The Adventures of a Modest Man
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"I think," she suggested, quietly, "that, if you care to stretch, I wouldn't mind it, either. Can you do it discreetly?"
"I'll try," he said in a whisper. "Shall I count three?"
She nodded.
"One, two, three," he counted, and they cautiously stretched their legs.
"I now know how the Siamese twins felt," he said, sullenly. "No wonder they died young."
She laughed – a curious, little laugh which was one of the most agreeable sounds he had ever heard.
"I take it for granted," he said, "that you will always cherish for me a wholesome and natural hatred."
"I shall never see you again," she replied, simply.
That silenced him for a while; he fished about in his intellect to find mitigating circumstances. There was none that he knew of.
"Suppose – under pleasanter auspices, we should some day meet?" he suggested.
"We never shall."
"How do you know?"
"It is scarcely worth while speculating upon such an improbability," she said, coldly.
"But – suppose – "
She turned toward him. "You desire to know what my attitude would be toward you?"
"Yes, I do."
"It would be one of absolutely amiable indifference – if you really wish to know," she said so sweetly that he was quite sure his entire body shrank at least an inch.
"By the way," she added, "the last passenger has left this car."
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "Now's our time. Would you mind – "
"With the very greatest pleasure," she said, quickly; "please count one, two, three."
He counted; there came a discreet movement, and from under the hem of her gown there appeared a dainty shoe, accompanied by a larger masculine companion. He bent down, his fingers seemed to be all thumbs, and he grew redder and redder.
"Perhaps I can do it," she said, stripping off her gloves and bending over. A stray tendril of bright hair brushed his cheek as their heads almost came together.
"Goodness, what a dreadful knot!" she breathed, her smooth fingers busy. The perfume of her hair, her gloves, her gown thrilled him; he looked at her face, now flushed with effort; his eyes fell on her delicate hands, her distractingly pretty foot, in its small, polished shoe.
"Patience," she said, calmly; "this knot must give way – "
"If it doesn't – "
"Madness lies that way," she breathed. "Wait! Don't dare to move your foot!"
"We are approaching a station; shall I cut it?" he asked.
"No – wait! I think I have solved it. There!" she cried with a breathless laugh. "We are free!"
There was not an instant to lose, for the train had already stopped; they arose with one accord and hurried out into the silvery Harlem moonlight – which does not, perhaps, differ from normal moonlight, although it seemed to him to do astonishing tricks with her hair and figure there on the deserted platform, turning her into the loveliest and most unreal creature he had ever seen in all his life.
"There ought to be a train pretty soon," he said cheerfully.
She did not answer.
"Do you mind my speaking to you now that we are – "
"Untethered?" she said with a sudden little flurry of laughter. "Oh, no; why should I care what happens to me now, after taking a railroad journey tied to the shoe-strings of an absent-minded stranger?"
"Please don't speak so – so heartlessly – "
"Heartlessly? What have hearts to do with this evening's lunacy?" she asked, coolly.
He had an idea, an instinctive premonition, but it was no explanation to offer her.
Far away up the track the starlike headlight of a train glittered: he called her attention to it, and she nodded. Neither spoke for a long while; the headlight grew larger and yellower; the vicious little train came whizzing in, slowed, halted with a jolt. He put her aboard and followed into a car absolutely empty save for themselves. When they had gravely seated themselves side by side she looked around at him and said without particular severity: "I can see no reason for our going back together; can you?"
"Yes," he answered with such inoffensive and guileless conviction that she was silent.
He went on presently: "Monstrous as my stupidity is, monumental ass as I must appear to you, I am, as a matter of fact, rather a decent fellow – the sort of man a girl need not flay alive to punish."
"I do not desire to punish you. I do not expect to know you – "
"Do you mean 'expect,' or 'desire'?"
"I mean both, if you insist." There was a sudden glimmer in her clear eyes that warned him; but he went on:
"I beg you to give me a chance to prove myself not such a clown as you think me."
"But I don't think about you at all!" she explained.
"Won't you give me a chance?"
"How?"
"Somebody you – we both know – I mean to say – "
"You mean, will I sit here and compare notes with you to find out whether we both know Tom, Dick, and Harry? No, I will not."
