# Woman Without Love?/Chapter 20

Chapter XX
At nineteen Dorothy Blaine was an interesting girl. She was beautiful, not in a light, vapid sort of way. Her face had expression. It reflected a strong personality. She was tall, though slim, and with a lovely form. Her eyes were dark and penetrating, like her Aunt Mary's. Her lips were provocative. When young men beheld them they always wanted to commence kissing. Dorothy was thoroughly modern.
Nothing shocked her. She did not mind kissing but she had to be sufficiently interested in a man to derive at least a bit of pleasure out of it. She drank a little and smoked a cigarette ​occasionally. But these diversions meant nothing to her. She liked to read, to study, especially things mystical and fantastic.
She was charmed by the sky and loved to lie on the beach at Rye or Southampton gazing at the stars. She had learned that there was nothing more restful than to behold the sky, the vast immensity of blue, a blue sea that dissolves all petty troubles. She believed that it was the most stupendous sight in the world, millions of stars, millions of suns, a universe more than two hundred thousand light years in extent, and man a puny creature on a small planet gazing into the night, awed by the wonder of it.
Dorothy had been educated at the Spence School. Her greatest education had unconsciously been given to her by her father. She studied him. She liked his clear-thinking, his abrupt decisions, his tolerance, his fairness.
When she was fifteen she had gone to Europe with her parents. Her father had promised her mother such a trip ever since their marriage. They had planned to go in 1917. Then the War intervened.
In a way it was a literary tour, for Dorothy's mother loved books and her dad had permitted his wife to plan the trip. They loitered for weeks in Dickens' London. They visited "The Old Curiosity Shop." To Helen it was a thrilling experience, for she adored Charles Dickens.
One day they ate at the Cheshire Cheese where the immortal Dr. Johnson used to sup and give voice to his theories and opinions. And where James Boswell, who worshipped him, listened and remembered every word and later wrote it into a life of his master that has made him even more renowned than Dr. Johnson.
They loitered in the Latin quarter of Paris about which Murger wrote his famous, "Bohemians." They tried to find the dismal hovels where Paul Verlaine had lived.
For Helen it was indeed a honeymoon, a delayed honeymoon, but one of exceptional beauty nevertheless. It acted upon her like a tonic. Her usually pale face took on some traces of color. And the years seemed to fall from her like old autumn leaves until she appeared to be a girl again.
​Templeton Blaine was happy. He was always happy when Helen smiled.
"From now on," he declared, "we'll go to Europe every year."
It was a grand proposal but they never went again. For on the liner, going home, Helen contracted a heavy cold. She was so weak when the boat docked she had to be carried from the ship. A few days later she died and Templeton was inconsolable. The one woman of his life was gone, the woman he had worshipped. He had been an old-fashioned husband. He had had no eyes for other women. Had it not been for Dorothy he would have shot himself. There was no use going on now. Dorothy talked to him. He was amazed at her courage and logic.
"We can't simply die," she said. "That wouldn't be very sporting. It wouldn't be fair to Mother. It would make her sad if we quit. Besides I have faith. Mother isn't really dead. In that vast immensity of sky there is an eternal promise. The sky presents hope. Perhaps death is but a release of the spirit to wander in blue pastures."
Templeton could not speak. He put his arm about the girl's shoulder and patted her cheek.
"I'll try to take Mother's place," she said softly. "I believe that with the help of the servants I can run the house."
From that moment forth she had done so. Templeton had never hired a housekeeper. The bare suggestion was repugnant to Dorothy. She managed well without one.
It naturally followed that the two became greater pals. She learned to play chess so that she might join her dad in a game in the evenings. It was the one game he liked because it was always new, always different, always interesting. When Dorothy succeeded in beating him which happened on rare occasions, he slapped his knee with his hand and said, "Bless my soul!"
Among all the numerous young men who showered their attentions upon Dorothy none interested her as much as Jimmy Whale, and Jimmy was the oddest of the lot. Dorothy was not conceited. She knew that half her suitors merely liked her because she was rich. They were like coupons attached to a bond. She was the bond. It was not surprising then that they showed high interest.
​Jimmy Whale was different. He was a writer. Perhaps that made him odd. He lived in a small apartment consisting of two rooms at 20 Washington Square. Both rooms were libraries. Books were piled up everywhere. Hidden behind the books was a couch on which he occasionally slept. His clothes were usually scattered about the rooms, although there was a clothes-closet in the larger one. It was generally empty.
