A Wicked Woman by Jack London
It was because she had
broken with Billy that Loretta had come visiting to Santa Clara . Billy could not understand. His
sister had reported that he had walked the floor and cried all night. Loretta
had not slept all night either, while she had wept most of the night. Daisy
knew this, because it was in her arms that the weeping had been done. And
Daisy's husband, Captain Kitt, knew, too. The tears of Loretta, and the comforting
by Daisy, had lost him some sleep.
Now Captain Kitt did not
like to lose sleep. Neither did he want Loretta to marry Billy--nor anybody
else. It was Captain Kitt's belief that Daisy needed the help of her younger
sister in the household. But he did not say this aloud. Instead, he always
insisted that Loretta was too young to think of marriage. So it was Captain
Kitt's idea that Loretta should be packed off on a visit to Mrs. Hemingway.
There wouldn't be any Billy there.
Before Loretta had been at Santa Clara a week, she
was convinced that Captain Kitt's idea was a good one. In the first place,
though Billy wouldn't believe it, she did not want to marry Billy. And in the
second place, though Captain Kitt wouldn't believe it, she did not want to
leave Daisy. By the time Loretta had been at Santa Clara two weeks, she was absolutely
certain that she did not want to marry Billy. But she was not so sure about not
wanting to leave Daisy. Not that she loved Daisy less, but that she--had
doubts.
The day of Loretta's
arrival, a nebulous plan began shaping itself in Mrs. Hemingway's brain. The
second day she remarked to Jack Hemingway, her husband, that Loretta was so
innocent a young thing that were it not for her sweet guilelessness she would
be positively stupid. In proof of which, Mrs. Hemingway told her husband
several things that made him chuckle. By the third day Mrs. Hemingway's plan
had taken recognizable form. Then it was that she composed a letter. On the
envelope she wrote: "Mr. Edward Bashford, Athenian Club, San Francisco ."
"Dear Ned," the
letter began. She had once been violently loved by him for three weeks in her
pre-marital days. But she had covenanted herself to Jack Hemingway, who had
prior claims, and her heart as well; and Ned Bashford had philosophically not
broken his heart over it. He merely added the experience to a large fund of
similarly collected data out of which he manufactured philosophy. Artistically
and temperamentally he was a Greek-- a tired Greek. He was fond of quoting from
Nietzsche, in token that he, too, had passed through the long sickness that
follows upon the ardent search for truth; that he too had emerged, too
experienced, too shrewd, too profound, ever again to be afflicted by the
madness of youths in their love of truth. "'To worship appearance,'"
he often quoted; "'to believe in forms, in tones, in words, in the whole Olympus of appearance!'" This particular excerpt he
always concluded with, "'Those Greeks were superficial--OUT OF
PROFUNDITY!'"
He was a fairly young Greek,
jaded and worn. Women were faithless and unveracious, he held--at such times
that he had relapses and descended to pessimism from his wonted high
philosophical calm. He did not believe in the truth of women; but, faithful to
his German master, he did not strip from them the airy gauzes that veiled their
untruth. He was content to accept them as appearances and to make the best of
it. He was superficial- -OUT OF PROFUNDITY.
"Jack says to be sure
to say to you, 'good swimming,'" Mrs. Hemingway wrote in her letter;
"and also 'to bring your fishing duds along.'" Mrs. Hemingway wrote
other things in the letter. She told him that at last she was prepared to
exhibit to him an absolutely true, unsullied, and innocent woman. "A more
guileless, immaculate bud of womanhood never blushed on the planet," was
one of the several ways in which she phrased the inducement. And to her husband
she said triumphantly, "If I don't marry Ned off this time--" leaving
unstated the terrible alternative that she lacked either vocabulary to express
or imagination to conceive.
