with their tops half open, the flowers bedded out in bright profusion,
the aquatic plants adorning the broad basin of the fountain, the pigeons
wooing and cooing languidly, the sparrows energetically flirting and
fighting, the young men and maidens walking slowly along the curving
paths and smiling in each other's faces. To Harry Grant, just home from
a long winter in the bleak Northwest, it seemed as though man and nature
were alike rejoicing in the rising of the sap and the bourgeoning of
spring. It was as though the pulse of the strong city were beating more
swiftly and with renewed youth. Harry Grant felt his own heart rejoice
that he was back again amid the sights he loved, within a stone's-throw
of the house where he was born, within pistol-shot of the residence of
the girl he was now going at last to ask to marry him.
It was nearly a year since he had last seen her, but he knew she would
greet him as cordially as she had always done. That Winifred was a good
friend of his he knew well enough; what he did not know at all was
whether or not the friendship had changed to love on her part also. He
could hardly recall the time when he had not known her. He could
distinctly remember the occasion when he had first told her that he
intended to marry her when he was grown up--that was on a spring day
like this, and he was seven and she was five, and they were playing
together in Gramercy Park while their nurses followed them slowly
around the enclosure. Now he was twenty-three and she was twenty-one;
and in all these sixteen years there had been no day when he had not
looked forward to their marriage. Of course, when he had grown to be a
big boy and had been sent away to boarding-school, he had been ashamed
to talk about such things. But when he went to college he had gazed
ahead four years and almost fixed on the day he intended to propose.
Then his father had died, and the family affairs were left in
inexplicable confusion. His uncle had offered to pay Harry's way through
Columbia, but he was in a haste to be independent, to make his own path,
to have a position which he could ask Winifred to share. He found a
place at once in the office of a great dry-goods house; and he had been
so successful there that one of their customers had offered him
inducements to go out to a swiftly growing city in the new Northwest.
Two years had Harry Grant spent out there--two years of hard work amid
men who were all toiling mightily and who were capable of appreciating
his youthful energy. Now he was back again in New York to act as the
Eastern representative of the chief capitalist of the Northwestern city,
an old man, who liked Harry, and who saw how useful his address and his
character might be. The position was onerous for a man so young; but it
was honorable also, and the salary was liberal even from a New York
standpoint. At last he was again able to look at life from the point of
view of a New-Yorker. At last he was ready to ask her to share his life.
He was in no hurry for the moment, as he could not make sure of finding
her at home until nearly five o'clock, and it was now barely four by the
transparent dial which Atlas bore on his back in the jeweller's upper
window on the opposite side of the square. He crossed Broadway at
Fourteenth Street, and there he was caught up at once and swept along by
the spring-flood rolling up from down-town that beautiful afternoon in
May. The windows of the florists' were lovely with Easter lilies and
fragrant with branches of lilac. The windows of the confectioners' were
gay with gaudy Easter eggs and with elaborate chocolate rabbits. Young
girls pressed giggling through the doors to stand packed beside the
soda-water fountains. Elderly men lingered at the street corners to
stare at the young women.
Within an hour or two at the most Harry Grant intended to ask Winifred
to be his wife, and as he saw the dread question so close before him he
could not but wonder what the answer would be. Winifred liked him--that
much he felt sure about. Whether she loved him, even a little, that he
could not venture to guess. She had sturdy common-sense and she was
self-reliant, he knew well, and yet he could not help fearing that
perhaps the influence of her grandmother had been more powerful than he
wished. It was possible, of course, that the restless and ambitious old
lady had inoculated her young granddaughter with some of her own
dissatisfaction.
As Harry's circumstances had changed since they were boy and girl
together, so had Winifred's. Her father had died also, and then her
grandfather, leaving a very large fortune to his widow, and Winifred had
gone to live with her grandmother, Mrs. Winston-Smith. (It was her
grandmother who had put the hyphen into the name, and who had insisted
on its adoption by the son and the granddaughter.) That Mrs.