Jimmy was twenty-five, still young enough to be enthusiastic about conquering the literary world. He wrote novels, plays, short stories. They were all duds except the short stories. Occasionally one went across. Then he lived like a king until his money was gone, ordering steak for breakfast. He possessed a fine style of writing but he was not successful because he wrote off the beaten track.
For months Jimmy had been begging Dorothy to visit his rooms.
"They're in a tremendously big house," he said. "Huge red brick and lots of dog. I live in the tail. It's a neat existence. My windows face on MacDougal Alley and there before me are rows of genteel stables that once were domiciles for horses and now are studios for asses who believe they are artistic. At that they're kind of nice, homelike and cozy. You could live a month in one on a box of oats and a bale of hay."
So Dorothy journeyed down to Washington Square. She climbed an elaborate black iron stoop and rang the bell. It boomed out sonorously, echoing from room to room. It was an efficient bell and kept up its clamor until it got action.
At last a man in blue-striped overalls came and opened the door.
"Does Mr. Jimmy Whale live here?" she asked hesitantly.
The man scratched his head. "Oh, you mean that writer chap," he beamed.
"Swift deduction," she smiled. "Yes, I mean the confessionist."
"Follow me, lady," he directed, "and I'll show you the way, though Mr. Whale usually goes in the downstairs entrance."
"I'll go downstairs," she offered.
"Never mind," said he curtly. "As long as you are here, it doesn't matter."
​He led the way to the end of a long wide hall, then turned and went down a stairs, turned again and led the way through a mystic maze of winding halls and white doors. One was open. It led into a kitchen. There was a table in the center of it upon which repined a forlorn loaf of rye bread.
"Evidently," mused Dorothy, "the owner of that rye bread went out for milk and can't find his way in again." But she had the grace not to make her observation audible.
Still the man kept on going. Was there no end to this house? At last he stopped at the bottom of a spiral flight of iron steps. "Go up here," he' said, "and walk down the hall to a white door. That's where you'll find that Whale guy if he's in."
"And if he isn't in, where will I find him?" Dorothy was about to say. However, she thought better of it. The man might imagine she was insolent.
She followed the direction implicitly only to be met by a tough proposition. There were five white doors. Which one belonged to Jimmy?
The best way to find out was to knock on the first door.
She did. There was no answer. Then she knocked again. The hall was spooky. She wished Jimmy would answer. Then she heard someone singing. It was a man's voice. He seemed in great agony. Somehow or other it reminded her of Jimmy.
She walked down to the door beyond which the commotion was occurring. She knocked loudly. Instantly the singing ceased. The next instant the door was flung open and Jimmy stood on the threshold.
"Lafayette," she said, "we are here."
"Too bad," he drawled. "Lafayette moved yesterday."
"Why don't you ask me to come in?"
"Give me time."
"I'd like to," said she. "Plenty."
"Come in anyway," he growled.
"I'll walk in," said she. "There might be better ways but I haven't the time to ponder over them. Make much of this visit, young man, because I'll never have the courage to make this mighty pilgrimage again. I feel like Stanley must have felt when he found Dr. Livingstone. This would be a ​gorgeous house in which to commit a murder. It could be crammed full of corpses and nobody would ever find them."
"It is a funny old place," he said, "but the apartments upstairs are classy. Several times I've been on the verge of putting this house in a story. I've always got cold feet. Nobody would believe such a house existed. They'd say I invented it. Incidentally I don't invent any place in my stories. Every street or town I mention really exists. Yesterday one of my greatest chums came to see me. He shook hands with me solemnly when he left. He told me although he valued my friendship, he doubted if he'd ever see me again. He'd never be able to find his way back. Before he finally went he made me draw a diagram of the house. Even then he came back three times before he disappeared forever. Twice he had got out into God's clear air again only to find he was in a blind court."
"I hope I have better luck than he did," Dorothy said.
Jimmy picked up an armful of books and bade her sit down.
"Gee, it's great to have you here!" he said.
She looked around her in amazement at all the books. "Where do you sleep?" she asked.
"Oh, I simply crawl in between the pages of a book," he said flippantly. "On cold winter nights I sleep in Dante's Inferno. I've got a perfectly swell copy, a tremendous thing a yard long, illustrated by Doré. The other day a dog bit it and the marks of his teeth are still on the binding."
"You ought to have bitten the dog," said she.