Contrary to all her
forebodings, Loretta found that she was not unhappy at Santa Clara . Truly, Billy wrote to her every
day, but his letters were less distressing than his presence. Also, the ordeal
of being away from Daisy was not so severe as she had expected. For the first
time in her life she was not lost in eclipse in the blaze of Daisy's brilliant
and mature personality. Under such favourable circumstances Loretta came
rapidly to the front, while Mrs. Hemingway modestly and shamelessly retreated
into the background.
Loretta began to discover
that she was not a pale orb shining by reflection. Quite unconsciously she
became a small centre of things. When she was at the piano, there was some one
to turn the pages for her and to express preferences for certain songs. When
she dropped her handkerchief, there was some one to pick it up. And there was
some one to accompany her in ramblings and flower gatherings. Also, she learned
to cast flies in still pools and below savage riffles, and how not to entangle
silk lines and gut-leaders with the shrubbery.
Jack Hemingway did not care
to teach beginners, and fished much by himself, or not at all, thus giving Ned
Bashford ample time in which to consider Loretta as an appearance. As such, she
was all that his philosophy demanded. Her blue eyes had the direct gaze of a
boy, and out of his profundity he delighted in them and forbore to shudder at
the duplicity his philosophy bade him to believe lurked in their depths. She had
the grace of a slender flower, the fragility of colour and line of fine china,
in all of which he pleasured greatly, without thought of the Life Force
palpitating beneath and in spite of Bernard Shaw--in whom he believed.
Loretta burgeoned. She
swiftly developed personality. She discovered a will of her own and wishes of
her own that were not everlastingly entwined with the will and the wishes of
Daisy. She was petted by Jack Hemingway, spoiled by Alice Hemingway, and
devotedly attended by Ned Bashford. They encouraged her whims and laughed at
her follies, while she developed the pretty little tyrannies that are latent in
all pretty and delicate women. Her environment acted as a soporific upon her
ancient desire always to live with Daisy. This desire no longer prodded her as
in the days of her companionship with Billy. The more she saw of Billy, the
more certain she had been that she could not live away from Daisy. The more she
saw of Ned Bashford, the more she forgot her pressing need of Daisy.
Ned Bashford likewise did
some forgetting. He confused superficiality with profundity, and entangled
appearance with reality until he accounted them one. Loretta was different from
other women. There was no masquerade about her. She was real. He said as much
to Mrs. Hemingway, and more, who agreed with him and at the same time caught
her husband's eyelid drooping down for the moment in an unmistakable wink.
It was at this time that
Loretta received a letter from Billy that was somewhat different from his
others. In the main, like all his letters, it was pathological. It was a long
recital of symptoms and sufferings, his nervousness, his sleeplessness, and the
state of his heart. Then followed reproaches, such as he had never made before.
They were sharp enough to make her weep, and true enough to put tragedy into
her face. This tragedy she carried down to the breakfast table. It made Jack
and Mrs. Hemingway speculative, and it worried Ned. They glanced to him for
explanation, but he shook his head.
"I'll find out
to-night," Mrs. Hemingway said to her husband.
But Ned caught Loretta in
the afternoon in the big living-room. She tried to turn away. He caught her
hands, and she faced him with wet lashes and trembling lips. He looked at her,
silently and kindly. The lashes grew wetter.
"There, there, don't
cry, little one," he said soothingly.
He put his arm protectingly
around her shoulder. And to his shoulder, like a tired child, she turned her
face. He thrilled in ways unusual for a Greek who has recovered from the long
sickness.
"Oh, Ned," she
sobbed on his shoulder, "if you only knew how wicked I am!"
He smiled indulgently, and
breathed in a great breath freighted with the fragrance of her hair. He thought
of his world-experience of women, and drew another long breath. There seemed to
emanate from her the perfect sweetness of a child--"the aura of a white
soul," was the way he phrased it to himself.
Then he noticed that her
sobs were increasing.
"What's the matter,
little one?" he asked pettingly and almost paternally. "Has Jack been
bullying you? Or has your dearly beloved sister failed to write?"
She did not answer, and he
felt that he really must kiss her hair, that he could not be responsible if the
situation continued much longer.
