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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
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George Cowan, a young doctor recently returned from a sea voyage, visits his wealthy great-aunt, Mrs. Waring, in her austere brownstone house. He feels out of place in her cold, distrustful environment. While waiting, he witnesses a young woman—whom he assumes is a relative named Caroline—descending the stairs in tears after being harshly dismissed by Mrs. Waring for asking for financial help. Mrs. Waring reveals that she has disinherited Caroline and intends to leave her entire fortune to George simply because he never asked her for money. George is disturbed by her cruelty and feels guilty for not helping the girl he saw. After leaving, he becomes increasingly preoccupied with her—imagining her troubles, her dignity, and her loneliness—and decides to help her regain her standing with Mrs. Waring....
COWAN turned the corner into the familiar street and saw before him the old brownstone house, in no way different from its neighbors, yet, to him. with a life of its own. He mounted the steps with his usual reluctance; since childhood he had felt abashed when he rang this bell, knowing that the sound broke into an austere old drowsiness.
The windows were all closed this cool October day, so that not a curtain stirred; the fresh wind blew over it, the sun shone down on it, there were people passing along the quiet street, but all this warmth and movement were shut out. He sighed and waited patiently, unwilling to ring again.
Presently the door was opened by old Ellen.
"Good afternoon. Mr. George," she said, without interest. "Step in and I'll tell Mrs. Waring you're here."
Nobody here was glad to see him. It was nearly a year since he had crossed this threshold, and nobody missed him. Once again he entered the drawing room, feeling singularly out of place in that frosty elegance; he was an impertinence there with his warm blood and his strong beating heart and his young vigor.
The last year had been spent in places which seemed incredible in this room; he had gone as a ship's doctor on a cargo boat; he had seen the tropic islands that had haunted his boyhood dreams; he had known gales, breathless heat, rain like the deluge, was browned by sun and salt water; he had changed so much, learned so much. But that did not matter here; he and his affairs were of no importance whatever. He was nothing but Mrs. Waring's great-nephew, come to pay his respects.
She was making him wait long enough. But that was natural; she was no more anxious to see him than he was to come. It was a simple matter of duty. Years ago his parents had inculcated that idea, had told him he must not "neglect poor old Aunt Eliza." So here he was, and he had to wait.
The stillness of the house disconcerted him today. It seemed unnatural. Even the clock on the mantelpiece had stopped; it was as if everything were waiting.... He grew restless and walked about the room, a stalwart, serious young man with an engaging, boyish face. He picked up a little vase, and hastily put it down again, as it he were still a boy and must not meddle—then, with no prelude, he heard a voice, a girl's voice, young and vehement and unsteady.
"All right! If you won't—"
An indistinguishable murmur replied.
"All right!" said the young voice again. "But I think you're very unkind—and unfair."
He was extraordinarily moved by that unhappy voice. Going to the doorway, he looked out into the dim hall and he saw her coming down the stairs, a slender girl, very straight and proud, in a dark hat turned up on one side, like a youthful admiral, and a dark suit, with a pale, angry face—the loveliest face....
She saw him and paused; her gray eyes brimming with tears, met his steadily. Then she came on down the stairs and passed him on the way to the front door. He leaped forward to open the door for her.
"I—" he began, and could not find another word.
She glanced at him sidelong, and suddenly she smiled, a wide, friendly, adorable smile.
"Thanks!" she said, and ran down the steps.
He watched her until she turned the corner, then he closed the door and returned to the drawing room in a daze. It seemed Impossible that she had gone before they had even talked to each other; he felt desolate, as if he had suffered an irrevocable loss.
"Why didn't I speak to her?" he asked himself. "Why did I let her go like that? She was—"
Now he heard a paper-like rustle, and he sat down again in a sort of panic. It was the old lady who had driven away that girl in tears.
"Good day, George!" she said.
"Good day, Aunt Eliza!" he said, rising again. "I hope you're quite well."
"Well enough!" she answered. "Sit down!"
She took a chair near the door, as if she felt safer there. Distrust, that was the keynote of her nature, an unhappy distrust that seemed to chill the air about her. Beneath her fringe of gray hair her pale eyes watched him, suspiciously; she did not like him. he felt sure of that.
