Kirby stood where he was until she had gone up the steps and into the
house. Then he paid the cab and set off on foot for the Pennsylvania
Station. When he got there he found that there was an hour to wait for
the next train, and again he set off to walk about the streets, his
hands in his pockets, his pipe between his teeth. All the time her voice
echoed in his ears--her quiet little voice.
“Good Lord!” he said to himself angrily. “It’s no tragedy! I asked the
girl out to dinner, I tried to give her a good time, and that’s all
there is to it.”
But still her voice echoed in his heart, and still he felt that bitter
ache of regret. Let him walk as far as he would, he could not escape
from it.
“She was unhappy,” he thought, and the thought pained him. He went on
walking, and when he got back to the station he found that he had missed
his train. It was the last for that day; the next one left at four
o’clock in the morning.
He didn’t really care. He went to an all-night restaurant and had coffee
and bacon and eggs. Then he strolled back to the waiting room where he
had met her, and sat down there. He had the place to himself; there was
nothing to disturb his reflections.
“The trouble was,” he said to himself, “that I was disappointed.”
And, like an audible response, the words shaped themselves in his mind:
“Well, what about her?”
He had never been more unhappy in all his life. He dozed a little during
those long hours; but whether he slept or waked, he was conscious all
the time of that bitter ache of regret.
There was an air of unreality about the early morning train. It was
almost empty, and such passengers as there were seemed to Kirby to be
very incongruous. For instance, where could that neat little gray-haired
woman be going at such an hour? Or that Italian with a fierce mustache,
who carried a square package wrapped in newspaper?
The world outside, seen through the train window, had the same unreal
air. It was still dark, but this was not the serene darkness of night;
it was, he thought, more like the dim silence of an auditorium before
the curtain goes up. There was a feeling in the air that something
tremendous was about to happen, and that a myriad creatures waited.
He felt the thrill of that expectancy himself. The window beside him was
open, and the wind blew in his face with a divine freshness. He could
see the trees and the sharp lines of roofs, as if they had stepped
forward out of the night’s obscurity. There came a drowsy chirping; the
curtain had begun to rise.
Then all the birds began to wake, and the chorus swelled and swelled.
The insects were chirping, and he could hear the lusty crow of barnyard
cocks--such little creatures, raising so sublime and tremendous a
“Laudamus.”
“The sun’s coming up,” said Kirby to himself.
When he got out of the train the sky was gray, with only a thin veil
before the face of the coming wonder. There was a single taxi at the
station, and he hesitated, because two women had got out of the train
after him; but one of the women set off briskly along the village street
and the other one took the road, so he got into the cab.
A moment later he had passed the woman on the road. There was light
enough to see her now.
“Stop!” he cried, but the driver did not hear him. He banged on the
glass. “Stop! I want to get out!”
Giving the man his last dollar bill, Kirby jumped out and turned back.
She was coming toward him steadfastly, a straight and slender figure in
a dark dress and drooping black hat. He could see that the dress was
shabby, that her shoes were dusty and a little worn. Her face was pale,
and there was a smudge on her forehead.
“Emmy!” he cried.
She stopped short. A hot color rose in her cheeks, and ebbed away,
leaving her still paler.
“Emmy!” he said uncertainly. “You look--you’ve changed!”
“Well, no,” she answered, in that serious little voice. “You see, I’d
borrowed those clothes from a girl at the office. I stopped at her house
to leave them, and I missed the train.” She paused a moment. “I’m sorry
I ever wore them,” she said; “only she’s been so awfully dear and kind
to me, and she said she wanted to make me look nice.”
“You did look nice!” said Kirby.
He felt a sort of anguish at the sight of her. Why hadn’t he known, all
the time, that she was like this? She was innocent and honest and
lovely--and he had so grossly offended against her! He had taken her to
that third-rate place; he had been surly, obstinate, utterly blind; and,
worst of all, he had judged her so arrogantly!
“I’m so sorry!” he said. “You don’t know--I didn’t mean--”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I never went out like that before, and I
wish I hadn’t done it.”
They stood facing each other, standing in the middle of the empty road.
She was downcast, but he was looking at her with amazement. She was
_not_ that little flippant painted thing, like a thousand other girls!
How could he ever have thought so? Neither was she the wise, aloof young
goddess. She was just Emmy, rather shabby and very tired, with a smudge
on her forehead.
“You don’t know,” he said, “how beautiful you are--in the daylight!”
Again the color rose in her cheeks, and as swiftly receded.
“I’ve got to hurry,” she exclaimed, with that earnest politeness of
hers. “You see, my little brother’s taking examinations to-day, and I
promised I’d make pancakes for his breakfast.”
“Oh, Emmy!” he said, and began to laugh.
She smiled herself, reluctantly.
“Well, I did promise,” she declared.
An immense happiness filled him. He knew now! He understood why those
other fellows wanted to get married and set up homes! Bills and worries
and even quarrels were not tragic, and not basely comic. They simply
didn’t matter. The one great thing was this infinite tenderness. He did
not want to worship a goddess any more; he wanted to take care of Emmy.
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
NOVEMBER, 1927
Vol. XCII NUMBER 2