Jimmy Whale was in love with Dorothy but instead of being happy he was miserable. Night after night he sat in his rooms surrounded by his books, smoking innumerable cigarettes and gazing into the smoke. It was an impossible situation. He was poor. He'd never be able to earn enough money to be financially in a class with Dorothy. He was staggered by the size of the problem.
If he married her they'd be living on her money. The bare idea of being a kept man was revolting to him. He'd have to try to forget her. This he proceeded to do, valiantly, for a week. He usually ate breakfast in a Doughnut Shop on ​Eighth Street down near Sixth avenue. He looked painfully forlorn as he sat at the counter, dunking his doughnuts and growing more miserable by the minute.
Now she had called at his apartment. If the two tiny rooms could be dignified by such a name.
After she had looked over Doré's pictures in the Inferno and declared they were heavenly, she asked: "Were you surprised to see me today?"
"Yes, I was," he admitted.
"I came down to see if you had gone abroad. I hoped I could arrive in time so that I could go along."
"Oh, I'm still here," he said helplessly.
"Well, why haven't you been bothering with me?" she persisted. "I haven't seen your car littering up the Avenue for days."
"I decided to go out of your life," he said bluntly.
"Melodramatic," she declared. "Quaint, too. Also funny because you decided to step out of my life at the self-same moment that I decided to step into yours."
"I don't feel like laughing," he growled.
"It's true, isn't it?" she said sweetly.
"Maybe."
"Well, what's the matter? Why don't you like me, Jimmy? Don't you think I'm good-looking?"
"You're too damn good-looking," he burst out. "You're swell."
"And do you consider that any reason for throwing me over?"
"My God, I never threw you over!"
"Oh yes you did, but I bounced back. Jimmy, you're the first fish I ever cared for. Some girls feel very sad when they lose a pet gold fish. However, that's nothing compared to the staggering blow of losing a pet Whale. You can't blame me if I fight a little."
Jimmy shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
"Come on," he suggested, "let's go out and get something to eat. I'm not very flush today and the best I can afford is a fried ham and egg sandwich. If you eat it slow it'll last long. ​Ï know where you can get them for fifteen cents each. Too bad you didn't come tomorrow and we could have eaten at Sardi's. Tomorrow I will get a check for seventy-five dollars. I actually sold a story called, The Cheerful Moron."
"Good for you," she said. "You are bound to be a success if you stick to subjects that you know."
"You mean I'm a moron?" he asked belligerently.
"What are you trying to do?" she asked sweetly. "Pick a fight so you don't have to buy me that sandwich?"
"Oh, come on," he said, still pouting. "And you can have coffee too. I go the limit when I take a girl out."
"Mercy!" she exclaimed.
After they were seated at the lunch counter and had given their order, the battle commenced anew.
"Jimmy, what's the matter with you?" she asked. "Why are you avoiding me?"
"Because you're rich," he burst out.
"Is that a crime?" she asked innocently.
"Well I wouldn't marry a girl who was rich."
"Why not?"
"It would hurt my pride."
She looked at her coffee cup and smiled to herself. Jimmy was such a foolish dear he was almost impossible. She had to be careful how she handled him. So she said: "Perhaps a girl who was rich wouldn't have you."
"Why wouldn't she?" he blazed.
"Because you're poor," she said meekly.
"A fine girl she'd be, to throw me down because I was poor."
"She wouldn't be any worse than you, to throw her down because she was rich."
"That's different."
"The cases seem parallel to me. However, don't worry, Jimmy. You needn't run away from me to escape marriage, because I wouldn't have you. So even if you did propose to me in a weak moment, I'd refuse you. Now isn't that swell? You have nothing to worry about."
"I don't know," he considered moodily. "A guy doesn't like to be told by a girl that she wouldn't have him."
​"For that matter," said she, "a girl isn't so keen on being told by a chap that he doesn't want her. By the way, what do you want, Jimmy?"
"If I had another dime," he sighed, "we could each have another cup of coffee."
"Would you consider yourself a gigolo," she asked, "if I financed the transaction?"
"Oh," said he, "it takes more than a cup of coffee to make a gigolo. Waiter," he ordered, "fill 'em up again."
"We're out and out spendthrifts today," said she.
"We're celebrating my getting you back," he said sheepishly.
"I didn't know you had lost me," she commented, "though I'm beginning to suspect that you've been trying to mighty hard."