As for him, it had never before occurred to him either to like or not like her. She had been, to him, simply a venerable family idol, not human. Only today, seeing her as a human being who had made that girl cry, he felt hostile.
"The weather's turning cool," he remarked.
"Yes," said she. "And that means buying coal."
"A house like this must take a lot of heating," he said, still polite.
She gave a short little laugh which disconcerted him.
"A big house...." she said. "And people think I'm made of money."
He reddened a little. He had certainly never asked for anything from her.
"I'm sure—" he began.
"You're all of you 'sure'," she interrupted. "Well, you needn't be! I'm not made of money! No! That Caroline... No decency... Coming here and begging me... No decency!" She paused, and he noticed that her hands, clasped in her lap, were trembling. "That Caroline! She came here today, begging and crying, and telling me all her troubles "
Cowan sat very still, looking down at the carpet. That had been Caroline then, crying, and sent away empty-handed.
"Is she—a relative?" he asked.
Again the old lady gave that short little laugh.
"I never see any one but relatives." she said. "Especially the poor ones. Yes, she's your second cousin William's daughter. She ran off and married a worthless man. He died and left her without a penny, and now she wants me to help her out of her troubles. Every fool and knave in the family comes to me—always to me! And my money's to set everything right. I'm sick and tired of it!"
Cowan felt a profound shock of disappointment. A widow. He didn't want that girl to be a widow. Then he recalled her face, her steady gray eyes, filled with tears, and he was ashamed of himself.
"Married a worthless man," he thought. "And she's not much more than a kid even now. It's a damned shame!"
He took pains to avoid looking at the ancestral idol. He had heard years ago that she was ungenerous and unkind, but it had made no impression upon him, because he had never wanted anything from her. But now, when he thought of Caroline...
"Sick and tired of it!" repeated the old lady. "I told her—I said, 'Caroline Morris, you'll never have a penny from me!' Never! She was nearest of kin. If she'd behaved herself, she'd have had it all. But after today—Wanted money to start some sort of shop. A fine shop she'd make of It! No! Everything's to go to you, George."
"To me?" he cried.
"Every penny! You'll be a rich man, George."
It was plain enough, though, that what pleased her was not the thought of his being rich, but of Caroline being poor. She was old and frail, but she had the power to exalt or to cast down, and that power was dear as life to her.
"To me?" he repeated. "But I never expected—"
"I don't know what you expected," said she. "Anyhow, you're the only one who never came asking for anything. The only one!"
"But I don't want—everything," he said. "I mean—If you'd divide It "
She rose, and he saw that she was trembling from head to loot. What she had offered him was all she had, it was her dignity, her value In the world, that money of hers. And he "didn't want it—"
"You're a young fool!" she said. "You don#t know what you're talking about."
It occurred to him that perhaps she was right, that he was committing an enormous folly, without considering, without realizing what he was doing. But he could hot, to save his life, care very much.
"I'm sorry," he said, stiffly, "I don't mean to seem ungrateful "
"Go away!" said the old lady in a rage.
His own temper was rising. "I said I was sorry—" he began.
"Go away!" she repeated, pointing to the door. "And don't you come bade here, George Cowan, until you've learned how to behave yourself!"
"Just as you please!" he said, curtly. "Goodbye!"
AS he went into the hall he found old Ellen there. He passed her with a nod, but, to his surprise, she came out with him, closing the door behind them.
"A nice state of affairs!" she said. "As if poor Mrs. Waring didn't have troubles enough without you coming and acting like this!"
"And what the devil did I do, anyhow?" he demanded, angrily. "To be ordered out of the house "
But looking at the old creature before him, his anger vanished. The fresh wind was stirring her white hair; she looked so small, so forlorn.
"Well—" he began, good-humoredly.
"Mr. George!" she said, solemnly, "I'll tell you what it is. She's getting lonely!"
"I don't wonder!" said Cowan.
"She never used to feel it," the old servant went on. "But now she had this little plan. She wanted to go to Atlantic City, for the change, and she was going to take Mrs. Morris with her. And then Mrs. Morris—disappointed her."
"You mean she refused to go?"
