Marion9.xml

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<?xml-model href="../sch/wea.rng" type="application/xml" schematypens="http://relaxng.org/ns/structure/1.0"?>
<?xml-model href="../sch/wea.rng" type="application/xml" schematypens="http://purl.oclc.org/dsdl/schematron"?>
<TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0" xml:id="Marion9">
   <teiHeader>
      <fileDesc>
         <titleStmt>
            <title>Marion (Part 8)</title>
            <title type="sub">The Story of an Artist’s Model</title>
            <respStmt>
               <resp>Transcriber</resp>
               <name ref="pers:LW1">Leean Wu</name>
            </respStmt>
            <respStmt>
               <resp>Encoder</resp>
               <name ref="pers:LW1">Leean Wu</name>
            </respStmt>
            <respStmt>
               <resp>Proofreader</resp>
               <name ref="pers:LW1">Leean Wu</name>
            </respStmt>
         </titleStmt>
         <publicationStmt>
            <p>Publication Information</p>
         </publicationStmt>
         <sourceDesc>
            <msDesc>
               <msContents>
                  <msItem>
                     <bibl xml:id="bibl81"><author><name ref="pers:WE1">Herself and the author of
                                 <title level="m">Me</title></name></author>. <title level="m"
                           >Marion: The Story of an Artist’s Model [Part 8]</title>. Illustrated by
                           <author role="illustrator"><name ref="pers:HH1">Henry
                           Hutt</name></author>. <publisher ref="org:Hearsts"><title level="j"
                              >Hearst’s International</title></publisher>, <date when="1916-11">Nov.
                           1916</date>, vol. <biblScope unit="volume">30</biblScope>, no. <biblScope
                           unit="issue">5</biblScope>, pp. <biblScope unit="page">329-330,
                           338-339</biblScope>.</bibl>
                  </msItem>
               </msContents>
               <additional>
                  <adminInfo>
                     <availability>
                        <p>Facsimile retrieved from HathiTrust: <ref
                              target="https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000542803"
                              >https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000542803</ref>.</p>
                     </availability>
                  </adminInfo>
                  <surrogates>
                     <!--Add other editions of this text using a bibl element with a target pointing to its bibl-->
                     <!--
                        <bibl target="bibl:ABCD1"/>
                        <bibl><distributor/>, <idno/></bibl>
                     -->
                  </surrogates>
               </additional>
            </msDesc>
         </sourceDesc>
      </fileDesc>
      <profileDesc>
         <textClass>
            <catRef scheme="wdt:genre" target="wdt:genreNovelSerial"/>
            <catRef scheme="wdt:exhibit" target="wdt:NewYork"/>
            <catRef scheme="wdt:docType" target="wdt:docPrimarySourcePublished"/>
         </textClass>
      </profileDesc>
      <revisionDesc status="published">
         <change who="pers:JT1" when="2023-11-23" status="published">Added citation from
            bibliography.xml to <gi>sourceDesc</gi> using utilities/msdesc.xsl.</change>
         <change who="pers:LW1" when="2022-08-29" status="published">Proofed.</change>
         <change who="pers:SL1" when="2022-07-16" status="published">Proofed and set to
            published.</change>
         <change who="pers:LW1" when="2022-06-01" status="readyForProof">Encoded everything. Set to
            readyForProof</change>
         <change who="pers:LW1" when="2022-06-01" status="inProgress">Downloaded document from
            Google Drive and converted to TEI.</change>
         <change who="pers:JT1" when="2020-08-15" status="empty">Removed primary source people from
               <gi>respStmt</gi> using XSLT.</change>
         <change who="pers:SL1" status="empty" when="2019-07-04">Added facs and readied for
            proof.</change>
         <change who="pers:JT1" status="empty" when="2019-04-11">Created file from bibliography
            entry bibl81 using XSLT.</change>
      </revisionDesc>
   </teiHeader>
   <text facs="facs:Marion8" prev="doc:Marion8">
      <pb n="329"/>
      <body>
         <head>Marion: The Story of an Artist’s Model</head>
         <opener>
            <byline>By <name ref="pers:WE1">The Author of <q>Me</q></name></byline>
            <byline>Illustrated by <name ref="pers:HH1">Henry Hutt</name></byline>
         </opener>
         <div type="content">
            <milestone unit="sectionBreak"/>
            <div>
               <div type="paratext">
                  <p>Synopsis: Here we have the story, told at first-hand, of Marion Ascough, sister
                     of <q>Me</q>, a girl destined to eventually travel far—Montreal, Boston, New
                     York, and even to <q>Bohemia</q>, accumulating experiences by the way—clinging
