be a great advantage, he said, So
great that perhaps the three years' engagement to which they were
looking forward,--because David's finances would probably not be
equal to a wife before that; the three years might be shortened
to two. But to be parted for two years--it was "practically
parting," for visits don't amount to anything; "it's tough," said
David. "It's _terrific!_" Elizabeth said.

"Oh, well," David reminded her, "two years is a lot better than
three."

It was curious to see how Love had developed these two young
creatures: Elizabeth had sprung into swift and glowing womanhood;
with triumphant candor her conduct confessed that she had
forgotten everything but Love. She showed her heart to David, and
to her little world, as freely as a flower that has opened
overnight--a rose, still wet with dew, that bares a warm and
fragrant bosom to the sun. David had matured, too; but his
maturity was of the mind rather than the body; manhood suddenly
fell upon him like a cloak, and because his sense of humor had
always been a little defective, it was a somewhat heavy cloak,
which hid and even hampered the spontaneous freedom of youth. He
was deeply and passionately in love, but his face fell into lines
of responsibility rather than passion; lines, even, of care. He
grew markedly older; he thought incessantly of how soon he would
be able to marry, and always in connection with his probable
income and his possible expenses. Helena Richie was immensely
proud of this sudden, serious manhood; but Elizabeth's uncle took
it as a matter of course:--had he not, himself, ceased to be an
ass at twenty? Why shouldn't David Richie show some sense at
twenty-five!

As for Elizabeth, she simply adored. Perhaps she was, once in a
while, a little annoyed at the rather ruthless power with which
David would calmly override some foolish wish of hers; and
sometimes there would be a gust of temper,--but it always yielded
at his look or touch. When he was not near her, when she could
not see the speechless passion in his eyes, or feel the tremor of
his lips when they answered the demand of hers, then the anger
lasted longer. Once or twice, when he was away from home, his
letters, with their laconic taking of her love for granted, made
her sharply displeased; but when he came back, and kissed her,
she forgot everything but his arms. Curiously enough, the very
completeness of her surrender kept him so entirely reverent of
her that people who did not know him might have thought him cold--
but Elizabeth knew! She knew his love, even when, as she
fulminated against the misery of being left alone, David merely
said, briefly, "Oh, well, two years is a lot better than three."

The two years of absence were to begin in April. It was in
February that Robert Ferguson was told definitely just when his
tenant would terminate her lease; he received the news in
absolute silence. Mrs. Richie's note came at breakfast; he read
it, then went into his library and shut the door. He sat down at
his writing-table, his hands in his pockets, an unlighted cigar
between his teeth. He sat there nearly an hour. Then, throwing
the cigar into his waste-basket, he knocked his glasses off with
a bewildered gesture; "Well, I'll be hanged," he said, softly. It
was at that moment that he forgave Mrs. Maitland her outrageous
joke of more than a year before. "I've always known that woman
was no fool," he said, smiling ruefully at the remembrance of his
anger at Sarah Maitland's advice. "It was darned good advice!" he
said; but he looked positively dazed. "And I've always said I
wouldn't give Life the chance to play another trick on me!" he
reflected; "well, I won't. This is no silly love-affair; it's
good common sense." Ten minutes later, as he started for his
office, he caught sight of his face in the mirror in the hall. He
had lifted one hand to take his hat from the rack, but as he
suddenly saw himself, he stood stock-still, with upraised arm and
extended fingers; Robert Ferguson had probably not been really
aware of his reflection in a looking-glass for twenty-five years.
He saw now a lean, lined, sad face, a morose droop of thin and
bitter lips; he saw gray hair standing up stiffly above a
careworn forehead; he saw kind, troubled eyes. And as he looked,
he frowned. "I'm an ugly cuss," he said to himself, sighing; "and
I look sixty." In point of fact, he was nearly fifty. "But so is
she," he added, defiantly, and took down his hat. "Only,
_she_ looks forty." And then he thought of Mrs. Maitland's
"fair and fifty," and smiled, in spite of himself. "Yes, she is
rather good-looking," he admitted.