"Tell me," he
said gently, "and we'll see what I can do."
"I can't. You will
despise me. --Oh,
Ned, I am so ashamed!"
He laughed incredulously,
and lightly touched her hair with his lips--so lightly that she did not know.
"Dear little one, let
us forget all about it, whatever it is. I want to tell you how I love--"
She uttered a sharp cry
that was all delight, and then moaned--
"Too late!"
"Too late?" he
echoed in surprise.
"Oh, why did I? Why
did I?" she was moaning.
He was aware of a swift
chill at his heart.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh, I . . . he . . .
Billy.
"I am such a wicked
woman, Ned. I know you will never speak to me again."
"This--er--this
Billy," he began haltingly. "He is your brother?"
"No . . . he . . . I
didn't know. I was so young. I could not help it. Oh, I shall go mad! I shall
go mad!"
It was then that Loretta
felt his shoulder and the encircling arm become limp. He drew away from her
gently, and gently he deposited her in a big chair, where she buried her face
and sobbed afresh. He twisted his moustache fiercely, then drew up another chair
and sat down.
"I--I do not
understand," he said.
"I am so
unhappy," she wailed.
"Why unhappy?"
"Because . . . he . .
. he wants me to marry him."
His face cleared on the
instant, and he placed a hand soothingly on hers.
"That should not make
any girl unhappy," he remarked sagely. "Because you don't love him is
no reason--of course, you don't love him?"
Loretta shook her head and
shoulders in a vigorous negative.
"What?"
Bashford wanted to make
sure.
"No," she
asserted explosively. "I don't love Billy! I don't want to love
Billy!"
"Because you don't
love him," Bashford resumed with confidence, "is no reason that you
should be unhappy just because he has proposed to you."
She sobbed again, and from
the midst of her sobs she cried--
"That's the trouble. I
wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead!"
"Now, my dear child,
you are worrying yourself over trifles." His other hand crossed over after
its mate and rested on hers. "Women do it every day. Because you have
changed your mind or did not know your mind, because you have--to use an
unnecessarily harsh word--jilted a man--"
"Jilted!" She had
raised her head and was looking at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "Oh, Ned, if
that were all!"
"All?" he asked
in a hollow voice, while his hands slowly retreated from hers. He was about to
speak further, then remained silent.
"But I don't want to
marry him," Loretta broke forth protestingly.
"Then I
shouldn't," he counselled.
"But I ought to marry
him."
"OUGHT to marry
him?"
She nodded.
"That is a strong
word."
"I know it is,"
she acquiesced, while she strove to control her trembling lips. Then she spoke
more calmly. "I am a wicked woman, a terribly wicked woman. No one knows
how wicked I am--except Billy."
There was a pause. Ned
Bashford's face was grave, and he looked queerly at Loretta.
"He--Billy
knows?" he asked finally.
A reluctant nod and flaming
cheeks was the reply.
He debated with himself for
a while, seeming, like a diver, to be preparing himself for the plunge.
"Tell me about
it." He spoke very firmly. "You must tell me all of it."
"And will
you--ever--forgive me?" she asked in a faint, small voice.
He hesitated, drew a long
breath, and made the plunge.
"Yes," he said
desperately. "I'll forgive you. Go ahead."
"There was no one to
tell me," she began. "We were with each other so much. I did not know
anything of the world--then."
She paused to meditate.
Bashford was biting his lip impatiently.
"If I had only
known--"
She paused again.
"Yes, go on," he
urged.
"We were together
almost every evening."
"Billy?" he demanded,
with a savageness that startled her.
"Yes, of course,
Billy. We were with each other so much . . . If I had only known . . . There
was no one to tell me . . . I was so young--"
Her lips parted as though
to speak further, and she regarded him anxiously.
"The scoundrel!"
With the explosion Ned
Bashford was on his feet, no longer a tired Greek, but a violently angry young
man.
"Billy is not a
scoundrel; he is a good man," Loretta defended, with a firmness that
surprised Bashford.
