AN ACQUAINTANCE RENEWED
As they came out of the Forty-second Street station they rushed, after
the true American fashion, for a Fourth Avenue car. Another followed in
two minutes, and had they been German or English they would in leisurely
comfort have taken that, but being American they quite needlessly made a
breathless rush for the first car, and at its step collided violently
with a rotund and florid old male--"glass-of-fashion and mould-of-form."
Three "beg pardons" rose simultaneously into the air. Each party drew
back deferentially. The conductor, with murder in his eye, yelled
fiercely: "Step lively there, will youse!" With beautiful obedience they
all sprang forward to a--second collision. Puffing like a porpoise, the
old man, hat in hand, gasped apologies to the now helplessly confused
girls, until the conductor, with a contemptuous: "Ah--what's the matter
wid youse--eider get on or take de nex'," began hauling the girls
roughly up the steps with one hand, while with the other he savagely
jerked the starting-bell, leaving the man to decide for himself whether
to risk his elderly limbs boarding a moving car or to wait for "de nex'"
The decision was swiftly made, for, firmly grasping the platform
railing, he ran a few steps by the car and then swung himself safely
up, in quite a jaunty fashion--for this rakish old beau had determined
to keep the girlish young beauties in sight.
Coming from the station, and each carrying, as he noticed, a small black
silk bag, he correctly concluded that, all unattended, they were
undertaking a shopping expedition, and he drew himself up with an air
and began to twirl his gray mustache, for, relying on their innocence,
his own impressive manner, and the recent contretemps for assistance, he
hoped to force an acquaintance--one of those chance acquaintances that,
dreaded by all parents, are the absolute bete noir of those mothers who
have not been able to teach their young daughters to distinguish between
a very courteous reserve and an almost "hail fellow" freedom of speech
with amiable strangers. So, it was not long before Sybil, earnestly
discussing at what point on their list they should begin, and whether
they should leave the car at Twenty-third or at Fourteenth Street,
discovered that the overdressed old man opposite was ogling Dorrie
outrageously, and her dark eyes flashed indignant glances at him, while
she did her best to hold her sister's attention, that she might not be
annoyed and shamed by his conduct. This comedy of glances finally caught
the attention of a grave-faced young man sitting next to Sybil. He
followed the direction of the old man's bold glances, and Dorothy's
sweet face held him like a magnet. The rounded cheek, the soft, clear
coloring, the sunny, brown hair, the innocent, widely open blue eyes,
and the slight lift of the brows, that all unconsciously gave her the
pathetic, pleading look that made people ever eager to serve her, moved
him instantly to a feeling of positive gratitude for the other girl who
was trying to protect her.
The car had filled rapidly, and people, mechanically hanging themselves
each by one hand from the overhead straps, swayed back and forth and
trampled alike upon the feet of the just and the unjust, forming a
solidly opaque screen between tormentor and tormented. Suddenly the
whirr of the wheels and the demoniacal voice of the conductor crying:
"Move up there--move up! There's room enough up front, if you'se'll step
up to the end!" became faint and far off to the hearing of the
grave-faced young man, whose gray eyes had discovered a little knot of
wild violets snuggled into one of their own round green leaves and drawn
through the button-hole of Dorothy's jacket. Through one dim moment he
saw a boy's stumpy brown fist holding out a bunch of "vi'lets" to a sick
white hand all netted over with distended blue veins, and heard a thin
whispering voice saying: "And mother would have loved them quite as well
if her boy had called them 'violets' instead of 'vi'lets,'" and the
little blossoms became but a purple blur as he thought with a pang how
long that dear admonishing voice had been silent.
The crowd had increased, and Sybil, in bobbing her head this way and
that in an effort to see just where they were, became conscious of a
young woman standing before her. She was very pale, and great drops of
perspiration stood on her hollow temples. She carried a heavy-looking
baby in her arms, and, having no strap to hold to, she reeled and
staggered and pitched with every sudden start or jerking stop of the
car. Sybil, with a pitying exclamation, rose and gave her place to the
poor, sick-looking creature, who, sinking into the seat, raised
grateful, tear-filled eyes to the dark, glowing face above her, saying:
"It's the baby--he's that heavy, or I wouldn't take it from you, ma'am."
Then up sprang the old beau, and offered his place to Sybil, who coldly
thanked him, but preferred to stand by her sister. But that was just
what he proposed to do himself--to stand by her, and quite naturally to
address a few words to that fair sister, and he so far forgot himself as
to put his hand on Sybil's arm and try to force her into his seat, when
suddenly the grave young man rose, touched the woman with the baby on
the shoulder, and said: "Move into my place, please, and allow this
young lady to resume her seat." The thing had been done so quickly that
there was no time for thought, and the two quick "thank yous" of the
girls were followed by a grateful smile and an upward glance of Dorrie's
blue eyes straight into the face of the young man, who felt his hand
tremble as he lifted his hat and silently made his way through the crowd
to the rear platform.