And indeed she was; Mrs. Richie's quiet life with her son had
kept her forehead smooth, and her eyes--eyes the color of a brook
which loiters in shady places over last year's leaves--softly
clear. There was a gentle placidity about her; the curious, shy
hesitation, the deep, half-frightened sadness, which had been so
marked when her landlord knew her first, had disappeared;
sometimes she even showed soft gaieties of manner or speech which
delighted her moody neighbor to the point of making him laugh.
And laughing had all the charm of novelty to poor Robert
Ferguson. "I never dreamed of her going away," he said to
himself. Well, yes; certainly Mrs. Maitland had some sense, after
all. When, a week later, blundering and abrupt, he referred to
Mrs. Maitland's "sense," Mrs. Richie could not at first
understand what he was talking about. "She 'knew more than you
gave her credit for'? I thought you gave her credit for knowing
everything! Oh, you don't want me to leave Mercer? I don't see
the connection. _I_ don't know everything! But you are very
flattering, I'm sure. I am a 'good tenant,' I suppose?"

"Please don't go." She laughed at what she thought was his idea
of a joke; then said, with half a sigh, that she did not know any
one in Philadelphia; "when David isn't at home I shall be pretty
lonely," she said.

" Please don't go," he said again, in a low voice. They were
sitting before the fire in Mrs. Richie's parlor; the glass doors
of the plant-room were open,--that plant-room, which had been his
first concession to her; and the warm air of the parlor was
fragrant with blossoming hyacinths. There was a little table
between them, with a bowl of violets on it, and a big lamp.
Robert Ferguson rose, and stood with his hands behind him,
looking down at her. His hair, in a stiff brush above his
forehead, was quite gray, but his face in its unwonted emotion
seemed quivering with youth. He knocked off his glasses
irritably. "I never know how to say things," he said, in a low
voice; "but--please don't go."

Mrs. Richie stared at him in amazement.

"I think we'd better get married," he said.

"_Mr. Ferguson!_"

"I think I've cared about you ever since you came here, but I am
such a fool I didn't know it until Mrs. Maitland said that absurd
thing last fall."

"I--I don't know what you mean!" she parried, breathlessly; "at
any rate, please don't say anything more about it."

"I have to say something more." He sat down again with the air of
one preparing for a siege. "I've got several things to say.
First, I want to find out my chances?"

"You haven't any."

His face moved. He put on his glasses carefully, with both hands.
"Mrs. Richie, is there any one else? If so, I'll quit. I know you
will answer straight; you are not like other women. _Is there
anybody else?_ That--that Old Chester doctor who comes to see
you once in a while, I understand he's a widower now; wife's just
died; and if--"

"There is nobody; _never_ anybody."

"Ah!" he said, triumphantly; then frowned: "If your attachment to
your husband makes you say I haven't any chance--but it can't be
that."

Her eyes suddenly dilated. "Why not? Why do you say it can't be
that?" she said in a frightened voice.

"I somehow got the impression--forgive me if I am saying anything
I oughtn't to; but I had kind of an idea that you were not
especially happy with him."

She was silent.

"But even if you were," he went on, "it is so many years; I don't
mean to offend you, but a woman isn't faithful to a memory for so
many years!" he looked at her incredulously; "not even you, I
think."

"Such a thing is possible," she told him coldly; she had grown
very pale. "But it is not because of--of my husband that I say I
shall never marry again."

He interrupted her. "If it isn't a dead man nor a live man that's
ahead of me, then it seems to me you can't say I haven't any
chance--unless I am personally offensive to you?" There was an
almost child-like consternation in his eyes; "am I? Of course I
know I am a bear."

"Oh, please don't say things like that!" she protested. "A bear?
You? Why, you are just my good, kind friend and neighbor; but--"

"Ah!" he said, "that scared me for a minute! Well, when I
understood what was the matter with me (I didn't understand until
about a week ago), I said to myself, 'If there's nobody ahead of
me, that woman shall be my wife.' Of course, I am not talking
sentimentalities to you; we are not David and Elizabeth! I'm
fifty, and you are not far from it. But I--I--I'm hard hit, Mrs.
Richie;" his voice trembled, and he twitched off his glasses with
more than usual ferocity.

Mrs. Richie rose; "Mr. Ferguson," she said, gently, "I do
appreciate the honor you do me, but--"

"Don't say a thing like that; it's foolish," he interrupted,
frowning; "what 'honor' is it, to a woman like you, to have an
ugly, bad-mannered fellow like me, want you for a wife? Why, how
could I help it! How could any man help it? I don't know what Dr.
King is thinking of, that he isn't sitting on your doorsteps
waiting for a chance to ask you! I ought to have asked you long
ago. I can't imagine why I didn't, except that I supposed we
would go on always living next door to each other. And--and I
thought anything like _this_, was over for me. . . . Mrs.
Richie, please sit down, and let me finish what I have to say."