"Not she!" said old Ellen. "She never got the chance! As soon as she began asking for money Mrs. Waring sent her away. 'That's all they come here for, Ellen.' she said to me. There isn't one of them ever comes here to talk to me—like a human being.'"
He was astonished to see tears glittering in the dim old eyes.
"Crying — over Aunt Eliza!" he thought.
"She needs somebody now," the old woman went on. "What she needs is human kindness. Just you remember that, Mr. George!"
"All right! I will!" he assured her, politely, and ran down the steps.
BUT it was difficult to think of the old lady as a human being, difficult to think of her at all. Her money was something he had never seen, never desired; he had always imagined dozens of other unknown relatives who would get it. He had made his plans with no more reference to the old lady's money than to the chance of finding buried treasure. Now that he was back from that voyage he meant to begin to work in earnest. He had already signed a lease for a little office in an uptown street, he had already bought his sign—George Cowan, M.D. —and he expected a superb future. He didn't need her money.
"But Caroline!" he thought. "She ought to have it!"
The thought of her caused in him a queer feeling of guilt, as if in some way he had failed her.
"Why didn't I speak to her?" he asked himself again. "I saw something, was wrong—she'd been crying. It would have been only common decency to ask if I could do anything."
He went uptown to look at that office, which was being painted and decorated to suit him. He was in the habit of stopping in there every day since he bad got back, to see how things were getting on, and on all previous occasions he had been charmed with the place. But when he got there this afternoon the sun was gone, the sky was overcast, the place seemed to him paltry. He felt strangely depressed.
"Just another doctor, that's all," he thought, standing in the square little box that was going to be his waiting room. In the street outside people were passing continually, and never one face familiar to him. His parents had died long ago; he had no one now. Friends, of course, but no one to whom he was necessary, vitally important.
He thought again of that Caroline, with her pale, angry face and her gray eyes.
"I've never met a girl like that," he thought.
All the other girls he had met in his life seemed to him now like phantoms; only her face was vivid, unforgettable. And he had let her go, in all her trouble; she had looked at him, straight in the face, as if she had expected something of him.
He left the little office and began to walk at random, still haunted by that sense of guilt, of urgent words unspoken. And quite suddenly an idea came to him. a plan. He remembered what old Ellen had said. And it seemed to him that if Caroline were to go back to the old lady now and approach her in the right way, she might win back her lost advantage.
He went into a drug store and consulted a telephone directory. And he found her name, a lovely name—Caroline Morris. But it was hard to go on, harder than he had imagined; a queer, absurd shyness took possession of him: his hand shook as he took down the receiver in the booth.
"But If I can help her." he thought.
He heard a voice, delicate and remote.
"Yes?"
"This is George Cowan." he said.
"Oh! George Cowan," the voice repeated. "How nice!"
"Is—is this Mrs. Morris?"
"Caroline!" she corrected. "We're cousins of some sort, you know."
Her gay friendliness enchanted him.
"I know," he said. "And I'd like to give you—some advice. Please don't think I'm meddlesome. Only—If I were you, I'd go back to see Aunt Eliza at once. I have a good reason... If you'll see her... It's rather hard to express what I mean... But if you'll be—well, rather friendly to her—don't mention anything that— that's likely to upset her. You understand?"
"Yes, but I don't see—"
"I think," he said, "I'm pretty sure, that this is the psychological moment for—a little tact. She's lonely—"
"But, George, she told me today that you were the one—"
"Well, she's angry at me now. And if you go—strike while the iron is hot—I think you'll be able—"
"But why are you doing this?" she cried.
"Because," he said, "you see, it doesn't really matter to me. And I'd like you—to get—anything there is."
"You mean you're giving up your chance to me?" she said. "Oh. I never, never in my life heard of anything so kind and so dear. I—think I'm crying, George!"
He could not speak for a moment.
"You'll go, won't you?" he asked, a little unsteadily.
"I'd like to go. Just to tell her about you!"
"Oh, no!" he protested anxiously. "That would spoil the whole thing. No! Just go as if you wanted to, and —well, you'll know what to say. After all, she's old. Lonely. You'll know."
There was a pause.