                     to the highest ideals, as artist, model, friend of painters, and finally the
                     wife of an artist. She was born in the queer little French-Canadian village of
                     Hochelaga, a suburb of Montreal; her father was an English painter, her mother
                     a Frenchwoman. Here Monsieur de St. Vidal proposed to her in the snow, and she
                     ran home. Then she had a bent for the stage and made a hit in amateur
                     theatricals. Along came Mr. Reggie Bertie—call him Bartie, so English you
                     know—remittance-man, who is studying for the bar. It was a case of love at
                     first sight between handsome Reggie and pretty Marion Ascough. He took her to
                     the ice carnival and when he should have been watching the procession he was
                     looking down at her. Later, he refuses to take her into a flashy all-night
                     restaurant because Marion is <q>too nice and too sweet</q>. Very soon they
                      become engaged, but while Bertie is an ardent wooer he does not want the
                     marriage to take place; he’s afraid of <q>the governor</q> of England, so poor
                     Marion is in for a long wait, during which she must be self-supporting at
                     painting and other art work, besides helping at home. Then she hires a little
                     studio of her own—Reggie pays for it—in Montreal; Reggie still procrastinates.
                     At last she tells him that he has no right to monopolize her time and her
                     society unless he intends to fulfill his promise,—particularly as he objects to
                     her seeing any other men. She goes to Boston and there becomes a full-fledged
                     model, with some weird experiences and cruel privations. Then she falls ill.
                     Later she settles in New York and meets her fate.</p>
               </div>
               <milestone unit="sectionBreak"/>
            </div>
            <div>
               <p>I was helping Menna one day. He had been very busy, and I had been working for him
                  both mornings and afternoons. He had told me, however, that soon he expected to
                     <q>pick up and go West</q>, and I was troubled about that. I depended upon
                  Menna for most of my work, and we got along splendidly together. As I have said,
                  Menna had always treated me just like a <q>fellow</q>, as he would call it.</p>
               <p>There was a knock at the door, and in came Paul Bonnat. After nodding to Menna, he
                  strolled over to where I was working and stood at the back of me watching me
                  paint.</p>
               <p><q>She’s quite a painter</q>, he said after a moment to Menna, who looked up and
                  nodded, and said:</p>
               <p><q>Yes, she does quite O.K</q>.</p>
               <p>After a while Menna turned around his stool and asked:</p>
               <p><q>Got anything on to-night, Bonnat?</q></p>
               <p><q>No—nothing particular</q>.</p>
               <p><q>Well, a lady friend of mine is coming in from Staten Island, and I promised to
                     take her somewhere to supper and see the town. Can’t you and Miss Ascough join
                     us?</q></p>
               <p>Bonnat beamed, just as if Menna had handed him a gift, and he said:</p>
               <p><q>Sure, if Miss Ascough will go with me</q>.</p>
               <p>I said that I would. I think I would have gone with him anywhere he had asked me
                  to.</p>
               <p><q>Meet us here at seven, then</q>, said Menna, returning to his work.</p>
               <p><q>All right. Good-by</q>. Bonnat went out slamming the door noisily behind him.
                  We could hear him singing the <emph>Preislied</emph> from <q>Die Meistersinger</q>
                  as he went up the stairs. He had a big, wonderful baritone voice. We stopped
                  painting to listen to him, but when I turned to resume my work, I found Menna
                  watching me. He said:</p>
               <p><q>You and Bonnat are getting pretty friendly, eh?</q></p>
               <p>I felt myself color warmly, but I tried to laugh, and said:</p>
               <p><q>Oh, no more than I am with any of the other boys</q>.</p>
               <p>Menna had his thumb through his palette, and he stared at me hard. Then he said
                  quite suddenly:</p>
               <p><q>Gee! What a fool I was to let him get ahead of me</q>.</p>
               <p>He set down his palette, and came over to my stool:</p>
               <p><q>Say, Marion</q> (he had never called me Marion before), <q>you and I would make
                     a corking good team. Suppose we pair off together to-night, and we’ll put Miss
                     Fleming on to Bonnat? What do you say?</q></p>
               <p><q>Mr. Menna, you had better stick to your own girl</q>, I said, feeling uneasy.