Winston-Smith did not like him, Harry Grant knew only too well, or, at
least, that she did not approve of him as a possible suitor for the hand
of Miss Winston-Smith. She thought that her granddaughter ought to make
a brilliant marriage. She had been heard to say that in England Winifred
would have no difficulty in marrying a title. She had taken her
granddaughter to London the season before, and they had been presented
at court, to go afterwards on a round of country-house visits, returning
late to finish the summer at Lenox.
All this Harry knew from the newspapers; but what Winifred had thought
of it all he did not know, for he had not seen her since the day before
her departure for England. And that interview itself had been in the
presence of the grandmother and of two or three casual callers. Really
he had not had chance of speech with the woman he had loved for three
years--ever since Mrs. Winston-Smith had asked him to dinner one night,
only to take him into the library and to tell him that she saw that he
was attracted by Winifred, and no wonder, but that he must give up the
hope of winning her. Mrs. Winston-Smith was some sixty-years old at the
time of this talk with Harry Grant, and she was a very stately dame,
with no lack of manner, but she could, if she chose, express herself
with absolute frankness and directness. On that occasion she had seen
fit to be perfectly plain-spoken. She had told him that Winifred had
been used to luxury and could not do without it, and that if Winifred
married against her wishes she would give all her money to the new
cathedral, cutting the girl off without a cent. She asked Harry if he
did not think it would be very selfish of him to press his suit when its
success would mean the misery of the woman he pretended to love. She
reminded him that his own income was meagre, and that he had no
prospects. If, then, Winifred had no money, how could she as his wife
have all the luxuries to which she was accustomed, and which had now
become necessities? Of course she did not admit that Winifred was in any
way interested in him. In fact, she hoped and trusted that the girl's
affections were in no way engaged; and she relied on Mr. Grant's good
sense and on his unwillingness to be so brutally selfish. After all,
Winifred was a mere child, and had seen nothing of the world as yet.
Harry Grant had made no promises to Mrs. Winston-Smith, but he had felt
the force of some of her arguments. Plainly he had no right to ask the
woman he loved to give up everything for his sake; and as plainly he had
no wish to live on any money her grandmother might give her. He meant,
more than ever, to win her for his wife; but he saw clearly that he must
make himself independent first. To be able to give her a home not
unworthy of her he had worked hard all these years. At last he had
succeeded, and he was in a position to ask her to marry him without at
the same time asking her to surrender the most of the little comforts
which made her life easy. With the salary he had now he could make her
comfortable, even if her grandmother chose to take offence and cut her
off without a cent. There was no false pride about the young fellow, and
he did not pretend to himself that he did not care whether or not the
grandmother carried out her threat. He was well aware that life would be
very much pleasanter if Mrs. Winston-Smith should accept the situation
and make the best of it, and give her granddaughter an adequate
allowance.
Then, as these thoughts ran through his head, he smiled at his own
fatuity in taking Winifred's consent for granted in this summary
fashion. What Mrs. Winston-Smith said or did mattered little. What was
of vital importance was Winifred's own answer to his question. He could
not but recognize that to call on a young lady after a year's separation
and to ask her in marriage, suddenly, without warning, was an unusual
proceeding. And yet that was just what he was going to do; and he found
himself musing over schemes for getting her away from her grandmother
and from any chance visitors. He tried to devise a means of luring her
into the library or of coaxing her into the conservatory. He cared not
how soon they might be interrupted; he knew what he had to say, and he
was prepared to say it briefly. Five minutes would be time enough--five
minutes, if he could but have them clear. When a man has been wanting
for years to be able to put a simple question, it ought not to take him
long to say the needful words; and he knew that Winifred would not keep
him waiting for his answer. Whether it was to be yes or no, she would
know her own mind, and be ready and willing to accept him at once or to
reject him with as little hesitation.
He had been keeping pace with the throng that was sweeping massively
up-town, but as the fear seized him that, after all, he had little right
to think she might love him, he lengthened his stride in futile
impatience to get his answer sooner. He glanced up at Tiffany's clock,
then almost over his head, and he slackened his speed as he saw that it
was not yet five minutes past four. He had at least half an hour to wait
before he could hope to find her at home.