"I want to see you, George," she said. "I can't very well ask you here—"
"Will you have dinner with me?" he asked. "After you've seen her? I know a little place—"
"I'd love to," she said. "Where shall I meet you?"
He considered a few momenta,
"Suppose I meet you outside her house?" he said. "At six. It's half past four now. If you get there at five, that'll give you an hour "
"But suppose I don't get there at five? Or suppose she wants me to stay longer? You'd have to wait—"
"I don't care how long I wait," he said.
He hung up the receiver and left the booth, in a daze.
"She knew!" he thought. "When we met, just for that moment, she knew—like I did—that we'd meet again. Her voice—the way she called me George. As if we'd always known each other."
He had in his notebook the address of a restaurant he had found on 8th avenue. He had gone there once, and he had taken a fancy to the place, so cozy with fresh curtains at the windows and paper flowers on the tables and an air of modest cheerfulness. He had had an excellent meal there and the proprietress had understood even his painstaking French. So he had written down the name, under the address of another restaurant he had discovered in Marseilles.
"I'll take her there," he thought.
They would sit at a table there together and he would look into her eyes.
"I love that girl," he cried to himself. "I loved her the moment I saw her!"
Like a man in a dream, he went back to his boarding house, to get ready for that dinner.
"She likes me, anyhow," he thought. "She was so friendly. She—well, Isn't it possible that she—feels like I do? Things like that happen. I've read about it. Two people meet... I mean—well, it's destiny "
Then, when he began to shave, a new Idea came to him. If she were to be reinstated as Aunt Eliza's heiress, how could he ask her to marry him?
He was appalled.
"I've been a fool!" he thought. "If I'd got the money I could have given it to her. Now what have I got to offer her? Only a bare living. I couldn't ask an heiress to marry me."
For a moment he was in misery. Then he recalled her voice, the things she had said, and happiness came back to him.
"There's no reason to think that I won't be successful in my profession," he thought. "I know I will be! Aunt Eliza may live another ten years, and by that time I mean to amount to something. Caroline hasn't anything now. I could offer her a home, at least."
He put on his best dark blue serge suit and a new necktie, and lighting his pipe sat down to wait until it was time to go.
"I have enough money to carry on for a year—even two—if I don't get any patients at all—and that's unthinkable," he reflected. "We could Uke a flat In the same building as my office "
He rebuked himself for taking so much for granted, again he called himself a fool. But in vain. A warm, beautiful happiness enveloped him: he could not seriously entertain any doubt.
"But what luck!" he said to himself in wonder. "What marvelous luck, that I should Just have happened to go there today, and meet her!"
He did not really believe it was luck at all. It was destiny.
AT half past five he put on his overcoat and hat and went out. A faint, chill drizzle of rain was falling. Very well! The little restaurant would be all the cozier. He was going to get a taxi for Caroline, but for himself, he liked this weather. He took the subway, got out at the proper station, and walked, in a hurry, toward the familiar street. He was well ahead of time, but who could tell what had happened? Perhaps the whole plan had failed. Perhaps Aunt Eliza had refused to see Caroline
"Why didn't. I think of that?" he asked himself, dismayed. "She couldn't wait for me in the street—in the rain."
He began to feel sure that this had happened, and that Caroline had had to go home. He had known all the time that that dinner together was too good to be true. They would not meet tonight; perhaps he would never see her again. A girl like that—there were sure to be other men in love with her. She had seen him once, only for a moment; she would forget him—.
Then he saw her, not leaving the house, but coming toward it. She was crossing the street, carrying an umbrella in a very silly sort of way, behind her shoulders, so that the rain ran off it on her shoulders. The street lamp shone on her face, her pale young face with those gray eyes he would never forget. She was really coming, with her free and limber step, indifferent to the rain and the mud, such a valiant little adventurer.
He hurried forward to meet her, and she recognized him with a startled smile.
"I was so afraid you wouldn't come!" he said.
"What!" she said, with a sort of severity. "Why should you think I was coming at all?"
"Why, because you said you'd meet me!" he answered, surprised.
"I said I'd meet you?" she cried. "I've never spoken to you in my life!"
He was thunderstruck. He stood staring at her, his face grown quite white.