                  Menna continued to stare down at me, and as he said nothing to that, I added:</p>
               <p><q>You know you and I are just partners in our work, and don’t let’s fool. It’ll
                     spoil everything</q>.</p>
               <p><q>Oh, all right</q>, said he. <q>I don’t have to get down on my knees to you or
                     any other girl</q>.</p>
               <p>He had never spoken to me like that before. Until this day, he had never asked me
                  to go anywhere with him, nor tried to see me after work hours; I did not suppose
                  he was the least bit interested in me, and I imagine he was quite settled with his
                  own sweetheart. I was so glad when Miss Fleming knocked on the door.</p>
               <p>That evening we all went to Stuttgart Hall. It was one of the oldest places in New
                  York, and was interesting because of the class of people who patronized the place
                  and its resemblance to the German gardens, which it was in fact itself. There were
                  German ornaments, and steins all around the place on a high shelf. There was an
                  excellent orchestra, which played good selections, and Bonnat hummed when they
                  played some of his favorites. Menna and Bonnat seemed to differ on almost every
                  subject, and Menna seemed in a savagely contrary mood that night.</p>
               <p>Bonnat would explain his point of view about something, and Menna would say
                  irritably:</p>
               <p><q>Yes, yes, but what’s the use?</q></p>
               <p>Bonnat said that a man should show in his work the human mood, and that a picture
                  should mean something more than a pretty melody of colors. Menna interrupted him
                  with:</p>
               <p><q>What the use, so long as we get good Pilsener beer</q>.</p>
               <p>Paul laughed at that, and called to a waiter to bring some more Pilsener for Menna
                  right away. After the dinner was over, Mr. Menna took Miss Fleming home, and Paul
                  and I walked across on Fourteenth Street, stopping to look in the windows, and to
                  glance at the curious people in the throngs that passed us. Fourteenth Street was
                  then a very gay and bedizened place at night.</p>
               <p>When we reached my door, Paul, who had been very silent, took my hand and held it
                  for some <pb n="330"/>time without saying a word. I could feel his eyes looking
                  down on me in the darkness of the street, and somehow the very clasp of his hand
                  seemed to be speaking to me, telling me things that made me feel warm, and oh! so
                  happy. When he did speak at last, his big voice was curiously repressed, and he
                  said huskily:</p>
               <p><q>I think I know now why some men give up Art for the sake of protecting their
                        <emph>own!</emph></q> He said <q>own</q> with such strange emphasis, and he
                  pressed my hand as he said it, that I felt too moved to answer him, and I had a
                  great longing to put my arms around him and draw his head down to mine.</p>
               <p>After that night Mr. Menna did not seem the same to me. All the little kindnesses
                  I had been accustomed to receive from him, such as cleaning my palette, my
                  brushes, and nailing my canvases on the stretchers, he now let me do myself, and
                  once when I asked him to varnish a painting of mine, he answered:</p>
               <p><q>Why don’t you get that Bonnat to do it for you?</q></p>
               <q>
                  <floatingText type="letter">
                     <body>
                        <opener>
                           <salute>‘Dear Marion:</salute>
                        </opener>
                        <p>‘Mr. Hersh is going to put on the living pictures in Providence for two
                           weeks, and he says he would like to take the same girls that he had
                           before, and told me to tell you that he will pay twenty dollars a week.
                           Also that he will take us to Boston and some other places, if we do well
                           in Providence.</p>
                        <p>‘Why don’t you come and see us to-night? and bring along the fellow Hatty
                           said she saw you walking with on Fourteenth St. How are you, anyway? I’m
                           leaving for Providence tomorrow.</p>
                        <closer><salute>With love,</salute>
                           <signed>LIL.’</signed></closer>
                     </body>
                  </floatingText>
               </q>

               <p>I had been thinking of Lil’s letter all day, but I could not make up my mind how
                  to answer it. The thought of making forty dollars in two weeks appealed to me very
                  much, for we were not very busy now, and Menna expected to go West very soon. On
                  account of my work with Menna I had not done much posing in New York, but I
                  intended to call on some artists and see about engagements when Menna should go.