"There is no use, Mr. Ferguson," she said; but she sat down, her
face falling into lines of sadness that made her look curiously
old.

"There isn't anybody ahead of me: so far, so good. Now as to my
chances; of course I realize that I haven't any,--to-day. But
there's to-morrow, Mrs. Richie; and the day after to-morrow.
There's next week, and next year;--and I don't change. Look how
slow I was in finding out that I wanted you; it's taken me all
these years! What a poor, dull fool I am! Well, I know it now;
and you know it; and you don't personally dislike me. So perhaps
some day," his harsh face was suddenly almost beautiful; "some
day you'll be--_my wife!_" he said, under his breath. He had
no idea that he was "talking sentimentalities"; he would have
said he did not know how to be sentimental. But his voice was the
voice of youth and passion.

She shook her head. "No," she said, quietly; "I can't marry you,
Mr. Ferguson."

"But you are generally so reasonable," he protested, astonished
and wistful; "why, it seems to me that you _must_ be
willing--after a while? Here we are, two people getting along in
years, and our children have made a match of it; and we are used
to each other, that's a very important thing in marriage. It's
just plain common sense, after David is on his own legs in the
hospital, for us to join forces. Perhaps in the early summer? I
won't be unreasonably urgent. Surely"--he was gaining confidence
from his own words--"surely you must see how sensible--"

Involuntarily, perhaps through sheer nervousness, she laughed.
"Mrs. Maitland's 'sensible arrangement'? No, Mr. Ferguson; please
let us forget all about this--"

He gave his snort of a laugh. "Forget? Now _that_ isn't
sensible. No, you dear, foolish woman; whatever else we do, we
shall neither of us forget this. This is one of the things a man
and woman don't forget;" in his earnestness he pushed aside the
bowl of violets on the table between them, and caught her hand in
both of his. "I'm going to get you yet," he said, he was as eager
as a boy.

Before she could reply, or even draw back, David opened the
parlor door, and stood aghast on the threshold. It was impossible
to mistake the situation. The moment of sharp withdrawal between
the two on either side of the table announced it, without the
uttering of a word; David caught his breath. Robert Ferguson
could have wrung the intruder's neck, but Mrs. Richie clutched at
her son's presence with a gasp of relief: "Oh--David! I thought
you were next door!"

"I was," David said, briefly; "I came in to get a book for
Elizabeth."

"We were--talking," Mrs. Richie said, trying to laugh. Mr.
Ferguson, standing with his back to the fire, was slowly putting
on his glasses. "But we had finished our discussion," she ended
breathlessly.

"For the moment," Mr. Ferguson said, significantly; and set his
jaw.

"Well, David, have you and Elizabeth decided when she is to come
and see us in Philadelphia?" Mrs. Richie asked, her voice still
trembling.

"She says she'll come East whenever Mr. Ferguson can bring her,"
David said, rummaging among the books on the table. "But it's a
pity to wait as long as that," he added, and the hint in his
words was inescapable.

Robert Ferguson did not take hints. "I think I can manage to come
pretty soon," he retorted.




CHAPTER XIII

When Mr. Ferguson said good night, David, apparently unable to
find the book he had promised to take in to Elizabeth, made no
effort to help his mother in her usual small nightly tasks of
blowing out the lamps, tidying the table, folding up a newspaper
or two. This was not like David, but Mrs. Richie was too absorbed
to notice her son's absorption. Just as she was starting up-
stairs, he burst out: "Materna--"

"Yes? What is it?"

He gave her a keenly searching look; then drew a breath of
relief, and kissed her. "Nothing," he said.