"I'm sorry," said she. "I didn't mean to be rude to you. There must be some mistake."
"But—aren't you Caroline?" he asked.
"No," she said, "my name's Nora. Nora James. What made you think—?"
"Oh, Lord!" said Cowan.
"Do tell me what's the matter!" she entreated.
"I suppose you don't even remember me—" he said.
"Oh, yes I do!" she assured him. And he was amazed, delighted, to see the color rise in her cheeks.
"You do?" he said. "Are you—a relative?"
She shook her head.
"I was Just Mrs. Waring's companion," she said. "But today—" she paused. "I got the gate," she said.
Nothing could have pleased him more than that phrase, spoken in her clear, well bred voice. It was somehow so young: the old house behind them, all that dim old world, receded into nothingness. The rain pelted down on his uncovered head, but he didn't mind that.
"I'm awfully sorry now," she said. "I asked her for a week's salary In advance, because I—well, I wanted it. I might have known it would have upset her. She couldn't help being—queer about money. She's never been poor, and she doesn't understand."
All his heart responded to her careless frankness, her lovely kindness.
"I came back to get my gloves," she said. "Isn't it strange that we just happened to meet again—like this?"
"No," he said. "I think it—had to be this way."
Again he saw her color mount.
"Well." she said, "I guess I'd better—"
"Don't go away!" he cried. "I've—You can't imagine what an idiotic mistake I've made! You see, my aunt was talking about 'Caroline,' and I thought it was you."
"She must have meant Mrs. Morris."
"She did! But I thought you were Mrs. Morris. And you see. I had rather a row with my aunt—about her will, and I thought it would be a good chance for you—when I thought you were Caroline, you know—to go and make her peace with the old lady. So I telephoned to you—to her, and advised her to go, and I asked you to dinner. It was you I wanted to ask. Won't you come to dinner with me?"
"Yes, thanks," she said, promptly.
He took the umbrella from her. and held it carefully over her head, shortened his stride to suit her step.
"When you—saw me this afternoon," he asked, "did you—I mean—did it make any impression on you?"
"I thought you looked rather nice," she said, with restraint. Then, impulsively, she added, "And now I know you're nice! To do a thing like that for poor Mrs. Morris."
"It wasn't for Mrs. Morris," he said. "It was meant to be for you."
They went on in silence for a moment.
"You know," she said, "for you to just happen to come now—when I was so worried and miserable. It's—"
"It's destiny." he assured her. "I knew I'd see you again."
Suddenly she clutched his sleeve. "But what were you doing there?" she cried. "Weren't you waiting?"
"I was!" he said, horrified. "I was waiting for Caroline!"
"Then you've got to go back."
"Well, I won't!' he said flatly. "I'm not going to leave you now."
"I'll meet you another time "
"No!" he said.
"Oh, dear!" she cried. "How obstinate you are!" But his obstinacy evidently did not displease her. "Well," she said, "shall I come with you and Caroline?"
He agreed to that and they turned back.
They had scarcely reached the corner when the door of the old house opened and a lady came out. For a moment she was clearly visible in the light from the hall behind her, a plump, fair-haired little person, modishly dressed. As she came down the steps Cowan advanced to meet her, but she did not recognize him.
"I'm George Cowan," he said.
She kissed him on the cheek and began to weep.
"I shall never forget this, my dear boy!" she said. "I've had the most beautiful talk with Aunt Eliza! So touching! She wants me to go to Atlantic City with her next week."
She dried her eyes with a small handkerchief.
"I haven't seen you since you were a little boy in a sailor suit." she said. "And to think of your doing this for me!"
She began to cry again a little. "I'm afraid you don't realize what a great sacrifice you've made, my dear boy! Aunt Eliza was expecting you to come back. I think it was really you she wanted. But, as you say. the poor soul really was lonely, and when it was I who came—George! Is that some one with you?"
"It's Miss James," he said, turning to look at the girl, who stood waiting on the corner. And he forgot to look away again.
"Then," said Caroline, "if you can possibly get me a taxi, my dear boy—"
"But you've promised to dine with me!" he said, smiling.
"But in the circumstances?" said she, archly.
"Please!" he said. "I want to celebrate. This Is my lucky day."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.