"I mean – so that – if you don't mind – somebody can vouch for me – "
"No," she said, decisively.
"I mean – I would be so grateful – and I admire you tremendously – "
"Please do not say that."
"No – I won't, of course; I don't admire anybody very much, and I didn't dream of being offensive – only – I – now that I've known you – "
"You don't know me," she observed, icily.
"No, of course, I don't know you at all; I'm only talking to you – "
"A nice comment upon us both," she observed; "could anything be more pitifully common?"
"But being tied together, how could we avoid talking about it?" he pleaded. "When you're tied up like that to a person, it's per – permitted to speak, you know – "
"We talked entirely too much," she said with decision. "Now we are not tied at all, and I do not see what decent excuse we can have for conversing about anything… Do you?"
"Yes, I do."
"What excuse?" she asked.
"Well, for one thing, a sense of humour. A nice spectacle we should be, you in one otherwise empty car, I in another, bored to death – "
"Do you think," she said, impatiently, "that I require anybody's society to save myself from ennui?"
"No – but I require – "
"That is impertinent!"
"I didn't mean to be; you must know that!" he said.
She looked out of the window.
"I wonder," he began in a cheerful and speculative tone, taking courage from her silence – "I wonder whether you know – "
"I will not discuss people I know with you," she said.
"Then let us discuss people I know," he rejoined, amiably.
"Please don't."
"Please let me – "
"No."
"Are you never going to forgive me?" he asked.
"I shall forget," she said, meaningly.
"Me?"
"Certainly."
"Please don't – "
"You are always lingering dangerously close to the border of impertinence," she said. "I do not wish to be rude or ungracious. I have been unpardonably annoyed, and – when I consider my present false situation – I am annoyed still more. Let me be unmistakably clear and concise; I do not feel any – anger – toward you; I have no feeling whatever toward you; and I do not ever expect to see you again. Let it rest so. I will drop you my best curtsey when you lift your hat to me at Twenty-ninth Street. Can a guilty man ask more?"
"Your punishment is severe," he said, flushing.
"My punishment? Who am I punishing, if you please?"
"Me."
"What folly! I entertain no human emotions toward you; I have no desire to punish you. How could I punish you – if I wished to?"
"By doing what you are doing."
"And what is that?" she asked rather softly.
"Denying me any hope of ever knowing you."
"You are unfair," she said, biting her lip. "I do not deny you that 'hope,' as you choose to call it. Consider a moment. Had you merely seen me on the train you could not have either hoped or even desired ever to know me. Suppose for a moment – " she flushed, but her voice was cool and composed "suppose you were attracted to me – thought me agreeable to look at? You surely would never have dreamed of speaking to me and asking such a thing. Why, then, should you take unfair advantage of an accident and ask it now? You have no right to – nor have I to accord you what you say you desire."
She spoke very sweetly, meeting his eyes without hesitation.
"May I reply to you?" he asked soberly.
"Yes – if you wish."
"You will not take it as an affront?"
"Not – not if – " She looked at him. "No," she said.
"Then this is my reply: Wherever I might have seen you I should instantly have desired to know you. That desire would have caused you no inquietude; I should have remained near you without offense, perfectly certain in my own mind that somehow and somewhere I must manage to know you; and to that end – always without offense, and without your knowledge – I should have left the train when you did, satisfied myself where you lived, and then I should have scoured the city, and moved heaven and earth to find the proper person who might properly ask your permission to receive me. That is what I should have done if I had remained thirty seconds in the same car with you… Are you offended?"
"No," she said.
They journeyed on for some time, saying nothing; she, young face bent, sensitive lips adroop, perhaps considering what he said; he, cradling his golf-sticks, trying to keep his eyes off her and succeeding very badly.
"I wonder what your name is?" she said, looking up at him.
"James Seabury," he replied so quickly that it was almost pathetic.
She mused, frowning a little: "Where have I heard your name?" she asked with an absent-minded glance at him.
"Oh – er – around, I suppose," he suggested, vaguely.
"But I have heard it. Are you famous?"
