15a The Prince and Betty

Betty could bear it no longer.

“I loved him!” she cried. “I loved him!”

She was shaking with dry sobs. She felt the old woman’s eyes upon her, but she could not stop.

A sudden whirr cut through the silence. One of the large clocks near the door was beginning to strike the hour. Instantly the rest began to do the same, till the room was full of the noise. And above the din there sounded sharp and clear the note of the little trumpet.

The noise died away with metallic echoings.

“Honey!”

It was a changed voice that spoke. Betty looked up, and saw that the eyes that met hers were very soft. She moved quickly to the old woman’s side.

“Honey, I’m going to tell you something about myself that nobody dreams of. Betty, when I was your age, I ran away from a man because I loved him. It was just a little village tragedy, my dear. I think he was fond of me, but father was poor and her folks were the great people of the place, and he married her. And I ran away, like you, and went to New York.”

Betty pressed her hand. It was trembling.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“I went to New York because I wanted to kill my heart. And I killed it. There’s only one way. Work! Work! Work!” She was sitting bolt upright, and the soft look had gone out of her eyes. They were hard and fiery under the drawn brows. “Work! Ah, I worked! I never rested. For two years. Two whole years. It fought back at me. It tore me to bits. But I wouldn’t stop. I worked on, I killed it.”

She stopped, quivering. Betty was cold with a nameless dismay. She felt as if she were standing in the dark on the brink of an abyss.

The old woman began to speak again.

“Child, it’s the same with you. Your heart’s tearing you. Don’t let it! It will get worse and worse if you are afraid of it. Fight it! Kill it! Work!”

She stopped again, clenching and unclenching her fingers, as if she were strangling some living thing. There was silence for a long moment.

“What can you do?” she asked suddenly.

Her voice was calm and unemotional again. The abruptness of the transition from passion to the practical took Betty aback. She could not speak.

“There must be something,” continued Mrs. Oakley. “When I was your age I had taught myself bookkeeping, shorthand, and typewriting. What can you do? Can you use a typewriter?”

Blessed word!

“Yes,” said Betty promptly.

“Well?”

“Not very well?”

“H’m. Well, I expect you will do it well enough for Mr. Renshaw—on my recommendation. I’ll give you a letter to him. He is the editor of a small weekly paper. I don’t know how much he will offer you, but take it and work! You’ll find him pleasant. I have met him at charity organization meetings on the East Side. He’s useful at the entertainments—does conjuring tricks—stupid, but they seem to amuse people. You’ll find him pleasant. There.”

She had been writing the letter of introduction during the course of these remarks. At the last word she blotted it, and placed it in an envelope.

“That’s the address,” she said. “J. Brabazon Renshaw, Office of Peaceful Moments. Take it to him now. Good-by.”

It was as if she were ashamed of her late display of emotion. She spoke abruptly, and her pale eyes were expressionless. Betty thanked her and turned to go.

“Tell me how you get on,” said Mrs. Oakley.

“Yes,” said Betty.

“And work. Keep on working!”

There was a momentary return of her former manner as she spoke the words, and Betty wavered. She longed to say something comforting, something that would show that she understood.

Mrs. Oakley had taken up the feather duster again.

“Steena will show you out,” she said curtly. And Betty was aware of the stolid Swede in the doorway. The interview was plainly at an end.

“Good-by, Aunt,” she said, “and thank you ever so much—for everything.”

CHAPTER XII

“PEACEFUL MOMENTS”

The man in the street did not appear to know it, but a great crisis was imminent in New York journalism.

Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithely on Broadway. Newsboys shouted their mystic slogan, “Wuxtry!” with undiminished vim. Society thronged Fifth Avenue without a furrow on its brow. At a thousand street corners a thousand policemen preserved their air of massive superiority to the things of this world.