                  Forty dollars was a lot of money to me, and it would take me many weeks to earn
                  that much in posing. It did seem as if I simply could not refuse this chance. But
                  my mind kept turning to Paul Bonnat. I could think of nobody else but him. He had
                  made my life worth while. I thought of all the happy times we had had together. He
                  did not take me to expensive places as Reggie used to, but he lived as I did, and
                  we enjoyed the same things—that Reggie would have called silly and cheap. We went
                  to the exhibitions of the artists, long walks in the Park, to the Metropolitan
                  Museum, and, best of all, to the Opera. That was the one thing Paul would be
                  extravagant about, although our seats were in the top gallery of the family
                  circle. I would be out of breath by the time I climbed up there, but I learned to
                  appreciate and love only the best in music, just as Paul was teaching me to
                  understand the best in all art.</p>
               <p>There I listened with mingled feeling and enjoyment to the operas of Wagner. His
                     <q>Tristan und Isolde</q> rang in my ears for days, and by the time I heard
                     <q>Die Meistersinger</q> I was able thoroughly to enjoy what before had been an
                  unknown land. We Canadians had never gone much beyond a little of Mendelssohn,
                  which the teachers of music seemed to consider the height of classical music, and
                  the people were still singing the old sentimental songs, not the ragtime the
                  Americans love, but the deadly sweet melodies that cloy and teach one nothing. Of
                  course, no doubt things have changed there now; but it was that way when I was a
                  girl in Montreal.</p>
               <p>I did not want to leave New York even for two weeks. I had begun to love my life
                  here. There was something fine in that comradeship with the boys in the ramshackle
                  studio building. I had been accepted as one of the crowd, and I knew it was
                  Bonnat’s influence that made them all treat me as a sister. Fisher once said that
                  a <q>fellow would think twice before he said anything to me that wasn’t straight
                     goods</q>, and he added, <q>Bonnat’s so darned <emph>big</emph>, you
                  know</q>.</p>
               <p>I had often cooked for all the boys in the building. We would have what they
                  called a <q>spread</q> in Bonnat’s or Fisher’s studio, and they would all come
                  flocking in, and fall to greedily upon the good things I had cooked. I felt a
                  motherly impulse toward them all, and I wanted to care for and cook for—yes—and
                  wash them, too. Some of the artists in that building <emph>were</emph> pretty
                  dirty. Paul had never spoken of love to me, and I was afraid to analyze my
                  feelings for him. Reggie’s letters were still pouring in upon me and they still
                  harped upon one thing—my running away from him in Boston. He kept urging me to
                  come home, and lately he had even hinted that he was coming again to fetch me; but
                  he said he would not tell me when he would come, in case I should run off
                  again.</p>
               <p>I used to sit reading Reggie’s letters with the queerest sort of feeling, for, as
                  I read, I would not see Reggie in my mind at all, but Paul Bonnat! It did seem
                  that all the things that Reggie said which once would have pierced and hurt me
                  cruelly now seemed to have lost their power. I had even a tolerant sort of pity
                  for Reggie, and wondered why he should trouble any longer to accuse me of this or
                  that, or even to write to me at all. I am sure I should not have greatly cared if
                  his letters had ceased to come. And now, as I turned over in my mind the question
                  of leaving New York, I thought not only of Reggie, but of Paul. It is true, I
                  might only be away for the two weeks in Providence; on the other hand I realized
                  that I would be foolish not to go on with the troupe to Boston. I decided finally
                  that I would go.</p>
               <pb n="338"/>

               <p>I went over especially to tell Paul about it. I said:</p>
               <p><q>Mr. Bonnat, I’m going away from New York, to do some more of that—that
                     living-picture work</q>. I waited a moment to see what he would say—he had not
                  turned around—and then I added, as I wanted to see if he really cared—<q>Maybe I
                     won’t come back at all</q>.</p>
               <p>He stood up, and took me by the shoulders, making me look straight at him.</p>
               <p><q>How long are you to be gone?</q> he demanded, as if he had penetrated my
                  ruse.</p>
               <p><q>Two weeks in Providence</q>, I said, <q>but if we succeed, we go on to Boston
                     and—</q></p>
               <p><q>Promise me you’ll come back in two weeks. Promise me that</q>, he said.</p>
               <p>He was looking straight down into my eyes, and I think I would have promised him
                  anything he asked me to do; so I said, in a little weak voice:</p>
               <p><q>I promise</q>.</p>
               <p><q>Good!</q> he replied. <q>I would not let you go, if it were in my power to stop
                     you, but I know you need the money, and I have no right to deprive you of it.