The elderly ogler, meantime, very red as to face and neck, looked out of
the window nearest him. The girls, who had been consulting their lists,
rose suddenly while he was so occupied, and with several other
passengers left the car. The moment he missed them he started to his
feet, but as he moved he saw a card fallen on the matting, and stooping
picked it up. It was one of Mrs. Lawton's visiting cards, and on its
back was scribbled yards and pounds of various articles, evidently a
shopping list. As he turned it over and read "Mrs. John W. Lawton," with
a former address crossed off and "Woodsedge" written beneath it, he
exclaimed: "The devil! Lawton's girls grown up, and I didn't recognize
them? By thunder! I must find them again! Hi! conductor!" He plunged
toward the platform, brushing against open papers and stepping on toes
without apology, and, dropping off the car, he returned to the corner of
the street where the girls had disappeared.
"Lawton's girls!" he muttered. "Woodsedge--where the devil is Woodsedge,
I'd like to know! But that blondest girl's a beauty, and no mistake! The
dark one glared at me like a cat. Let's see, now, what did they call
those youngsters when they were over in the Oranges?" And hunting
through his wicked old memory for the names he had forgotten, he placed
himself on guard in front of a certain great store, on the chance of
seeing Sybil and Dorothy come out. A most undignified occupation for Mr.
William Henry Bulkley, aged fifty-five years, worth some eight hundred
thousand dollars, but rated as a millionaire. Yet there were certain
people in the city who would have expressed no surprise had they seen
him so engaged, since they knew the occupation was neither new nor
strange to him. He had long retired from business, and now relied
principally upon the devil to provide work for his idle hands to do, and
it is but fair to admit that he was seldom without a job. That he was
looked upon and spoken of as a millionaire filled him with pride
unspeakable. There is not a doubt that from the two hundred thousand
dollars with which the world mistakenly accredited him he drew greater
satisfaction and delight than from the eight hundred thousand dollars he
really owned. So much pleasanter it is to be over, rather than
correctly, estimated.
A big man was Mr. Bulkley--whose employees used to call "Old Hulkey"--a
heavily breathing man, who had lost his waist-line years ago, to his
great chagrin. He had long yellow teeth, his own beyond a doubt, since
no dentist on earth would have risked his reputation by making such an
atrocious set. His cheeks sagged, and were of a brick red, netted over
with tiny purplish veins. He had pale, impudent blue eyes, and his
occasional trick of leering from under half-drooped lids made them
offensively ugly. He dressed in the fashion of--to-morrow. No novelty
escaped him, and his jewelry was really the best thing about him, since
it was genuine and modest.
In the days when he had been a neighbor of the Lawtons, over in the
picturesque Orange Mountains, he had had a wife, or, to be more exact,
there had been a Mrs. Bulkley, since for many years she had been nothing
more to him than an unsalaried housekeeper. His contemptuous
indifference as to her knowledge of his infamies deprived her even of
the cloak of pretended ignorance with which many a betrayed wife hides
her wounded pride and self-respect. So, from a rosy, cheery, happy wife,
she had been changed into a pale and silent housekeeper. Sometimes a
certain alleviating friendship exists between a wife and her disloyal
husband, but not in this case; for without sympathy there can be no
friendship, and there was not a particle of sympathy between the
dutiful, pure-minded, humiliated Anna Bulkley and the lax, self-loving,
and carnal William H. Bulkley.
So she had folded her lips closely to hide their tendency to tremble,
and had borne her lot silently, growing a little paler, a little
thinner, a little more retiring year by year, until there came that
hottest morning of a long, hot stretch of weather when she failed to
descend to breakfast, and her husband had angrily rapped upon her door,
declaring that because he wished to go to the city early that day he
supposed she meant to sleep forever, and was surprised to find his
supposition was an absolutely correct one, for she slept forever. "Heart
failure," said the hastily summoned doctor, and doubtless he accurately
stated the immediate cause of death, but there were certain women among
these lovely country homes who felt sure that the fatal weakness was
neither recent nor caused by the summer heat; who believed the poor
wife's heart failure dated from the time her husband abandoned home for
harem, and by the publicity of his infidelities had made her an object
of contemptuous pity. Therefore cold and unfriendly were the glances
they cast upon the black-clothed, crepe-bound widower in their midst.
Now, looking back to that time, he recalled his dead wife's fondness for
the little ones of her neighbor's--the bon-bons she always kept at hand,
the swing she had put up for her childish visitors' amusement, and the
accident, one day, when the rope broke, and--yes, these very children of
Lawton's were the ones that fell; and then quite suddenly he seemed to
hear his wife's voice, crying: "Oh, Dorrie, Sibbie, are you hurt?"
With a triumphant laugh he struck his hands together, exclaiming: "I've
found them! I've got their names at last! Now, if I can find the girls
again in this confounded crowd, I'll have fair sailing!"
But it happened that the girls saw him first, and cleverly avoided him
by whipping through a side street over to Sixth Avenue, where, with a
sigh for the salads and strawberries of Broadway, they lunched upon
coffee and buns in a clean little bakery; for, by so doing and by
walking and saving cross-town fares both ways, they were able each to
buy a bit of bright ribbon for Lena to turn into the awful bows with
which she loved to plaster her honest German breast.