But later, as he lay on his back in bed, his hands clasped behind
his head, his pipe between his teeth, David was distinctly angry.
"Of course she doesn't care a hang for him," he reflected; "I
could see that; but I swear I'll go to Philadelphia right off."
Before he slept he had made up his mind that was the best thing
to do. That old man, gray and granite-faced, and silent, "that
old codger," said the disrespectful cub of twenty-six, "should
take advantage of friendship to be a nuisance,--confound him!"
said David. "The idea of his daring to make love to her! I wanted
to show him the door." As for his mother, even if she didn't
"care a hang," he was half shocked, half hurt; he felt, as all
young creatures do, a curious repulsion at the idea of love-
making between people no longer young. It hurt his delicacy, it
almost hurt his sense of reverence for his mother, to think that
she had been obliged to listen to any words of love. "It's
offensive," he said angrily; "yes; we'll clear out! We'll go to
Philadelphia the first of March, instead of April."

The next morning he suggested his plan to his mother. "Could you
pack up in three weeks, Materna?" he said; "I think I'd like to
get you settled before I go to the hospital." Mrs. Richie's
instant acceptance of the change of date made him more annoyed
than ever. "He has worried her!" he thought angrily; "I wonder
how long this thing has been going on?" But he said nothing to
her. Nor did he mean to explain to Elizabeth just why he must
shorten their last few weeks of being together. It would not be
fair to his mother to explain, he said to himself;--he did not
think of any unfairness to the "old codger." He was, however, a
little uneasy at the prospect of breaking the fact of this
earlier departure to Elizabeth without an explanation. Elizabeth
might be hurt; she might say that he didn't want to stay with
her. "She knows better!" he said to himself, grinning. The honest
truth was, and he faced it with placidity, that if things were
not explained to Elizabeth, she might get huffy,--this was
David's word; but David knew how to check that "huffiness"!

They were to walk together that afternoon, and he manoeuvered for
a few exquisite minutes alone before they went out. At first the
moments were not very exquisite.

"Well! What happened to you last night? I thought you were going
to bring me that book!"

"I couldn't. I had to stay at home."

"Why?"

"Well; Materna wanted me."

Elizabeth murmured a small, cold "Oh." Then she said, "Why didn't
you send the book in by Uncle?"

"I didn't think of it," David said candidly.

Elizabeth's dimple straightened. "It would have been polite to
have sent me a message."

"I took it for granted you'd know I was detained."

"You take too much for--" she began, but before she could utter
the sharp words that trembled on her lips, he caught her in his
arms and kissed her; instantly the little flame of temper was
blown out.

"That's the worst of walking," David said, as she let him draw
her down on the sofa beside him; "I can't kiss you on the
street."

"Heavens, I should hope not!" she said. Then, forgetting what she
thought was his forgetfulness, she relaxed within his arms,
sighing with bliss. "'Oh, isn't it joyful,--joyful,--joyful--'"
she hummed softly. "I do love to have you put your arms around
me, David! Isn't it wonderful to love each other the way we do? I
feel so sorry for other girls, because they aren't engaged to
you; poor things! Do you suppose anybody in the world was ever as
happy as I am?"

"_You?_" said David, scornfully; "you don't count at all,
compared to me!" Then they both laughed for the sheer foolishness
of that "joyfulness," which was so often on Elizabeth's lips. But
David sighed. "Three years is a devilish long time to wait."

"Maybe it will be only two!" she whispered, her soft lips against
his ear. But this was one of David's practical and responsible
moments, so he said grimly, "Not much hope of that."

Elizabeth, agreeing sadly, got up to straighten her hat before
the mirror over the mantelpiece. "It's hideously long. Oh, if I
were only a rich girl!"

"Thank Heaven you are not!" he said, with such sudden cold
incisiveness that she turned round and looked at him. "Do you
think I'd marry a rich woman, and let her support me?"

"I don't see why she shouldn't, if she loved you," Elizabeth said
calmly; "I don't see that it matters which has the money, the man
or the girl."

"I see," David said; "I've always felt that way--even about
mother. Materna has wanted to help me out lots of times, and I
wouldn't let her. I could kick myself now when I think how often
I have to put my hand in her pocket."

"I think," cried Elizabeth, "a man might love a girl enough to
live on her money!"

"I don't," David said, soberly.

"Well," said Elizabeth, "don't worry. I haven't a cent, so you
can't put your hand in my pocket! Come, we must start. I want to
go and see Nannie for a minute, and Cherry-pie says I must be in
before dark, because I have a cold."

"I like sitting here best," David confessed, but pulled himself
up from the sofa, and in another minute Miss White, peering from
an upper window, saw them walking off. "Made for each other!"
said Cherry-pie, nibbling with happiness.