Then, most unexpectedly, he was favored with fortune. The foremost of
the carriages drawn up in Fifteenth Street alongside the jeweller's was
a handsome coupe, in which a young lady was sitting alone. As Harry
Grant drew near to the corner his glance fell on this coupe, and at that
moment the young lady looked up. He saw that it was Winifred. As their
eyes met a swift blush bloomed in her face, and faded as speedily. She
smiled and held out her hand and laughed happily as he sprang to the
door of the carriage.
"Winifred!" he cried.
"Harry!" she answered.
"I didn't expect to see you here!" he declared.
"Is that the reason you are here, then?" she returned.
He made no reply. He could not take his eyes from her. In his delight at
seeing her again he had nothing to say.
"Well?" she asked, when she thought he had stared enough.
"Well," he answered, "I couldn't help it. You are prettier than ever."
Again a flush flitted across her face, fainter this time, and fleeting
sooner.
"That's a very direct compliment, don't you think?" she retorted,
withdrawing her hand, which he had kept clasped in his own. "And you are
looking well, too. Your life out West there is good for you. I don't
wonder you prefer it to this noisy old New York of ours."
"But I don't prefer it," he declared, hotly. "A week of New York is
worth a year of the whole wide West put together. And I've done with all
that now. I've come back here for good now--"
"Have you really?" she responded, as he hesitated, having so much to say
that he did not know where to begin.
"I got back this morning," he explained, "and I was coming to see you
this afternoon. I've--I've so many things to tell you."
She looked at him for a second, and then she glanced away, as she said:
"You will have to talk very fast, then, if you have so many things to
tell me. We are going to sail on Tuesday morning, and this afternoon we
are off to Tuxedo for over Sunday."
"You sail on Tuesday?" he cried, despairingly. "Just when I have come
back on purpose to see you again!"
"You didn't telegraph grandma that you were coming, or she might have
made other arrangements," the young woman retorted, with a little laugh.
[Illustration: "'WINIFRED!' HE CRIED"]
"And if you are going to Tuxedo to-night," he continued, paying no
heed to this ironic suggestion, "then you won't be at home this
afternoon?"
"No," she answered; "we shall be back just in time to dress and get away
to the train. Grandma has two or three errands to do first--she's inside
there arranging about some silver things she wants to take over with
us."
"But I must see you to-day," he pleaded.
"Aren't you seeing me now?" she returned, as the blush rose again and
fell.
"But I've got something I want to say to you!" he urged.
"Won't it keep till Monday afternoon?" she asked, with another light
laugh; but beneath the levity there was more than a hint of feeling.
"No," he declared; "it won't keep an hour longer, for it's been kept too
many years already. I've come here on purpose to tell you something--and
I must do it to-day!"
"If it's something you want to tell grand-ma--" she began, as if to gain
time.
"But it isn't," he returned, leaning his head almost inside the open
window of the carriage. "It's you I want to talk to--not to your
grandmother."
"Then," said she, with a subtle change of manner, "if it is something
you don't want grandma to hear, don't try to say it now, for here she
comes."
Harry Grant gave a hasty glance behind him, and he recognized the
stately figure of Mrs. Winston-Smith in conversation with one of the
salesmen just inside the door of the great store.
"Winifred," he said, pleadingly, taking her hand again, "where can I see
you again, if only for a minute--only a minute? That's enough for what I
want!"
Winifred looked at him and then down at her fingers. She hesitated, and
finally she answered:
"I think I heard grandma say she was going to the florist's before she
went home--that florist in Broadway near Daly's, you know. She has a lot
of things to order there, and I shall sit in the carriage."
"I'll take the cable-car and be there waiting for you," he responded.
"Don't let grandma see you," she cried; "that is--well--"
Then she sank back on the cushions of the carriage, for Mrs.
Winston-Smith was about to leave the store.
Harry Grant had caught sight of the old lady in time. He stepped away
from the carriage, and, passing behind it, crossed to the other side of
the street without giving Winifred's grandmother a chance to recognize
him.
He waited on the opposite corner until Mrs. Winston-Smith took her place
in the coupe beside her granddaughter, and until the carriage was turned
and had started towards Fifth Avenue.
