A LESSON IN IGNORANCE
Desirée was at the piano. Caleb Conover, whose knowledge of music
embraced one Sousa march and “Summer Noon” (with a somewhat hazy idea
as to which was which) lounged, sprawling, on a cushion by her feet;
listening in ignorant admiration to the snatches of melody. That anyone
could coax a tune out of so complex an instrument was to him a mystery
to be greeted with silent respect.
He had come to her, in the long Spring twilight, to show with naive
pride an invitation he had just received. An invitation to the
musicale-dinner at the Standishes’, three nights hence. He volunteered
no information as to how it had been obtained; but evaded the girl’s
wondering queries with the guilty embarrassment that was always his
when she chanced to corner him in a fault. From Conover’s manner
Desirée gathered that the invitation was in a way an effort on
Standish’s part to repay the courtesy of the various large loans she
knew Caleb had made to the banker. Nor would she spoil the Fighter’s
very evident delight by closer cross-questioning. Caleb had said, days
ago, that he was going to be invited to the dinner. And, despite her
invariable scoffs at his boasts, she had long since learned that such
vaunts had an odd way of coming true.
The June dusk lay velvet-like over the little music room. From the yard
outside came the bitter-sweet breath of syringas. Far off sounded the
yells of Billy Shevlin and some of his fellow street-boys; their racket
mellowed by distance.
Talk had languished. At last Desirée had crossed to the piano. She
sat, playing scraps of music, as was her wont; pausing now and then to
speak; then letting her fingers run into a new air or a series of soft
improvised chords. She had scant technique and played almost wholly by
ear; using the piano only as the amateur music-worshipper’s medium for
recalling and reproducing some cherished fragments of song.
But to Caleb, lolling at her side, the performance was sublime. That
anyone could talk while playing the piano was to him nothing short
of marvelous. He was firmly convinced it was a gift vouchsafed to
Desirée alone. Music itself was wholly unintelligible to him. Except
from Desirée’s lips or fingers, he found it actively distasteful. But
all she did was perfect. And if her playing fell upon his ear as a
meaningless jumble of sounds, he at least found the sounds sweet.
“What’s that thing you just did with one hand and then rumbled down on
the low notes with the other?” he asked, after a spell of watching the
busy white fingers shining through the dusk.
“That?” queried Desirée. “It’s just the Vanderdecken motive from _The
Flying Dutchman_. And I used to be able to play the whole Spinning
Song; but I’ve forgotten most of it.”
“H’m!” murmured Caleb, who found her words as unmeaning as her music.
“I _thought_ I remembered that one. ‘Spinning Song,’ hey?”
“Yes,” she said absently. “It starts out with lots of bizzy, purry
little notes too fast for me to play. I never could learn the piano.”
“You bet you could!” cried Caleb, at once afire with contradiction.
“I’ve heard a lot of crackajack piano players an’ never one of ’em
could hold a candle to you. Why, there was Blink Snesham--the feller
they called Ragtime King,--down to Kerrigan’s. You’ve got him beat a
block.”
“You dear old loyal idiot!” laughed Desirée, lifting one hand from the
keys to rumple his stiff red hair with a gesture as affectionate as it
was discomfiting. “I believe you think I’m the wonderfullest person on
earth.”
“I _know_ you are,” he answered simply, his big body a-thrill with
half-holy joy at her touch. “What’s the one you’re playing now with
your other hand. Ain’t so very long, but it’s kind of sprightly.”
“It’s Siegfried’s horn-call. See how it changes to four-time and loses
all its buoyancy, in the _Goetterdaemmerung_ funeral march.”
Solemnly, hopelessly, the transformed, distorted horn-call crashed out.
“That ain’t the same thing you played just now, is it?” he asked
in doubt. “Sounds sort of like the toons the bands play at Masonic
fun’rals.”
“Same notes. Different tempo. One is the motive of the boy who starts
out through the forest of life sounding a joy-challenge to everything
and everybody. The other is woven into the dead hero’s mourning chant.
In _Goetterdaemmerung_, you know.”
“Oh, yes. I remember now,” said Caleb, hastily. “It’d just slipped my
mind for the minute. I’ve got so many things to think of, you know.”
“Caleb Conover!”
Down came both little hands with a reproving bang on the keyboard, as
the girl started out of her rhapsody.