"Oh, no," he said quickly. "I'm an architect, or ought to be. Fact is, I'm so confoundedly busy golfing and sailing and fishing and shooting and hunting that I have very little time for business."
"What a confession!" she exclaimed, laughing outright; and the beauty that transfigured her took his breath away. But her laughter was brief, her eyes grew more serious than ever: "So you are not in business?"
"No."
"I am employed," she said calmly, looking at him.
"Are you?" he said, astonished.
"So, you see," she added gaily, "I should have very little time to see anybody – "
"You mean me?"
"Yes, you, for example."
"You don't work all the while, do you?" he asked.
"Usually."
"All the time?"
"I dine – at intervals."
"That's the very thing!" he said with enthusiasm.
She looked at him gravely.
"Don't you see," he went on, "as soon as you'll let me know you my sister will call, and then you'll call, and then my sister will invite – "
She was suddenly laughing again – a curious laugh, quite free and unguarded.
"Of course, you'll tell your sister how we met," she suggested; "she'll be so anxious to know me when she hears all about it."
"Do you suppose," he said coolly, "that I don't know one of my own sort whenever or however I happen to meet her?"
"Men cannot always tell; I grant you women seldom fail in placing one another at first glance; but men rarely possess that instinct… Besides, I tell you I am employed."
"What of it? Even if you wore the exceedingly ornamental uniform of a parlor-maid it could not worry me."
"Do you think your sister would hasten to call on a saleswoman at Blumenshine's?" she asked carelessly.
"Nobody wants her to," he retorted, amused.
"Or on a parlor-maid – for example?"
"Let her see you first; you can't shock her after that… Are you?" he inquired gently – so gently, so pleasantly, that she gave him a swift look that set his heart galloping.
"Do you really desire to know me?" she asked. But before he could answer she sprang up, saying: "Good gracious! This is Twenty-eighth Street! It seems impossible!"
He could not believe it, either, but he fled after her, suit-case and golf-bag swinging; the gates slammed, they descended the stairs and emerged on Twenty-eighth Street. "I live on Twenty-ninth Street," she said; "shall we say good-bye here?"
"I should think not!" he replied with a scornful decision that amazed her, but, curiously enough, did not offend her. They walked up Twenty-eighth Street to Fifth Avenue, crossed, turned north under the white flare of electricity, then entered Twenty-ninth Street slowly, side by side, saying nothing.
CHAPTER XIX
THE TIME AND THE PLACE
She halted at the portal of an old-fashioned house which had been turned into an apartment hotel – a great brownstone mansion set back from the street. A severely respectable porter in livery appeared and bowed to her, but when his apoplectic eyes encountered Seabury's his shaven jaw dropped and a curious spasm appeared to affect his knees.
She did not notice it; she turned to Seabury and, looking him straight in the face, held out her hand.
"Good-night," she said. "Be chivalrous enough to find out who I am – without sacrificing me… You – you have not displeased me."
He took her hand, held it a moment, then released it.
"I live here," he said calmly.
A trifle disconcerted, she searched his face. "That is curious," she said uneasily.
"Oh, not very. I have bachelor apartments here; I've been away from town for three months. Here is my pass-key," he added, laughing, and to the strangely paralyzed porter he tossed his luggage with a nod and a pleasant: "You didn't expect me for another month, William, did you?"
"That explains it," she said smiling, a tint of excitement in her pretty cheeks. "I've been here only for a day or two."
They were entering now, side by side; he followed her into the elevator. The little red-haired boy, all over freckles and gilt buttons, who presided within the cage, gaped in a sort of stupor when he saw Seabury.
"Well, Tommy," inquired that young gentleman, "what's the matter?"
"What floor?" stammered Tommy, gazing wildly from one to the other.
"The usual one, in my case," said Seabury, surprised.
"The usual one, in my case," said the girl, looking curiously at the agitated lad. The cage shot up to the third floor; they both rose, and he handed her out. Before either could turn the elevator hurriedly dropped, leaving them standing there together. Then, to the consternation of Seabury, the girl quietly rang at one of the only two apartments on the floor, and the next instant a rather smart-looking English maid opened the door.
Seabury stared; he turned and examined the corridor; he saw the number on the door of the elevator shaft; he saw the number over the door.