                     Good gad! It’s tough not to be able to—</q> He broke off, and gently took my
                  hands in his.</p>
               <p><q>Look here, little mouse. There’s a chance of my being able to make a big pot of
                     money. I’ll know in a few days’ time. Then you shall not have to worry about
                     anything. But as I am now fixed, why I can’t stop you from anything. I haven’t
                     the right</q>.</p>
               <p><q>Oh, I’ll be back soon, and if you like you can see me off on the train</q>.</p>
               <p>When we were at the Grand Central the following night I tried to appear cheerful,
                  but I could not prevent the tears running down my face, and when he finally took
                  my hand to say good-by I said:</p>
               <p><q>Oh, it’s dreadful for me to say this: b-but if I don’t see you soon again, I-I
                     t-think I shall die!</q></p>
               <p>He bent down when I said that and kissed me right on my lips, and he did not seem
                  to care whether everyone in the station saw us or not. Then I knew that he did
                  love me, and that knowledge sent me flying blindly down the platform. After I was
                  aboard, I found I had taken the wrong train to Providence. I should have taken an
                  earlier or a later one. Lil was already there, and was to have met me at the
                  station, but the train I had taken would not get in till four in the morning.</p>
               <p>When I arrived in Providence I did not know where to go. I had Lil’s address, but
                  she had written me when she was living at a <q>very respectable house</q>, where
                  the people would have been terribly shocked to know she was a model, and I felt I
                  could not go there at such an hour in the morning. The rain was coming down in
                  torrents. A colored boy was carrying my bag, and he asked me where I wanted to go.
                  Indeed I did not know. When I hesitated, he said that the hotels didn’t take
                  ladies alone, but that he knew of an all-night restaurant, where I could get
                  something hot to eat and I could stay there till morning. So he took me over to
                  Mink’s. I had often eaten in Mink’s restaurant in Boston, and the place looked
                  quite familiar to me. I had a cup of hot coffee and a sandwich, and then I asked
                  the waitress if there was some place where I could go and freshen or clean up a
                  bit. She whispered to the man at the desk, and he nodded, and then she beckoned to
                  me to follow her. We went upstairs to a sort of loft. It was bare, save of packing
                  cases, but she showed me a little, cracked looking glass, where she said I could
                  do my hair. I told her I had been on the train all night, and she said
                  sympathetically:</p>
               <p><q>Sure, you look it</q>.</p>
               <p>I went over to Lil’s boarding house about seven in the morning. She was right near
                  Mink’s, and said I was foolish not to have come right over.</p>
               <p>Well, we played every night in the theater in Providence, and we made what
                  theatrical people call a <q>hit</q>. The whole town turned out to see us. The
                  girls were all as pleased as could be, and so was Mr. Hersh, and they made all
                  kinds of plans for the road tour, but I could think of nothing but New York, and I
                  was so lonely, in spite of the noisy company of the girls, that I used to go over
                  and look at the railway tracks that I knew ran clear to New York. And I thought of
                  Paul! I thought of Paul every single minute. The little maid would slip his
                  letters every morning under my door, and I used to cry and laugh before I even
                  opened them and I held them to my lips and face, and I kept them all in the bosom
                  of my dress, right next to me.</p>
               <milestone unit="sectionBreak"/>
               <p>We had finished our engagement. Lil and I were coming out of the dressing-room the
                  last night, when somebody slapped me on the back. I turned around, and there was
                  Mr. Davis; he was so glad to see me that he nearly wrung my hand off, and he
                  insisted on walking home with us. He told me he was now manager of a theatrical
                  company, and that he had been looking around for me <choice>
                     <sic>every</sic>
                     <corr>ever</corr>
                  </choice> since Lil told him I was in New York.</p>
               <p><q>Now, Marion</q>, he said, <q>you are going to begin where you left off in
                     Montreal, and it’s up to you to make good. You’ve got it in you, and I want to
                     prove it</q>.</p>
               <p>I asked him what he meant, and he said he was starting a new <q>show</q> in Boston
                  that week, and that he had a part for me that would give me an opportunity.</p>
               <p>I said faintly: <q>I was going back to New York to-morrow</q>.</p>
               <p>Lil exclaimed: <q>What’re you talking about? Aren’t you going with Mr.
