JUST
SWEETHEARTS
JUST
SWEETHEARTS
_A Christmas Love Story_
_By_
HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS
AUTHOR OF
“TWO RUNAWAYS,” “HIS DEFENSE,”
“ENEAS AFRICANUS,” ETC.
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY
THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY
MACON, GEORGIA
COPYRIGHT, 1920
THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY
[Illustration]
JUST SWEETHEARTS
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
Bathed in the sunshine of one of those perfect days which so often
come with Christmas in the South, he stood at the street corner, a
light cane across his shoulders supporting his gloved hands, his eyes
shifting with ever-changing interest, and a half smile on his swarthy
face. It was written all over him that he had no appointments to meet,
no duties to discharge; that he was by chance, only, in the moving
picture and not of the cast, and that the whole thing, so far as he was
concerned, was but a transient show to be enjoyed for its brilliancy of
colors and its endless succession of fine Southern faces.
But here was idleness without inertia. Clearly he was one of those
rare beings who can radiate energy standing still and convey the
impression of impetuous force without motion, a trick of the eyes, a
refusal to sag.
Name? Ladies and gentlemen, meet King Dubignon.
King saw her first as she started across Cherry Street from the far
corner, a slender figure moving with grace and assurance through the
dangerous procession of motor cars, still handled in the South as new
toys, and once or twice his lips parted for a warning cry, but she
gained the opposite corner with ease and turned straight toward him
across Third. Now, of all the throng his alert eyes clung to this
approaching figure and began to take note of details--white spats,
plain tailor suit, loose blousy waist and flat hat with its little veil
of black lace. Soon she was directly in front but her demure gaze was
not for him. She was mentally preoccupied. She had thoughts of her own
and not having seen the Dubignon eyes and smile she failed to look back
after she passed.
The young man released a suspended breath like unto the fervid sigh
of a cow settling down to rest, lowered his cane and stood gazing
after the receding figure. And not he only, as he noticed with quick
jealousy. Every man and woman who met her turned for a second glance.
The gentian eyes, radiant face, curved lips parted in a half smile,
belonged in an artist’s dream; the slender, supple figure borne along
on dainty feet, the subtle grace of her moving, line vanishing into
line, curve melting into curve, the free, elastic, boyish stride,
were combinations notable even in The City of Beautiful Women, as the
aborigines call their Macon.
King was an artist and had dreamed. He had lost something out of his
dreams and now he had found something to place in one. He followed and
saw her vanish into the crowd of a cheap store, an emporium of ten-cent
things; and presently his broad shoulders opened up a path there for
himself. Down one aisle and up another; and then he found her. She
was critically examining lace at ten cents the yard and did not look
up as he passed. The purchase of lace of any kind is a tax on all the
faculties if one is faithful.
Checkmate? No. Inspiration! He went forward to the turn of the aisle at
the show window near the door. It had occurred to him that sooner or
later she would pass out. He took his stand in a little bay of space
nearby and waited. Time was no object to him at such a crisis.
When he saw her coming again, threading her way through the crowd and
almost without contact, he so maneuvered that she drifted naturally
into the little bay promptly vacated for her accommodation. Instantly
he was standing directly in front, hat in hand, arresting her departure:
“Beautiful, just a moment, please,” he said, smiling down, “I saw you
crossing the street and followed you here. When you leave I shall
not follow again. Listen; what I am asking is that you will take my
card and have your father, or somebody, inquire about me of one of
the bank cashiers on the corner, and then write me your address,
won’t you? This isn’t regular, I know,” he continued with increase of
vocal momentum, “but it is necessary--absolutely necessary. I have
searched and waited for you all my life, and if I lose you now it may
be forever.” The girl had drawn back a little and was looking into his
face with wonder but without alarm. The Dubignon eyes and smile were
irresistible. Nevertheless, now that he had spoken--words altogether
different from the formal ones planned--King became self-conscious and
troubled. Something jarred. Perhaps it was the twentieth century or the
ten-cent store. Besides, he was pointing a piece of cardboard at her
in, what must have seemed, a very absurd way. She felt instantly his
embarrassment, and women of all ages gain composure when men in their
presence lose it. The instinctive response of eyes and lips, vibrant
life to impetuous youth, was checked and a tiny, perpendicular line
divided her brows:
“Are you quite sane?” she began, her voice reduced almost to a
whisper--he thanked God for that. “Stand aside, please, or shall I
send for the manager?”
“Perfectly sane,” he said, moving aside, but still holding out the
card. “You will not send for anyone, because now the way is open. But
all the same, I wish, awfully, you would take my card and when you get
home decide. Won’t you, please? It’s just a little, lonesome card,”
he added, whimsically. The girl hesitated, questioning him with the
wonderful gentian eyes, into which, now of a sudden, came a fixed
light. A white wonder paled her face for a fleeting instant, and she
moved a step nearer. Doubtingly, the gesture clearly an unconscious
one, her hand touched his arm.
“Have I ever seen you before? Do you know my name?” He shook his head,
smiling happily. She watched the smile with open interest.
“Think again!” she urged, earnestly. He was deeply troubled. He wished
that he might say he had met her as a summer girl somewhere, but he
could not. What he did say was:
“It may strike you as absurd, but I have only seen you in a dream--a
long dream!” She smiled over this and with sudden decision took the
card, dropping it into her shopping bag.
“You are not to follow. You promised!”
“Cross my heart! I shall remain here fifteen minutes. Can you vanish
back into your sunbeam in fifteen minutes?”
“Completely.” Her little laugh was the finest thing he had ever heard.
She smiled up into his face and passed out.
Fifteen minutes later, having, with the aid of a little lady of blonde
accomplishments, selected a dozen pairs of crimson and green socks and
paid for them, he looked at his watch.
“My dear,” he said, “I’ve changed my mind. There’s really no room in my
grip for this bundle. Christmas is at hand--kindly hand them to Mother,
with my best wishes.”
“And I have no mother, and I never saw him before!” she said to the
floorwalker, hysterically. “And red and green socks!”
“Easy mash,” he laughed, “he’ll be back. Exchange for something else.”
She opened a tiny vanity box and powdered her nose. It was ammunition
wasted.
Fate is a merry jade, at times. Half way to Jacksonville in a Pullman
next day a young woman with gentian eyes, who had time and again
searched her handbag, opened a package of cheap lace to finish dressing
a Christmas doll, and a card dropped out. It bore the inscription,
“King Dubignon.” Underneath was penciled the information that he was
associated with Beeker, Toomer & Church, Architects, New York, and to
this was added, “Hotel Dempsey, Macon, three days.” Fate’s little jest
was the concealment of the card in a fold of the paper wrapper for
twenty-four hours.