"There seems to be," he began slowly, "something alarming the matter with me to-night. I suppose – I suppose it's approaching dementia, but do you know that I have a delusion that this apartment is mine?"
"Yours!" faltered the girl, turning pale.
"Well – it was once – before I left town. Either that or incipient lunacy explains my hallucination."
The maid stood at the door gazing at him in undisguised astonishment. Her pretty mistress looked at her, looked at Seabury, turned and cast an agitated glance along the corridor – just in time to catch a glimpse of the curly black whiskers and the white and ghastly face of the proprietor peering at them around the corner. Whiskers and pallor instantly vanished. She looked at Seabury.
"Please come in a moment, Mr. Seabury," she said calmly. He followed her into the familiar room decorated with his own furniture, and lined with his own books, hung with his own pictures. At a gesture from her he seated himself in his own armchair; she sat limply in a chair facing him.
"Are these your rooms?" she asked unsteadily.
"I thought so, once. Probably there's something the matter with me."
"You did not desire to rent them furnished during your absence?"
"Not that I know of."
"And you have returned a month before they expected you, and I – oh, this is infamous!" she cried, clenching her white hands. "How dared that wretched man rent this place to me? How dared he!"
A long and stunning silence fell upon them – participated in by the British maid.
Then Seabury began to laugh. He looked at the maid, he looked at her angry and very lovely young mistress, looked at the tables littered with typewriters and stationery, he caught sight of his own dining-room with the little table laid for two. His gayety disconcerted her – he rose, paced the room and returned.
"It seems my landlord has tried to turn a thrifty penny by leasing you my rooms!" he said, soberly. "Is that it?"
She was close to tears, controlling her voice and keeping her self-possession with a visible effort. "I – I am treasurer and secretary for the new wing to – to St. Berold's Hospital," she managed to say. "We – the women interested, needed an office – we employ several typewriters, and – oh, goodness! What on earth will your sister think!"
"My sister? Why, she's at Seal Harbor – "
"Your sister was there visiting my mother. I came on to town to see our architects; I wired her to come. She – she was to dine with me here to-night! Sherry was notified!"
"My sister?"
"Certainly. What on earth did she think when she found me installed in your rooms? And that's bad enough, but I invited her to dine and go over the hospital matters – she's one of the vice presidents – and then – then you tied our feet together and it's – what time is it?" she demanded of her maid.
"It is midnight, mem," replied the maid in sepulchral tones.
"Is that man from Sherry's still there?"
"He is, mem."
Her mistress laid her charming head in her hands and covered her agreeable features with a handkerchief of delicate and rather valuable lace.
The silence at last was broken by Seabury addressing the maid: "Is that dinner spoiled?"
"Quite, sir."
Her mistress looked up hastily: "Mr. Seabury, you are not going to – "
"Yes, I am; this is the time and the place!" And he rose with decision and walked straight to the kitchen, where a stony-faced individual sat amid the culinary ruins, a statue of despair.
"What I want you to do," said Seabury, "is to fix up a salad and some of the cold duck, and attend to the champagne. Meanwhile I think I'll go downstairs; I have an engagement to kill a man."
However, a moment later he thought better of it; she was standing by the mirror – his own mirror – touching her eyes with her lace handkerchief and patting her hair with the prettiest, whitest hands.
"Kill him? Never: I'll canonize him!" muttered Seabury, enchanted. Behind him he heard the clink of glass and china, the pleasant sound of ice. She heard it, too, and turned.
"Of all the audacity!" she said in a low voice, looking at him under her level brows. But there was something in her eyes that gave him courage – and in his that gave her courage… Besides, they were dreadfully hungry.
"You refuse to tell me?"
"I do," she said. "If you have not wit enough to find out my name without betraying me to your sister you do not deserve to know my name – or me."
It was nearly two o'clock, they had risen, and the gay little flowery table remained between them; the salad and duck were all gone. But the froth purred in their frail glasses, breaking musically in the candle-lit silence.
"Will you tell me your name before I go?"
"I will not." Her bright eyes and fair young face defied him.
"Very well; as soon as I learn it I shall be more generous – for I have something to tell you; and I'll do it, too!"
