Arrowsmith by Sinclair Lewis (learn to read books txt) 📕

references to Mamie and Earl, and a violent “Yeh, that’s all right, but any time you see me dancing with her you just tell me about it, will yuh!” At the corner, Verbena Pickerbaugh was yelping, and observing, “Now you quit!” to persons unknown.

“Hell! It isn’t worth it! I’m going home,” Martin sighed, but at the moment Charley screamed, “Well, ta, ta, be good; gotta toddle along.”

He was left to Orchid and peace and a silence rather embarrassing.

“It’s so nice to be with somebody that has brains and doesn’t always try to flirt, like Charley,” said Orchid.

He considered, “Splendid! She’s going to be just a nice good girl. And I’ve come to my senses. We’ll just have a little chat and I’ll go home.”

She seemed to have moved nearer. She whispered at him, “I was so lonely, especially with that horrid slangy boy, till I heard your step on the walk. I knew it the second I heard it.”

He patted her hand. As his pats were becoming more ardent than might have been expected from the assistant and friend of her father, she withdrew her hand, clasped her knees, and began to chatter.

Always it had been so in the evenings when he had drifted to the porch and found her alone. She was ten times more incalculable than the most complex woman. He managed to feel guilty toward Leora without any of the reputed joys of being guilty.

While she talked he tried to discover whether she had any brains whatever. Apparently she did not have enough to attend a small Midwestern denominational college. Verbena was going to college this autumn, but Orchid, she explained, thought she “ought to stay home and help Mama take care of the chickabiddies.”

“Meaning,” Martin reflected, “that she can’t even pass the Mugford entrance exams!” But his opinion of her intelligence was suddenly enlarged as she whimpered, “Poor little me, prob’ly I’ll always stay here in Nautilus, while you⁠—oh, with your knowledge and your frightfully strong willpower, I know you’re going to conquer the world!”

“Nonsense, I’ll never conquer any world, but I do hope to pull off a few good health measures. Honestly, Orchid honey, do you think I have much willpower?”

The full moon was spacious now behind the maples. The seedy Pickerbaugh domain was enchanted; the tangled grass was a garden of roses, the ragged grape-arbor a shrine to Diana, the old hammock turned to fringed cloth of silver, the bad-tempered and sputtering lawn-sprinkler a fountain, and over all the world was the proper witchery of moonstruck love. The little city, by day as noisy and busy as a pack of children, was stilled and forgotten. Rarely had Martin been inspired to perceive the magic of a perfect hour, so absorbed was he ever in irascible pondering, but now he was caught, and lifted in rapture.

He held Orchid’s quiet hand⁠—and was lonely for Leora.

The belligerent Martin who had carried off Leora had not thought about romance, because in his clumsy way he had been romantic. The Martin who, like a returned warrior scented and enfeebled, yearned toward a girl in the moonlight, now desirously lifted his face to romance and was altogether unromantic.

He felt the duty of making love. He drew her close, but when she sighed, “Oh, please don’t,” there was in him no ruthlessness and no conviction with which to go on. He considered the moonlight again, but also he considered being at the office early in the morning, and he wondered if he could without detection slip out his watch and see what time it was. He managed it. He stooped to kiss her good night, and somehow didn’t quite kiss her, and found himself walking home.

As he went, he was ruthless and convinced enough regarding himself. He had never, he raged, however stumbling he might have been, expected to find himself a little pilferer of love, a peeping, creeping area-sneak, and not even successful in his sneaking, less successful than the soda-clerks who swanked nightly with the virgins under the maples. He told himself that Orchid was a young woman of no great wisdom, a sigher and drawer-out of her M’s and O’s, but once he was in his lonely flat he longed for her, thought of miraculous and completely idiotic ways of luring her here tonight, and went to bed yearning, “Oh, Orchid⁠—”

Perhaps he had paid too much attention to moonlight and soft summer, for quite suddenly, one day when Orchid came swarming all over the laboratory and perched on the bench with a whisk of stockings, he stalked to her, masterfully seized her wrists, and kissed her as she deserved to be kissed.

He immediately ceased to be masterful. He was frightened. He stared at her wanly. She stared back, shocked, eyes wide, lips uncertain.

“Oh!” she profoundly said.

Then, in a tone of immense interest and some satisfaction:

“Martin⁠—oh⁠—my dear⁠—do you think you ought to have done that?”

He kissed her again. She yielded and for a moment there was nothing in the universe, neither he nor she, neither laboratory nor fathers nor wives nor traditions, but only the intensity of their being together.

Suddenly she babbled, “I know there’s lots of conventional people that would say we’d done wrong, and perhaps I’d have thought so, one time, but⁠—Oh, I’m terribly glad I’m liberal! Of course I wouldn’t hurt dear Leora or do anything really wrong for the world, but isn’t it wonderful that with so many bourgeois folks all around, we can rise above them and realize the call that strength makes to strength and⁠—But I’ve simply got to be at the Y.W.C.A. meeting. There’s a woman lawyer from New York that’s going to tell us about the Modern Woman’s Career.”

When she had gone Martin viewed himself as a successful lover. “I’ve won her,” he gloated⁠ ⁠… Probably never has gloating been so shakily and badly done.

That evening, when he was playing poker in his flat with Irving Watters, the school-clinic dentist, and a young doctor from the city clinic, the telephone bell