                  Hersh?</q></p>
               <p><q>Instead of going to New York</q>, said Mr. Davis, <q>you come along with me to
                     Boston. Cut out this living-picture stuff. It’s not worthy of you. I always
                     said there was the right stuff in you, Marion, and now I’m going to give you
                     the chance to prove it</q>.</p>
               <p>For a moment an old vision came back to me. I saw myself as <emph>Camille</emph>,
                  the part I had so loved when little more than a child in Montreal, and I felt
                  again the sway of old ambitions. I said to Mr. Davis:</p>
               <p><q>Oh yes, I think I <emph>will</emph> go with you!</q></p>
               <p>But when I got back to my room I took out Paul’s last letter. How confident he was
                  of my keeping my promise to return. He wrote of all the preparations he was
                  making, and he said he had a stroke of luck, and that I should share it with him.
                  We would have dinner at Mouquin’s, and then we would see some show, or the opera.
                  Whatever we did, or wherever we went, we would be together.</p>
               <p>I got out my little writing-pad, and I wrote a letter hurriedly to Mr. Davis:</p>
               <q>
                  <floatingText type="letter">
                     <body>
                        <p><q>Will you please excuse me, but I have to go to New York. I’ll let you
                              know later about acting</q>.</p>
                     </body>
                  </floatingText>
               </q>
               <p>I sent the note to Mr. Davis by the little maid in the house, and he sent back a
                  sheet with this laconic message upon it:</p>
               <p><q>Now or never—Give you till morning</q>.</p>
               <p>Lil talked and talked and talked to me all night about it, and she seemed to think
                  I was crazy not to grab this chance that had come to me, and she said any one of
                  the other girls would have gone clean daft about it. She said I was a little fool,
                  and never knew when opportunity come in my way. <q>Just look</q>, she said, <q>how
                     you turned down that chance you had to be a show-girl, and all of us other
                     girls weren’t even asked, and I’ll bet our legs are as pretty as yours. It’s
                     just because you’ve got a sort of—of—well, I heard a man call it sex-appeal
                     about you, but you’re foolish to throw away your good chances, and by-and-by
                     they won’t come to you. You’ll get fat and ugly</q>.</p>
               <p>I said: <q>Oh, Lil, stop it. I guess I know my business better than you</q>.</p>
               <p><q>Well, then, answer me this</q>, said Lil, sitting up in bed: <q>Are you engaged
                     to that fellow who sends you letters every day?</q></p>
               <p>I could not answer her.</p>
               <p><q>Well, what about Reggie Bertie?</q></p>
               <p><q>For heaven’s sake, go to sleep</q>, I entreated her, and with a grunt of
                  disgust she at last turned over.</p>
               <p>Next morning Paul’s letter fully decided me. It said that he would be at the
                  station to meet me! He was expecting me, and I must not, on any account, fail
                  him.</p>
               <p><q>Lil, wake up! Wake up!</q> I cried, shaking her by the arm. <q>I’m going to
                     take the first train back to New York</q>.</p>
               <p>Lil answered sleepily: <q>Marion, you always were crazy</q>.</p>
               <p>All of a sudden the room turned red on all sides of us, and I realized that it was
                  on fire. The little stove had a pipe with an elbow in the wall, and when I put a
                  match to the kindling, the flames must have crept up to the thin wooden walls from
                  the elbow, and in an instant the wall had ignited. I had on only a night-dress. I
                  seized the quilt off the bed, and threw it on the flames, but it seemed only to
                  serve as fresh fuel. Lil was crouched back on the bed, petrified with <pb n="339"
                  />terror, and literally unable to move. Desperately screaming:</p>
               <p><q>Fire, fire!</q> I seized the pitcher and flung it at the flames, and then
                  somehow I grabbed hold of Lil by the hand, and both shrieking, we ran out into the
                  hall. Then I fainted. When I came to, the fire was out and the landlady and her
                  son and husband and Lil were all standing over me laughing and crying.</p>
               <p><q>Well</q>, said the man, <q>did you try to burn us out?</q> He turned to his
                  wife and asked: <q>It’s a good job we’re insured, eh?</q> My clothes were not
                  burned, but soaking wet, and so I missed my train that Paul was going to meet.</p>
               <milestone unit="sectionBreak"/>
               <p>Oh, how good it was to enter New York once more! I remembered how ugly the city