"I suppose you'll be
telling me next that it was all your fault," he said sarcastically.
She nodded.
"What?" he
shouted.
"It was all my
fault," she said steadily. "I should never have let him. I was to
blame."
Bashford ceased from his
pacing up and down, and when he spoke, his voice was resigned.
"All right," he
said. "I don't blame you in the least, Loretta. And you have been very
honest. But Billy is right, and you are wrong. You must get married."
"To Billy?" she
asked, in a dim, far-away voice.
"Yes, to Billy. I'll
see to it. Where does he live? I'll make him."
"But I don't want to
marry Billy!" she cried out in alarm. "Oh, Ned, you won't do
that?"
"I shall," he
answered sternly. "You must. And Billy must. Do you understand?"
Loretta buried her face in
the cushioned chair back, and broke into a passionate storm of sobs.
All that Bashford could
make out at first, as he listened, was: "But I don't want to leave Daisy!
I don't want to leave Daisy!"
He paced grimly back and
forth, then stopped curiously to listen.
"How was I to know?--Boo--hoo,"
Loretta was crying. "He didn't tell me. Nobody else ever kissed me. I
never dreamed a kiss could be so terrible . . . until, boo-hoo . . . until he
wrote to me. I only got the letter this morning."
His face brightened. It
seemed as though light was dawning on him.
"Is that what you're
crying about?"
"N--no."
His heart sank.
"Then what are you
crying about?" he asked in a hopeless voice.
"Because you said I
had to marry Billy. And I don't want to marry Billy. I don't want to leave
Daisy. I don't know what I want. I wish I were dead."
He nerved himself for
another effort.
"Now look here,
Loretta, be sensible. What is this about kisses. You haven't told me
everything?"
"I--I don't want to
tell you everything."
She looked at him
beseechingly in the silence that fell.
"Must I?" she
quavered finally.
"You must," he
said imperatively. "You must tell me everything."
"Well, then . . . must
I?"
"You must."
"He . . . I . . . we .
. ." she began flounderingly. Then blurted out, "I let him, and he
kissed me."
"Go on," Bashford
commanded desperately.
"That's all," she
answered.
"All?" There was
a vast incredulity in his voice.
"All?" In her
voice was an interrogation no less vast.
"I mean--er--nothing
worse?" He was overwhelmingly aware of his own awkwardness.
"Worse?" She was
frankly puzzled. "As though there could be! Billy said- -"
"When did he say
it?" Bashford demanded abruptly.
"In his letter I got
this morning. Billy said that my . . . our . . . our kisses were terrible if we
didn't get married."
Bashford's head was
swimming.
"What else did Billy
say?" he asked.
"He said that when a
woman allowed a man to kiss her, she always married him--that it was terrible
if she didn't. It was the custom, he said; and I say it is a bad, wicked
custom, and I don't like it. I know I'm terrible," she added defiantly,
"but I can't help it."
Bashford absent-mindedly
brought out a cigarette.
"Do you mind if I
smoke?" he asked, as he struck a match.
Then he came to himself.
"I beg your
pardon," he cried, flinging away match and cigarette. "I don't want
to smoke. I didn't mean that at all. What I mean is--"
He bent over Loretta,
caught her hands in his, then sat on the arm of the chair and softly put one
arm around her.
"Loretta, I am a fool.
I mean it. And I mean something more. I want you to be my wife."
He waited anxiously in the
pause that followed.
"You might answer
me," he urged.
"I will . . .
if--"
"Yes, go on. If
what?"
"If I don't have to
marry Billy."
"You can't marry both
of us," he almost shouted.
"And it isn't the custom
. . . what. . . what Billy said?"
"No, it isn't the
custom. Now, Loretta, will you marry me?"
"Don't be angry with
me," she pouted demurely.
He gathered her into his
arms and kissed her.
"I wish it were the
custom," she said in a faint voice, from the midst of the embrace,
"because then I'd have to marry you, Ned dear . . . wouldn't I?"