"Poor thing!" sighed Dorothy; "I wish we could get her something worth
while!"
"So do I," answered Sybil; "for positively she is the staff of our
family at present, and to think that papa should have found her! I
believe the one dollar he paid to the intelligence office that day was
the only lucky investment of his life!"
"Poor thing!" repeated Dorothy; "I'm afraid she will not walk a primrose
path to-day!"
"No!" answered Sybil, "it will not be easy for mamma to forgive that
'cheeks bottle' speech, and Lena will probably hear a good many
allusions to sculleries in consequence, or mamma may crush her into
speechless awe by suddenly and apropos of nothing telling her that
she--the mistress--once danced in the same room with the Prince of
Wales!" And they laughed a little over the old boast as they hastened
back to Broadway to secure the new bottle of rouge-vinaigre.
Meantime Mr. Bulkley, who, like most vain men, had a corn or two, had
grown weary of watching from the sidewalk, and, swearing a little to
himself, had gone to a fashionable restaurant, much favored by women;
and, little dreaming that the place was far beyond the means of the
girls he sought, he secured a seat near the door, where he sat, and,
like a fat old spider, watched for his pretty flies. But they came not,
and when he could decently sit there no longer, he cursed just under his
breath with an ease and fluency that showed long and earnest practice;
then, red and hot with wine and anger, he paid his bill and went out,
quite forgetting that truthful old saying, "The devil takes care of his
own," until his infernal majesty did it in his case by suddenly bringing
into view the two girlish figures he had so long been searching for.
Having mamma's new "cheeks-bottle" concealed in a non-committal box of
white pasteboard, Sybil came forth, followed slowly by Dorothy, who had
not completed her study of the coiffure worn by one of the waxy beauties
with inch-long eyelashes and button-hole mouth, who lived in the window
and turned about slowly and steadily all the time the public eye was
upon her.
"Just wait, Sybil," said Dorothy, "until her back comes this way again.
I'm sure that jug-handle knot is not tied, and yet how can you make a
knot of back hair stand up firmly like that without tying it, I should
like to know?"
"Why," replied Sybil, "I believe it's done by extremely tight twisting.
Haven't you noticed how a tightly twisted cord will double itself back
in just that shape, and----"
She got no farther. A cough, "I beg your pardon!" interrupted her. Both
girls turned, to face the smiling, bowing William Henry Bulkley, who,
ignoring their frowns, hastened to say, with a sort of bluff and
fatherly cordiality: "My dear Miss Lawton--Miss Dorothy--I hesitated to
recall myself to your memory at our first meeting this morning, as I saw
with regret you had quite forgotten me. [This is the sort of thing that
keeps Truth at the bottom of her well.] But this second accidental
meeting seems so like a Providence restoring a valued friendship that I
venture to address you with messages to my old-time friend and neighbor,
John Lawton!"
"Yes?" softly queried Dorothy, but Sybil, with back-thrown head,
regarded him with an angry suspicion he could have shaken her for. Still
he proceeded, blandly: "A man I highly esteemed, and have long hoped to
meet again. You have, then [regretfully], quite forgotten me? You used
to be rather fond of visiting my wife and swinging----"
"Oh, Mrs. Bulkley!" exclaimed Dorothy, catching Sybil's arm. "Don't you
remember our fall from the swing, and how good she was to us?" And
maliciously interrupted Sybil: "How angry Mr. Bulkley was? Yes, I
remember you, sir!"
And looking into each other's eyes, they hated one another right
heartily. But Dorothy, thinking only of what a pleasant surprise this
finding of an old friend would be to her father, hastened to say: "Papa
will remember you well, Mr. Bulkley, I'm sure!"
"Thank you!" beamed that gentleman. "And your charming mamma, how is
she? Well? So glad! A very lovely woman. May I ask your present address,
and your kind permission to call upon your parents--that, according to
our foreign critics, is, I believe, the correct formula, since they
declare that parents are governed absolutely by their children in
America. Woodsedge? Broadway? Ah, yes--yes, near the new park the city
is about opening--quite so! I--I shall do myself the pleasure of driving
out to present my compliments to your mamma and renew my friendship with
your father. Do allow me, Miss Dorrie--no trouble at all. I am on my way
uptown, and I shall esteem it a pleasure to see you young ladies on to
your home train."
And almost forcibly removing various packages from both girls' hands, he
constituted himself their escort and guardian, feasting his eyes upon
the fresh young beauty of Dorothy when the noise prevented talking. At
the station he added to their parcels a couple of magazines and a box of
chocolates, and, seeing them safely through the door that admitted them
to their train's platform, he doffed his hat in farewell. And Dorothy
gave him a rather forced smile and hasty good-by, while Sybil, with
unsmiling lips, gave a short nod of her haughty young head, and William
Henry Bulkley said, low: "You damned little cat," put on his hat again
and went out, and, climbing into a car, added to himself: "But the other
one--good Lord! When you come to talk about peaches, why----"