                  had looked to me that first time when I had come from Boston. Now even the rows of
                  flat houses and dingy tall buildings seemed to take on a sturdy and friendly
                  beauty.</p>
               <p>Paul was walking up and down the station, and he came rushing up to me as I came
                  through the gates. He was pale, and even seemed to tremble, as he caught me by the
                  arm and cried:</p>
               <p><q>When you did not come on that train, I was afraid you had changed your mind,
                     and were not coming back to me. I’ve been waiting here all day, watching each
                     train that arrived from Providence. Oh, sweetheart, I’ve been nearly
                  crazy!</q></p>
               <p>I told him about the fire, and he seized hold of my hands, and examined them.</p>
               <p><q>Don’t tell me you hurt yourself!</q> he cried, and when I reassured him, it was
                  all I could do to keep him from hugging me right there in the station. All the way
                  on the car he held my hand, and although he did not say anything at all to me, I
                  knew just what was in his heart. He loved me, and nothing else in all the whole
                  wide world mattered.</p>
               <p>He had helped me out at the Studio Building, and now as I went up the old rickety
                  stairs, I realized that this was <emph>my</emph> home!</p>
               <p>It was a ramshackle, very old, neglected, rickety sort of place, and I do not know
                  why they called it Paresis Row. The name did not sound ugly to me, somehow. I
                  loved everything about the place, even the queer businesses carried on upon the
                  lower floors, and old Mary, the slatterny caretaker, who scolded the boys
                  alternately and then did little kindnesses for them. I remember how once she kept
                  a creditor away from poor Fisher by waving her broom at him till he fled in
                  fear.</p>
               <p>I laughed, as we went by the door of that crazy old artist that the boys used to
                  tease by dropping a piece of iron on the floor, after holding it up high. They
                  would wait a few minutes, and then he would come hobbling up the stairs. There
                  would be three regular taps, and then he would put his head in and say:</p>
               <p><q>Gentlemen, methinks I heard a noise!</q></p>
               <p>On the first floor back a man taught singing, and he had gotten up a class of
                  policemen. It seemed as if they sang forever the chorus of a song that went like
                  this:</p>
               <p><q>Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, don’t be a-f-r-a-i-d!</q></p>
               <p>Paul opened the door of his studio. The place was all cleaned up and new paper was
                  on the walls. He showed me behind the screen a little gas-stove, pots hanging at
                  the back of it, and dishes in a little closet. Then, taking me by the hand, he
                  opened a door, and showed me a little room adjoining his studio. It seemed to me
                  lovely. It was papered in soft gray, and the curtains of yellow cheesecloth gave
                  an appearance of sunlight to it. There were several pieces of new furniture in the
                  room, and a little Mission dresser. Paul opened the drawers, and rather shyly
                  showed me some sheets, pillow-slips and  towels, which he said he had purchased
                  for me, and added: <q>I hope they are all right. I don’t know much about such
                     things</q>.</p>
               <p>I knew then that Paul intended the room to be for me. He had only the one studio
                  room before.</p>
               <p><q>Well, little mouse</q>, he said, <q>are you afraid to live with a poor beggar,
                     or do you love me enough to take the chance?</q></p>
               <p>Thoughts were rushing through my mind. Memories of conversations and stories among
                  the artists, on the marriage question, by some considered unnecessary, and somehow
                  with Paul it seemed right and natural, and the primitive women in me answered:
                     <q>Why not? Others have lived with the man they loved without marriage. Why
                     should not I?</q> He was waiting for me to speak. I put my hands on his
                  shoulders, and said:</p>
               <p><q>Oh, yes, Paul, I will come to you! I will</q>. A little later, I said:</p>
               <p><q>Now I must go over to my old room, and have my trunk and some other things I
                     left there brought over, and I must tell Mrs. Whitehouse, the landlady, as she
                     expects me back to-day</q>.</p>
               <p><q>Well, don’t be long</q>, said Paul. <q>I’m afraid you will slip through my arms
                     just as I have found you</q>. Mrs. Whitehouse, the landlady, met me at the
                  door. I told her I was going to move over to Fourteenth Street, to Paresis Row.