“Caleb Conover, you’re being that way _again_! And after all I’ve told
you. How am I going to cure you of pretending?”
“But, Dey!” he declared. “Honest I--I thought--I did.”
“You know very well you were pretending. You don’t know whether
_Goetterdaemmerung_ is a dog, a bird, or a patent medicine. Now
confess. _Do_ you?”
“From the sound,” floundered Caleb, in all seriousness, “I’d put my
money on the dog. But then, maybe--”
Desirée leaned back and laughed long and delightedly.
“Oh, _Caleb_!” she gasped. “_What_ am I going to do with you? Are you
never going to grow up?”
“Not so long as my making a fool of myself can get such a
sweet-sounding laugh out of you,” he returned. “But, honest, Dey, how
can you expect me to know them things about horns an’ Dutchmen an’
spinnin’, an’ all that, when you never tell me beforehand what it is
you’re goin’ to play? When you’re doin’ those piano stunts, I always
feel like you was travelin’ through places where the ‘No Thoroughfare’
sign’s hung out for _me_. Then when I make b’lieve I’m keepin’ up with
you,--just so as I won’t get to feelin’ too lonesome,--you find it out
somehow an’ call me down. What’s that thing you’re playin’ _now_?”
Infinitely sweet, fraught with all the tender hopelessness of parting,
the notes sobbed out into the little room; then stopped abruptly.
“That’s all I know of it,” she said. “I only heard it once. In New
York, winter before last. It’s the third act duet between Mimi and
Rodolfo in ‘_Bohéme_.’ Where they say goodbye in the snow, at the Paris
barrier. I wish I remembered the rest of it.”
“Why, I thought those people was in the _play_ you told me about. You
see I _do_ remember some things like that. Weren’t they the ones that
was in love an’ the feller said the girl was his ‘Youth,’ an’ when she
died--”
“Yes. It’s an opera with the same sort of story. It’s queer you
remember it. That’s the second time you’ve spoken to me about ‘_La Vie
de Bohéme_’. How funny that a big, matter-of-fact business man like
you should be interested in sentimental stories of Youth and Love
and Death! Come!” rising from the music stool and losing the unwonted
dreaminess that had stolen over her, “I’m going to talk to you now
about the Standishes’ dinner. Have you _any_ idea how to behave, or
what to do?”
“Well,” drawled Caleb, “I guess it’s mor’n three years now since
you loored me from the simple Jeffersonian joys of eatin’ with my
knife. An’ I know ’bout not tuckin’ my napkin under my chin, an’ not
makin’ noises like a swimmin’ pool while I’m eatin’ soup. An’--an I
mustn’t touch the butter with my fork. You see I’ve learnt a lot by
your lettin’ me come here to dinner so often. I guess there ain’t any
more things to remember, are there? The part about the butter will be
hardest, but--”
“There won’t be any butter,” said Desirée, “So there’s one less
temptation for you to grapple with.”
“Then I’ll be all right about the eatin’,” replied Conover. “Knife,
soup, napkin, butter. Anything else?”
“Only about fifty more things,” answered Desirée, pessimistically. “Oh,
I do wish I were to be there to coach you!”
“Want an invitation?” asked Caleb, eagerly.
“How silly! At the eleventh hour? Of course I don’t. I hardly know
them. Besides I’m going to the musicale afterward. But I’m _so_ afraid
you’ll do something you ought not to. You won’t, _will_ you?”
“Most likely I will,” confessed Caleb, ruefully. “But I bought a book
to-day ’bout etiquette an’ I’m reading up a little. I’ve got one or
two pointers already. Napkins are servy--serv--”
“Serviettes?” suggested Desirée. “But no one nowadays calls them--”
“An’ when you don’t want to get jagged, put your hand, ‘with a
careless, debbynair movement,’” he quoted, “‘Over the top of whichever
glass the serv’nt is offerin’ to fill.’ How’s that?” he ended with
pride. “I’ll sit up with that measly book ev’ry night till Friday. By
that time I’ll be--”
“You’ll be so tangled up you won’t know whether your soup-plate is
for oysters or coffee,” she interrupted. “Now listen to me: I’m going
to crowd into one inspired lecture all I can think of about dinner
etiquette and other social chores, for you to use that evening. And
when you go home, burn that book up.”
