OGDEN CRYDER.
Only the nineteenth century could have evolved Cryder. The infancy of a
democratic civilization produces giants. The giants build hot-houses,
and a flower, delicate, beautiful, exquisitely perfumed, but fragile,
light as bubbles of blown glass, is the result. America is now doing the
best she can with her hot-house flora. She has no great men, but the
flora is wondrous fine. Outside the forcing-houses is a wilderness of
weeds in which lies her future’s hope.
Cryder would have taken the medal at an orchid show. He was light as a
summer breeze, yet as stimulating and fresh. He was daintily humorous,
yet seldom witty enough to excite envy. His conversation was like the
song of a lark, clear, brilliant, trilling, with never a bass note to
disturb the harmony. In a quick, keen, flashing way, he had an exact
knowledge of the salient world. He was artistic to his finger-tips, and
preferred an aquarelle to an oil. He had loved many times and hoped to
love as many more, and his love was always that of an æsthete. For
coarse passions he had a cold contempt. He had broken many roses from
their stems, but more because he thought an herbarium looked better when
filled than because he enjoyed the plucking of the flower. Probably it
is needless to observe that he never drank more than a pint bottle of
champagne, and that he never over-ate.
The day after his address at the club he was walking down the avenue
when he met Helen Simms. He turned back with her, and finished the
afternoon in her drawing-room.
Helen did not give him so much of her time without an object. She cared
little for Cryder, and few of her doings were unprompted by motive; life
was too brief.
“You met Miss Suydam last night, did you not?” she asked, when Cryder
was comfortably established in an easy-chair near the fire.
“Yes, for a moment. I was a little put out by Duncan’s attack on me, and
only stayed for a few words. I needed the solace of a cigarette.”
“I read the account of the affair in this morning’s papers. Mr. Duncan’s
remarks were purely foolish, as he must have realized when he saw them
in print. However, you have the consolation of knowing that after your
reply he will not be likely to attack you again. But I am glad you met
Miss Suydam. She will interest you as a study. She is all the rage at
present. Every other man in town is in love with her.”
Cryder turned to her with some interest in his eyes. “Is she so very
fascinating? She is certainly handsome—yes—stylishly handsome.”
“Oh, she is a beauty! Such a unique type! And she is quite as different
from other people herself. That is her great trouble. She is called a
terrible flirt, but it is the men’s fault, not hers. She is always
looking for something, and can never find it.”
“Sad and strange! Is she a young woman with yearnings?”
“Not at all. She is the most sensible woman I know. She is merely
unusually clever, consequently she is very lonely. I do not believe any
man will ever satisfy her. She is like the sleeping princess in the
enchanted castle. She shuts herself up in that wonderful house of hers
and dreams of the lover who never comes.”
“You touch my fancy; and what do you mean by her wonderful house?”
“That house would delight your author’s soul. Every room is the
materialization of a dream, as Hermia would say;” and she gave him an
account of her friend’s inartistic but original abode.
Cryder listened with much interest. Romance was a dead-letter to him,
but he was alive to the picturesque. He concluded that it would be quite
enchanting to make love to a woman in a feudal library or an Indian
jungle, and more than satisfactory to awaken the sleeping beauty. It
would be a charming episode for his present brief stay in New York,
altogether quite the choicest specimen in his herbarium. What she was
waiting for was a combination of brain and skill.
“You have made me want to know her,” he said, “but, of course, she did
not ask me to call.”
“I will take you to see her some time.”
“That is very good of you. Some afternoon when you have nothing better
to do.”
“Come on Monday. That is her day. You won’t have much chance to talk to
her, but then you can go again as soon as you like.”
Cryder took out his note-book and penciled a memorandum, “On Monday,
then.”
Helen concluded that if she had been born a man she would have elected
diplomacy as a career.
* * * * *