The whole thing went down, smack, like a house of cards. She could hardly bring herself to shake hands with him, or look at him—she suddenly wanted to cry. She rushed into Emma’s room and stayed there on the bed for an hour, crying—Emma kept running in and saying for God’s sake pull yourself together, at least go out and talk to him for a while, he’s hurt, you can’t treat him like this; the poor man doesn’t know whether he’s going or coming; come on now, Gladys, and be a good sport. He’s sitting on the sofa in there with his head down like a horse, not knowing what to say; you simply can’t treat him like that. The least you can do is go out and tell him you’re sorry and that it was a mistake, and that he’d better not stay, or take him round to your apartment and talk it over with him quietly and then send him back to Boston. Come on now.
But of course she couldn’t do it—she couldn’t even go with him to the station. Emma went with him, and told him on the platform while they were waiting for the train that it was no use, it had all been a terrible mistake, and she was sorry, they were both sorry, Gladys sent word that she was very sorry. And afterwards, she had said it was so pathetic seeing him with his brand-new suitcase there beside him on the platform, his suitcase which he hadn’t even opened, just taking it back to Boston where he came from.… When the train finally came, he almost forgot his suitcase; she thought he would have liked to leave it behind.
The towel-supply man came running back with a basket, flung it into the wagon, banged the dripping doors shut, and then jumped nimbly up to his seat, unhooking the reins. Automatically, but as if still deep in thought, the horse leaned slowly forward, lowered his head a little, and began to move. A long day was still ahead of him, a day of crowded and noisy streets, streets full of surprises and terrors and rain, muddy uneven cobbles and greasy smooth asphalt. The wagon and the man would be always there behind him; an incalculable sequence of accidents and adventures was before him. What did he think about, as he plodded from one dirty restaurant to another, one hotel to another, carrying towels? Probably nothing at all; certainly no such sentimental thing as a green meadow, nor anything so ridiculous as a story about living and breathing. It was enough, even if one was a slave, to live and breathe. For life, after all, isn’t a short story.
THE NIGHT BEFORE PROHIBITION
When Walter Coolidge Swift woke up in his room at the Adams House he could see at once from the darkness of the morning that it was snowing, or about to snow. Turning over in bed, he saw the large flakes gliding down against the sooty wall of the court, outside the window, far apart and peaceful and leisurely; and immediately a sensation of relaxation and luxury overcame him. He smiled, clasped his hands under his head, half closed his eyes, and gave himself up to reminiscence. It was odd, the way this always happened—not the snow, of course, but the way that every time he came to the Adams House, on his semi-annual visits from New Hampshire, this same mood arose in him. No sooner would he be awake, in the morning, than he would begin thinking about the good old days when he lived in Boston—about the bars he had loved—Frank Locke’s, the Holland House, Jacot’s, the Nip, the Bell-in-Hand—about the theaters, the burlesque shows, the prize-fights, the ball-games—and then at the end, always, he would think, and most of all, about Eunice. Why was it that this never happened to him at home? He supposed it must be because he was always busy—busy at the office, busy with his wife, Daisy, and the children, busy at the Club. There was never any time for sentimental reminiscences. And besides, he had really settled down when they moved to Nashua—all that gay life had stopped as suddenly as if it had been cut off with a knife. With no theaters to speak of, no bars at all, and no boon companions, he had found himself with no longer much motive for dissipation, and in the twinkling of an eye his whole mode of life had changed.
Natural enough, no doubt—natural enough; but just as natural, too, when he came to Boston, to think delightedly of that other life, eight years ago, and all its pleasures. The old crowd was gone. Scarcely a soul was left that he knew, or much wanted to see: even the newspapers had changed. And the old Record office, that battered disorderly firetrap, where he had spent so many free hours, and helped Mike at midnight with his reviews of the latest musical comedy—that too was vanished, and with it every man and woman whom he had known there. The Negress elevator girl with red hair—Bill Farley, the sports writer, who had spanked the Follies girl in the lobby of the Lenox, and who had later died of consumption—the Virgin Queen, with the enormous breasts, who had edited the household page—where were they now? Where was gallant little Mary, who nightly picked her husband, Hal, out of the gutter beside Frank Locke’s, and did his work for him in addition to her own? Nice people, nice people, and quite possibly dead.… And where, above all, was Eunice?
It still struck him as odd that he had made so little effort to keep in touch with her. Of course, he had fallen in love with Daisy, and then he had moved away—but even so, it had shown little foresight, and little knowledge of human nature or of himself. He might have known that he would eventually want to see her again—even if he couldn’t have known that he was more than half in love with her. That was almost the strangest part of it: that he could have lived with her for three years without realizing the depth and beauty of their feeling for each other. Somehow, the affair had just seemed gay, and good; its note had been one of light-heartedness; the evenings had come and gone as so much mere amusement. It seemed to him that they had always been laughing—yes, from the very beginning, from the first moment of their meeting, when, in the Park Street Subway, reaching hastily for a strap, he had by accident taken her hand firmly and completely in his own. That had made her laugh—he had heard her laugh before he had heard her speak. She hadn’t moved her hand from the strap, which she had held before him—she had merely turned and laughed, looking up at him with astonished amusement. And then, before he had been able to pull himself together, she had said, “My goodness—! You surprised me.” He remembered vividly, still, how she had blushed, and with what enormous courage he had left his hand where it was.… And after that they had gone—where was it?—to a dirty Chinese restaurant, for tea. And then had had dinner together, at the Avery. She had explained how it happened—she would never have done such a thing if she hadn’t had three cocktails at lunch. Never. And they mustn’t, of course, meet again—she would walk with him along the Esplanade, he could see her to her door in Newbury Street, where she lived in a nurses’ home, and that would be the end. The end! It had been the beginning of the happiest three years of his life, and perhaps of hers. They had dawdled and argued along the Esplanade—it was a fragrant night in June—sat on one bench after another, as he persuaded her to delay, and hadn’t reached her door till midnight. What a torrent of farcical nonsense they had talked! And now he couldn’t recall a single word of it—not a single word. Nothing but the sound of her voice, the sound of her laugh.