"WHAT?" he cried. "I believe--You're not CRYING! Well, I'll be hanged! Sis, you ARE a fool!"The weather that morning was fine and clear. James Pearson, standing by the window of his rooms at the boarding house, looking out at the snow-covered roofs sparkling in the sun, was miserable.
When he retired the night before it was with a solemn oath to forget Caroline Warren altogether; to put her and her father and the young cad, her brother, utterly from his mind, never to be thought of again. As a preliminary step in this direction, he began, the moment his head touched the pillow, to review, for the fiftieth time, the humiliating scene in the library, to think of things he should have said, and--worse than all--to recall, word for word, the things she had said to him. In this cheerful occupation he passed hours before falling asleep. And, when he woke, it was to begin all over again.
Why--Why had he been so weak as to yield to Captain Elisha's advice? Why had he not acted like a sensible, self-respecting man, done what he knew was right, and persisted in his refusal to visit the Warrens? Why? Because he was an idiot, of course--a hopeless idiot, who had got exactly what he deserved! Which bit of philosophy did not help make his reflections less bitter.
He went down to breakfast when the bell rang, but his appetite was missing, and he replied only in monosyllables to the remarks addressed to him by his fellow boarders. Mrs. Hepton, the landlady, noticed the change.
"You not ill, Mr. Pearson, I hope?" she queried. "I do hope you haven't got cold, sleeping with your windows wide open, as you say you do. Fresh air is a good thing, in moderation, but one should be careful. Don't you think so, Mr. Carson?"Mr. Carson was a thin little man, a bachelor, who occupied the smallest room on the third story. He was a clerk in a department store, and his board was generally in arrears. Therefore, when Mrs. Hepton expressed an opinion he made it a point to agree with her. In this instance, however, he merely grunted.
"I say fresh air in one's sleeping room is a good thing in moderation. Don't you think so, Mr. Carson?" repeated the landlady.
Mr. Carson rolled up his napkin and inserted it in the ring. His board, as it happened, was paid in full to date. Also, although he had not yet declared his intention, he intended changing lodgings at the end of the week.
"Humph!" he sniffed, with sarca**, "it may be. I couldn't get none in MY room if I wanted it, so I can't say sure. Morning."He departed hurriedly. Mrs. Hepton looked disconcerted. Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles smiled meaningly across the table at Miss Sherborne, who smiled back.
Mr. Ludlow, the bookseller, quietly observed that he hoped Mr.
Pearson had not gotten cold. Colds were prevalent at this time of the year. "'These are the days when the Genius of the weather sits in mournful meditation on the threshold,' as Mr. Dickens tells us,"he added. "I presume he sits on the sills of open windows, also."The wife of the Mr. Dickens there present pricked up her ears.
"When did you write that, 'C.' dear?" she asked, turning to her husband. "I remember it perfectly, of course, but I have forgotten, for the moment, in which of your writings it appears."The illustrious one's mouth being occupied with a section of scorching hot waffle, he was spared the necessity of confession.
"Pardon me," said Mr. Ludlow. "I was not quoting our Mr. Dickens this time, but his famous namesake."The great "C." drowned the waffle with a swallow of water.
"Maria," he snapped, "don't be so foolish. Ludlow quotes from--er--'Bleak House.' I have written some things--er--similar, but not that. Why don't you pass the syrup?"The bookseller, who was under the impression that he had quoted from the "Christmas Carol," merely smiled and remained silent.
"My father, the Senator," began Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles, "was troubled with colds during his political career. I remember his saying that the Senate Chamber at the Capitol was extremely draughty. Possibly Mr. Pearson's ailment does come from sleeping in a draught. Not that father was accustomed to SLEEP during the sessions--Oh, dear, no! not that, of course. How absurd!"She laughed gayly. Pearson, who seemed to think it time to say something, declared that, so far as he knew, he had no cold or any symptoms of one.
"Well," said Mrs. Hepton, with conviction, "something ails you, Iknow. We can all see it; can't we?" turning to the rest of the company. "Why, you've scarcely spoken since you sat down at the table. And you've eaten next to nothing. Perhaps there is some trouble, something on your mind which is worrying you. Oh, I HOPEnot!"
"No doubt it is the preoccupation of genius," remarked Mrs.
Dickens. "I'm sure it must be that. When 'C.' is engaged with some particularly trying literary problem he frequently loses all his appetite and does not speak for hours together. Isn't it so, dear?""C.," who was painfully conscious that he might have made a miscue in the matter of the quotation, answered sharply.
"No," he said. "Not at all. Don't be silly, Maria."Miss Sherborne clasped her hands. "_I_ know!" she exclaimed in mock rapture; "Mr. Pearson is in love!"This suggestion was received with applause and hilarity. Pearson pushed back his chair and rose.
"I'm much obliged for this outburst of sympathy," he observed, dryly. "But, as I say, I'm perfectly well, and the other diagnoses are too flattering to be true. Good morning."Back in his room he seated himself at his desk, took the manuscript of his novel from the drawer, and sat moodily staring at it. He was in no mood for work. The very sight of the typewritten page disgusted him. As he now felt, the months spent on the story were time wasted. It was ridiculous for him to attempt such a thing; or to believe that he could carry it through successfully; or to dream that he would ever be anything better than a literary hack, a cheap edition of "C." Dickens, minus the latter's colossal self-satisfaction.