                  She threw up her hands and exclaimed:</p>
               <p><q>Land sakes! That is no place for a girl to live, and I have no use for them
                     artists. They are a half-crazy lot, and never have a cent to bless themselves
                     with. If I were a young and pretty girl like you, Miss Ascough, I would not
                     waste my time on the likes of them. Now there’s been a fine looking gent
                     calling for you the last two days, and I told him you’d be back to-day. He’s a
                     real swell, and if you’d take my advice, you’d get right next to him</q>.</p>
               <p>Even as she spoke the front bell rang. She opened the door, and there was Reggie!
                  I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, but when I saw him, I fled into the
                  parlor. He came after me, with his arms outstretched, I found myself staring
                  across at him, as if I were looking at a stranger.</p>
               <p><q>Marion</q> he cried, <q>I’ve come to bring you home</q>. I backed away from
                  him.</p>
               <p><q>No, no, Reggie, I don’t want you to touch me</q>, I said. <q>Go away! I tell
                     you, go away!</q></p>
               <p><q>You don’t understand</q>, said Reggie. <q>I’ve come to take you home. You’ve
                     won out, Marion, I’m going to <emph>marry</emph> you!</q></p>
               <p>He looked as if he were conferring a kingdom on me.</p>
               <p><q>Listen to me, Reggie</q>, I said. <q>I can never, never be your wife
                  now</q>.</p>
               <p><q>Why not? What have you done?</q> His old anger and suspicion were mounting. He
                  was looking at me lovingly, half furiously.</p>
               <p><q>I’ve done nothing—nothing—but I cannot be your wife</q>.</p>
               <p><q>If you mean because of Boston—I’ve forgiven everything. I fought it all out in
                     Montreal and I made up my mind that I had to have you. So I’m going to
                        <emph>marry</emph> you, darling. Don’t you understand?</q></p>
               <p>Further and further away I had backed from him, but now he was right before me. I
                  looked up at Reggie, but a vision arose between us—Paul Bonnat’s face. Paul, who
                  was waiting for me, who had offered to share his all for me, and somehow it seemed
                  to me more immoral to marry Reggie than to live with the man I loved.</p>
               <p><q>Reggie Bertie</q>, I said; <q>it’s you who don’t understand. I can never be
                     your wife—because—</q> Oh, it was very hard to drive that look of love and
                  longing from Reggie’s face. Once I had loved him, and, although he had hurt me so
                  cruelly in the past, in that moment I longed to spare him the pain that was to be
                  his now.</p>
               <p><q>Well? What is it, Marion? What have you done?</q></p>
               <p><q>Reggie, it’s this: I no longer love you!</q></p>
               <p>There was a silence, and then he said with an uneasy laugh: <q>You don’t mean
                     that. You are angry with me. I’ll soon make you love me again, as you did once,
                     Marion. You’ll do it when you are my wife</q>.</p>
               <p><q>No—no—I never will</q>, I said steadily, <q>because—because—there’s another
                     reason, Reggie. There’s someone else, someone who loves me, and whom I
                        <emph>adore!</emph></q></p>
               <p>I hope I may never see a man look like Reggie did then. He had turned gray, even
                  to his lips. He just stared at me, and I think the truth of what I had said slowly
                  sank in upon him. He drew back.</p>
               <p><q>I hope you’ll be happy!</q> he said, and I replied: <q>Oh, I hope you will be,
                     too</q>.</p>
               <p>I followed him to the door and he kept on staring at me with that dazed and
                  incredulous look. Then he went out and closed the door forever on Reggie
                  Bertie.</p>
               <milestone unit="sectionBreak"/>
               <p>The expressman had just put my trunk in the studio. I opened the door of the
                  little room that Paul had fixed up for me.</p>
               <p><q>Are you afraid, darling?</q> he asked. <q>Are you going to regret giving
                     yourself to a poor devil like me?</q> I answered him as steadily as my voice
                  would let me, for I was trembling.</p>
               <p><q>I am yours as long as you love me, Paul</q>. I had started to remove my
                  hat.</p>
               <p><q>Not yet, darling</q>, said Paul, and he took me by the arm and guided me toward
                  the door. <q>First we have to go to the Little Church Around the Corner</q>.</p>
               <milestone unit="sectionBreak"/>
               <p>THE END</p>
            </div>
         </div>
      </body>
   </text>
</TEI>