They had almost reached Nannie's before David said that--that he
was afraid he would have to go away a month before he had
planned. When he was most in earnest, his usual brevity of speech
fell into a curtness that might have seemed, to one who did not
know him, indifference. Elizabeth did know him, but even to her
the ensuing explanation, which did not explain, was, through his
very anxiety not to offend her, provokingly laconic.

"But you don't go on duty at the hospital until April," she said
hotly. "Why do you leave Mercer the first of March?"

"Materna wants time to get settled."

"Mrs. Richie told me only yesterday that she was going to a
hotel," Elizabeth said; "she said she wasn't going to look for a
house until the fall, because she will be at the seashore this
summer. It certainly doesn't take a month to find a hotel."

"Well, the fact is, there are reasons why it isn't pleasant for
Materna to be in Mercer just now."

"Not pleasant to be in Mercer! What on earth do you mean?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you. It's her affair."

"Oh, I didn't mean to intrude," Elizabeth said coldly.

"Now, Elizabeth," he protested, "that isn't a nice thing to say."

"Do you think _you've_ been saying nice things? I am
perfectly certain that you would never hesitate to tell your
mother any of my reasons for doing things!"

"Elizabeth, I wouldn't leave Mercer a minute before the first of
April, if I wasn't sure it was best for Materna. You know that."

"Oh, go!" she said; "go, and have all the secrets you want.
_I_ don't care."

"Elizabeth, be reasonable; I--"

But she had left him; they had reached the Maitland house, and,
pushing aside his outstretched hand, she opened the iron gate
herself, slammed it viciously, and ran up the curving steps to
the door. As she waited for Harris to answer her ring, she looked
back: "I think you are reasonable enough for both of us; please
don't let me ever interfere with your plans!" She paused a minute
in the hall, listening for a following step;--it did not come.
"Well, if he's cross he can stay outside!" she told herself, and
burst into the parlor. "Nannie!" she began,--"Oh, I beg your
pardon!" she said. Blair was standing on the hearth-rug, talking
vehemently to his sister; at the sound of the opening door he
wheeled around and saw her, glowing, wounded, and amazingly
handsome. "Elizabeth!" he said, staring at her. And he kept on
staring while they shook hands. They were a handsome pair, the
tall, dark, well-set-up man, and the girl almost as tall as he,
with brown, gilt-flecked hair blowing about a vivid face which
had the color, in the sharp February afternoon, of a blush-rose.

"Where's David?" Nannie said.

[Illustration: 'I THINK YOU ARE REASONABLE ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF
US']

"I left him at the gate. He's coming in in a minute," Elizabeth
said; and turned to Blair: "I didn't know you had come home."

Blair explained that he was only in Mercer for a day. "I'm in a
hole," he said drolly, "and I've come home to have Nannie get me
out."

"Nannie is always ready to get people out of holes;" Elizabeth
said, but her voice was vague. She was listening for David's
step, her cheeks beginning to burn with mortification, at his
delay.

"Where _is_ David?" Nannie demanded, returning from a
fruitless search for him in the hall.

"He's a lucky dog," Blair said, looking at the charming, angry
face with open and friendly admiration.

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know about his luck.
By the way, he is going to Philadelphia the first of March,
Nannie," she said carelessly.

"I thought he didn't have to go until April?" Nannie sympathized.

"So did I. Perhaps he'll tell you why he has changed his mind. He
hasn't deigned to give me his reasons yet."

And Blair, watching her, said to himself, "Same old Elizabeth!"
He began to talk to her in his gay, teasing way, but she was not
listening; suddenly she interrupted him, saying that she must go
home. "I thought David was coming in, but I suppose he's walking
up and down, waiting for me."

"If he doesn't know which side his bread is buttered, I'll walk
home with you," Blair said; "and Nancy dear, while I'm gone, you
see Mother and do your best, won't you?"

"Yes," poor Nannie sighed, "but I do wish--"

Blair did not wait to hear what she wished; he had eyes only for
this self-absorbed young creature who would not listen when he
spoke to her. At the gate she hesitated, looked hurriedly about
her, up and down the squalid street; she did not answer, did not
apparently hear, some question that he asked. Blair glanced up
and down the street, too. "David doesn't appreciate his
opportunities," he said.

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