I thrust the slipper into the tail of my coat, and strolled over to the
marble bench which partly encircled the fountain. The tinkle of the
falling water made a pleasant sound. Ten years! I had been away ten
years. How quickly youth vanishes down the glimmering track of time!
Here I was at thirty, rather old, too, for that number; and here was
that pretty girl of fourteen grown into womanhood, a womanhood that
would have stirred the pulses of many a man less susceptible than
myself. That she was unmarried somehow made me glad, though why I can
not say, unless it be that vanity survives everything.
I had been violently in love with her; at that time she hadn't quite
turned six. Then I had lorded it over her tender eighth year, and from
the serene height of twenty I had looked down upon her fourteen in a
fatherly, patronizing fashion. As I recalled her new glory the truth
came upon me that she was like to pay me back with interest for all the
snubs I had given her.
Off to Heidelberg and Bonn and Berlin! Student days! Heigh-ho! Ten years
is a long time. I might still have been an alien, an exile, but for my
uncle's death and that the lonely aunt wanted a man about. (Not that I
was much of a man to have about.) In all these ten years I had not once
visited my native land, scandalous as it may seem; but I had always
celebrated the Fourth of July in my garden, celebrated it religiously,
too, and followed the general elections.
All these people (or nearly all of them) I had known in my youth; and
now not one of them recognized me. There was a pang in this knowledge.
No one likes to be completely forgotten, save the absconding bank-clerk
and the defeated candidate. I had made no effort to recall myself to
those I met. My hostess thoughtlessly supposed that I should take upon
myself the labor of renewing acquaintance; but I found this rather
impossible. Everything was changed, the people and the city; the one had
added to its height and the other to its girth. So I simply wandered
about the familiar rooms summoning up the pleasant ghosts of bygone
days. Then came the slipper episode--and Nancy!
Home again! No more should the sea call, nor the sky, nor the hills; I
was home again, for ever and for ever, so I hoped.
And then I glanced up from my reverie to behold a woman, fair, fat and
forty-eight, seat herself breathlessly on the far end of the bench. I
recognized her instantly: she had been one of the salient features of my
childhood, only a little farther removed than my mother herself. She
was florid in her October years; twenty years ago she had been plump and
pretty; now she was only pretty plump. But a rollicking soul beamed from
her kindly eyes. So I bethought me of the slipper, dragged it forth,
rose and approached.
"Madam," said I gravely, "are you Cinderella?"
She balanced her lorgnette and stared, first at the slipper, then at me.
"Young man, don't be silly. Do I look like a woman who could wear a
little thing like that? Run along with you, and don't make fun of poor
old women. If there is any Cinderella around here I'm only her
godmother."
For a moment I stood abashed. Here was one who had outlived vanity, or
at least had discovered its worthlessness.
"Have you no vanity, madam?" I asked solemnly.
"If I have it has ceased to protrude. Go and give the slipper to a
footman, and don't keep some girl hopping around on one foot."