Then he crossed the broad space nearly to the edge of the park and
jumped on the first car that came rushing around the curve. The platform
was crowded, but he took no heed of the men who were pressed against
him.
His thoughts were elsewhere and his heart was full of hope; it was
attuned to the gladness of the spring-time. He did not see the young men
and maidens who flocked thickly up Broadway; he saw Winifred only; he
saw her face, her eyes, her smile of welcome. He was to see her again,
at once almost, and he could tell her then how he loved her, and he
could ask her if she would not try to love him. What if the only chance
he should have was in the street itself? Only the proposal itself was of
importance, the place mattered nothing. Perhaps the unconventionality of
the proceeding even added zest to it. There was unconventionality in the
frankness with which she had made the appointment. It was this frankness
partly which made his heart leap with hope, and partly it was the
welcome he thought he had read in her eyes when their glances met first.
The car sped on its way, stopping at almost every corner to take on and
to let off men and women, who brushed against Harry Grant and whom he
did not see, so absorbed was he in going over every word of his brief
dialogue with the girl he loved. On the sidewalks were thick throngs of
brightly dressed women looking into the windows of the shops, where were
displayed brilliant parasols and trim yachting costumes and summer
stuffs in lightsome colors.
As the car crossed Fifth Avenue he saw the carriage of Mrs.
Winston-Smith only a block away. He recognized the coachman upright on
the box, and then all at once he wondered what the coachman must have
thought of his talk through the open window, and of his abrupt
appearance. He smiled--indeed he laughed gently--for what did he care
what the coachman might think, or anybody else? It was what she thought
which was of importance, and nothing else mattered at all. And again he
was seized with impatience to see her once and to tell her that he loved
her, and to get her answer. The car was going swiftly, but it seemed to
him to crawl. The coachman on the avenue was driving briskly, but Harry
Grant was ready to rebuke the man for his sluggishness.
At last the car passed the door of the florist's Winifred had described.
Its window was filled with azaleas massed with an artistic instinct
almost Japanese. Harry Grant rode to the corner above and walked back
very slowly, loitering before a shop window, but wholly unconscious of
the spring neck-wear therein displayed. Two minutes later he saw Mrs.
Winston-Smith's carriage coming down Twenty-ninth Street. It turned into
Broadway and stopped before the florist's wide window. Mrs.
Winston-Smith got out and ordered the coachman to wait at the corner.
She had disappeared inside the florist's before the coupe drew up in the
side street.
As the coachman reined in his horses Harry Grant stepped up to the open
window.
"Winifred--" he began.
"Oh!" she cried, "you are here already?" and again the blush crossed her
face.
"Winifred," he repeated, leaning his head inside the carriage, "I may
have only a minute to say what I have to say, and I know this isn't the
right place to say it, either, but I have no choice, for I may not have
another chance. I have waited so long that I simply must speak now."
He paused for a moment. She said nothing, but she rubbed the back of her
glove as though to wear away a speck of dirt.
"Winnie," he went on, "what I want to say is simple enough. I love you.
Surely you must know that?"
"Yes," she answered, raising her eyes to his, "I know that."
"Then it's easier for me to go on. You know me; you know all about me;
you know all my faults, or most of them anyway; you know I love you. Do
you think you could ever love me a little in return? I will try so hard
to deserve it. I've been working ever since I was seventeen to make
money enough to be able to ask you to marry me. I've got a good position
now, one that I'm not ashamed to ask you to share. Will you? Will you
marry me, Winnie?"
Before she could make any answer, Harry Grant heard the voice of Mrs.
Winston-Smith behind him saying to the coachman, "Home!"
He stepped back and found himself face to face with her.
"It's Mr. Grant, isn't it?" she said, with a haughty inclination of her
head. "It's very good of you to amuse Winifred while I was in the shop.
I'd ask you to come and have a cup of tea with us, but we are off to
Tuxedo. And we sail on Tuesday; perhaps Winifred told you."