She forthwith launched upon a disquisition of such difficulties as lay
before him on his debut as a diner, and how each might be bridged.
After the first few sentences, Caleb’s attention strayed from her
words to her voice. Its sweetness, its youth and a peculiar child-like
quality in it always fascinated him. Now, with the added didactic
touch, bred of the lesson she was seeking to teach, he found it
altogether wonderful.
Listening with rapt, almost worshipping attention, yet noting no word,
the giant sat huddled up in an awkward, happy bunch at the feet of the
youthful Gamaliel. A bar of lamplight from the opposite side of the
street filtered through the swaying window curtains, bringing her
half-hidden head with its dusky crown of hair into vague relief. From
under the shadowy brows, her great eyes glowed in the dim light. Her
dainty, flower face was very earnest. Caleb felt an almost irresistible
desire to pass his great, rough palm gently over her features; to catch
and kiss one of those tiny, earnestly gesturing hands of hers. She was
so little, so young, so pretty. And she wasting all that loveliness on
_him_, when she might be fascinating some eligible man. The thought
reminded Caleb of his interview with Jack Hawarden. Curious to learn
how the lad had availed himself of the permission to woo Desirée,
Conover broke in at her next pause, with the abrupt question:
“Young Hawarden been here to-day?”
“Why, yes,” said Desirée in surprise, “This noon.”
“Ask you to marry him?”
“He told you?” she cried.
“Yes. Beforehand. Didn’t he say I’d gave him leave? No? Well, I s’pose
he wouldn’t be likely to. But I did. Sent him on, to try his luck. With
my blessin’.”
“What do you mean? Did that foolish boy--?”
“Came like a little man an’ asked my permission, as your guardian, to
make a proposal to you.”
“And you told him he could? _What_ business was it of yours, I’d like
to know.”
“I told him it wasn’t any business of mine. That’s why I let him come.
If it was _my_ business, I’d have you shut up in a big place with walls
all around it; an’ kittens an’ canary birds an’ all sorts of fluffy
things for you to play with. An’ no man but me should ever come within
a hundred miles of you. Then there’d be no danger of your runnin’ off
an’ gettin’ married to some geezer who’d teach you to think I was the
sort of man that ought to be fed in the kitchen an’ never ’lowed in the
parlor. Oh, I know.”
The girl was looking at him with big, inscrutable eyes, as he halted
half-ashamed of his own words.
“I think,” she said slowly, after a little pause, “I think you must
have inherited a great, _great_ deal of ignorance, Caleb. For during
the years while you were a baby, you were too young to acquire _very_
much of it. And you _couldn’t_ have acquired all your present stock in
the thirty short years since that time. Besides, I don’t think even
Nature can make a man _quite_ foolish unless he helps her a little.”
“It sounds fine,” admitted Caleb, “But what does it mean? What break
have I made now? If it was foolish to want you all to myself, always--”
“It wasn’t,” she interrupted, “And you ought to know it wasn’t. It--”
“Then what?”
“Mr. Caine,” said the girl, “told me once you were the cleverest man he
knew. It made me very happy at the time. And I was nice to him all the
rest of the afternoon. But I see now it only showed how few sensible
men he knew. Let’s talk about something else.”
“But--hold on!” begged Caleb. “Honest, Dey, you ought to think twice
before turnin’ down a chap like young Hawarden. His fam’ly--”
“I told you last week never to talk that way again,” said Desirée, with
a stifled break in her voice, “_Why_ do you try to make me unhappy?”
“_Me?_” gurgled Caleb in an utter bewilderment of distress. “Why,
little girl, I’d cut my head off for you. Please don’t get sore on me.
I’m no sort of a feller to talk to a girl like you. I’m always sayin’
the wrong thing without even knowin’ afterward just what it was that
hurt you. An’ then I wish I had a third foot, so’s I could kick myself.
It’s queer that Nature built men so that they couldn’t kick themselves
or pat themselves on the back. _Please_ be friends again. I--I wish
there was some tea here I could drink, just to show you how sorry I am!”
The girl’s mood had changed. She laughed with such heartiness at his
penitential attitude that he all at once felt full forgiveness was
granted. If there was a forced note in her gaiety, his duller senses
did not perceive it.