"Are you sure you will?" she asked, flushing up.
"Yes, I am sure."
"I may not care to hear what you have to say, Mr. Seabury."
They regarded one another intently, curiously. Presently her slender hand fell as by accident on the stem of her wine-glass; he lifted his glass: very, very slowly. She raised hers, looking at him over it.
"To – what I shall tell you – when I learn your name!" he said, deliberately.
Faint fire burned in her cheeks; her eyes fell, then were slowly raised to his; in silence, still looking at one another, they drank the toast.
"Dammit!" I said, impatiently, "is that all?"
"Yes," he said, "that will be about all. I'm going home to bed."
CHAPTER XX
DOWN THE SEINE
My daughter Alida and my daughter Dulcima had gone to drive with the United States Ambassador and his daughter that morning, leaving me at the Hôtel with instructions as to my behaviour in their absence, and injunctions not to let myself be run over by any cab, omnibus, automobile, or bicycle whatever.
Considerably impressed by their solicitude, I retired to the smoking-room, believing myself safe there from any form of vehicular peril. But the young man from Chicago sauntered in and took a seat close beside me, with benevolent intentions toward relieving my isolation.
I preferred any species of juggernaut to his rough riding over the English language, so I left him murkily enveloped in the fumes of his own cigar and sauntered out into the street.
The sky was cloudless; the air was purest balm. Through fresh clean streets I wandered under the cool shadows of flowering chestnuts, and presently found myself on the quay near the Pont des Arts, leaning over and looking at the river slipping past between its walls of granite.
In a solemn row below me sat some two dozen fishermen dozing over their sport. Their long white bamboo poles sagged, their red and white quill-floats bobbed serenely on the tide. Truly here was a company of those fabled Lotus-eaters, steeped in slumber; a dreamy, passionless band of brothers drowsing in the sunshine.
Looking east along the grey stone quays I could see hundreds and hundreds of others, slumbering over their fishpoles; looking west, the scenery was similar.
"The fishing must be good here," I observed to an aged man, leaning on the quay-wall beside me.
"Comme ça," he said.
I leaned there lazily, waiting to see the first fish caught. I am an angler myself, and understand patience; but when I had waited an hour by my watch I looked suspiciously at the aged man beside me. He was asleep, so I touched him.
He roused himself without resentment. "Have you," said I, sarcastically, "ever seen better fishing than this, in the Seine?"
"Yes," he said; "I once saw a fish caught."
"And when was that?" I asked.
"That," said the aged man, "was in 1853."
I strolled down to the lower quay, smoking. As I passed the row of anglers I looked at them closely. They all were asleep.
Just above was anchored one of those floating lavoirs in which the washerwomen of Paris congregate to beat your linen into rags with flat wooden paddles, and soap the rags snow-white at the cost of a few pennies.
The soapsuds from the washing floated off among the lines of the slumbering fishermen. Perhaps that was one reason why the fish were absent from the scenery. On the other hand, however, I was given to understand that a large sewer emptied into the river near the Pont des Arts, and that the fishing was best in such choice spots. Still something certainly was wrong somewhere, for either the sewer and the soapsuds had killed the fish, or they had all migrated up the sewer on an inland and subterranean picnic to meet the elite among the rats of Paris, and spend the balance of the day.
The river was alive with little white saucy steamboats, rushing up and down the Seine with the speed of torpedo craft. There was a boat-landing within a few paces of where I stood, so, when a boat came along and stopped to discharge a few passengers, I stepped aboard, bound for almost anywhere, and not over-anxious to get there too quickly. Neither did I care to learn my own destination, and when the ticket agent in naval uniform came along to inquire where I might be going, I told him to sell me a pink ticket because it looked pretty. As all Frenchmen believe that all Americans are a little mad, my request, far from surprising the ticket agent, simply confirmed his national theory; and he gave me my ticket very kindly, with an air of protection such as one involuntarily assumes toward children and invalids.
"You are going to Saint Cloud," he said. "I'll tell you when to get off the boat."
"Thank you," said I.
"You ought to be going the other way," he added.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because Charenton lies the other way," he replied, politely, and passed on to sell his tickets.