She stood there, expecting him to open the carriage door for her. It was
the least he could do, and he did it. But he could find no words to
respond to her conventional conversation. He looked at Winifred, and he
saw that the color was deepening on her cheeks, and that her eyes were
very bright.
"Grandma," she said, when at last Mrs. Winston-Smith was seated beside
her--"Grandma," she repeated, loud enough for the young man to hear as
he stood by the open window, "Harry has asked me to marry him--and you
came out just before I had time to tell him that I would!"
(1895.)
THE VIGIL OF McDOWELL SUTRO
For the third time that afternoon the young man stood before the window
of the post-office to ask the same question and to receive the same
answer:
"Has any letter come for McDowell Sutro?"
"No."
This time he persisted, for he could not take no for an answer at that
late hour of the day.
"Are you sure?" he asked, urgently.
"Certain sure," was the answer that came through the window.
"Will there be another mail from California to-night?" he inquired,
clutching a last hope.
"Not to-night," responded the clerk.
The young man stood there for a second, staring unconsciously into the
window, and not seeing anybody or anything. Then he turned slowly to go.
The clerk knew that look on the face of men who asked for letters, and
he had a movement of kindness.
"Say, young feller!" he called, brusquely.
McDowell Sutro faced about instantly, with a swift flash of hope.
"If you're expecting money in that letter, maybe it's registered,"
suggested the clerk. "Ask over there in the corner."
"Thank you," the young man answered, gratefully; and he walked to the
window in the corner with expectation again lighting his face.
But there was no registered letter for McDowell Sutro, and there could
none arrive before the next morning. And as the handsome young
Californian left the post-office he knew that he had hardly a right even
to hope that the letter he was asking for should ever arrive.
He stepped out on Fifth Avenue; and though a warm June wind blew balmily
up from Washington Square, his heart was chill within him. He shivered
as he wondered what he was to do now. He knew no one in New York, and he
had not a cent in his pocket.
In his youth he had expected to inherit a fortune, and so he learned no
trade and studied no profession. He had taught himself how to be idle
elegantly; he had never planned how to earn his own living. Perhaps this
was the reason why he had failed to find any work to do during the two
gliding weeks since he had suddenly been brought face to face with his
final ten-dollar bill.
He had no more resources than he had friends. His trunk, with the little
clothing he owned, was still at the boarding-house he had left ten days
before; it was held by the landlady till he paid her what he owed. His
modest jewelry had been pawned, bit by bit.
It was now about seven in the evening, and he had had no food since the
coffee and cakes taken perhaps twelve hours earlier, and bought with the
last dime left him after he had paid for his night's lodging. Having
walked all day, he was weary and hungry, and he had no idea how he could
get a roof over his head once again or fill his stomach once more. He
had heard of men and women starving to death in the streets of New York,
and he found himself inquiring if that were to be his fate.
Not guiding his steps consciously, he went up Fifth Avenue to the corner
of Fourteenth Street, and then turned towards Broadway. The long June
day was drawing to an end. Behind his back the red sun was settling down
slowly. The street was crowded with cars and with carts; and people
hurried along, eager to be with their families, and giving no attention
to the homeless young man they brushed against.
When he came to Broadway it seemed to him as though the rush and the
tumult redoubled, and as though the men and the women who passed him
were being tossed to and fro by invisible breakers. The roar of the city
rose all about him; it smote on his tired ears like the deafening crash
of the surf after a northeaster. He likened himself to a spent swimmer
about to have the life beaten out of him by the pounding of the waves,
and certain sooner or later to be cast up on the beach, a stripped and
bruised corpse.
So vividly did he picture this that involuntarily he straightened
himself and drew a long breath. He was a good-looking young fellow, with
a graceful brown mustache curling over his weak mouth. As he stood
there, erect as though ready to fight for his life, more than one woman
passing briskly along the street let his figure fill her eye with
pleasure.
The cable-cars whisked around the curves before him, and beyond them he
beheld the green fairness of Union Square. The freshness of its foliage
as he saw it through the darksome twilight attracted him. He crossed
cautiously, keeping a sharp lookout for the cars, and smiling as he
noted how careful he was of his life, now he did not know how he was to
sustain it.