“_Absolvo te!_” she intoned. “I’m a little cat ever to scratch you; and
I’m silly to let perfectly harmless things hurt me. I don’t know why
I do it. Sometimes I don’t know my own self any more than if I was a
Frisian market woman in a pink baize bonnet and number ten sabots. It’s
just because you’re so good and sweet and gentle that I walk all over
you. Because you let me do it I take out all my bad, horrid, nasty
tempers on you. And then you look so surprised and unhappy when I say
snippy, mean things to you; or when I tell you you make me feel badly
and--oh _where_ is my nominative case? Anyway, you’re my dear, old
splendid chum. And I wouldn’t be so cranky to you if I didn’t care more
for your little finger than for any other man’s head. And if you’d only
hit me or swear at me now and then, I’d be _lots_ nicer. Why don’t you?”
Caleb, agape, yet grinning in feeble delight, tried to understand part
of this rapid-fire speech of penance. Almost wholly failing to grasp
her meaning, he nevertheless gathered that he was pardoned for his
unknown offence and that she was once more happy. Hence the weight was
off his mind and he rejoiced.
“And just to punish myself,” Desirée was saying, “I’m going to tell you
about Jack Hawarden. He came here and asked me to marry him. And I told
him he was an awfully nice boy. And I felt I was unkind and cruel and
a lot of other things because I had to tell him I wasn’t in love with
him. But he behaved beautifully. He’s going to keep on coming to see
me, just the same and we’re going to be just as good friends as ever.
But he says he isn’t going to give up trying to make me change my mind.
Then I changed the subject by making him listen to Siegfried-Mickey
singing ‘The Death of Ase.’ And from that I got him to talking about
the things he’s writing. He says he believes some day his stories will
sell like wild-fire. If you’ve never tried to sell wild-fire you can’t
appreciate what an eager market there is for it. I told him that and he
didn’t like it very well. But altogether I steered him off from talking
about marrying me. So the rest didn’t matter very much. _Did_ it? Are
you _sure_ you can remember all the things I explained to you about
that dinner? At the musicale itself I shall try to get a chance to take
you under my own wing, and keep you from burning your poor fingers.
But--”
“If you think I’m goin’ to queer you, at the musicle, by taggin’ around
after you, you’re dead wrong,” declared Caleb. “You get ’bout as much
of me as you need, here at your own house; without havin’ me scarin’
better men away from you at parties. No, no. I’m goin’ to set in a
corner an’ watch folks fallin’ over ’emselves to talk to you.”
“You big boy!” she scoffed, tenderly. “In the first place, people sit
up stiffly, without talking, while the music is going on,--at least
they’re supposed to. In the second, don’t think just because _you’re_
foolish enough to like being with me, that other people will. I don’t
think there will be any _very_ tumultuous applause when I enter.”
“It’ll be the hit of the evenin’ as far as _I’m_ concerned,” stoutly
averred Caleb. “I’m goin’ out to the Arareek Club in a few minutes,”
he went on, glancing at his watch. “There’s a dinner given to the golf
champion or middleweight tattin’-work-expert or some such c’lebrity.
I’m going to drop in for the speeches. It’ll be my first appearance
there since they didn’t kick me out. Caine’s goin’ too; for the
speeches. Him an’ Miss Standish, I b’lieve. Won’t you come along?”
“I can’t,” lamented the girl. “Mrs. Cole and her sister from Denver are
coming in to see Aunt Mary. They’ll want to play whist. They always do.
And I promised Aunt Mary I’d stay and make out the four. Whist is such
a jolly game, I think,--for people that like it. _I_ hate it. But I’d
be a splendid player, Aunt Mary says, if I could ever remember what
cards are out. So I’m in for a happy, happy evening. I wish they could
ask the cook to play instead. Oh, dear! Why does one always feel so
horrid when one is doing people a good turn?”
“I don’t know,” volunteered Caleb. “I never tried.”
“Never tried!” echoed Desirée. “_Why_ will you talk such nonsense?
You know you’re _always_ doing things for people. Why, the paper said
yesterday that you missed your train back from the Capital, just to
take Mr. Blacarda to the hospital after he was so terribly hurt in the
accident.”
“Oh,” said Caleb, magnanimously, “That was only because I felt kind of
sorry for the poor feller.”