Four days of suffering registered on the Southerner. In the hours
when he should have been sleeping, he picked at the meshes that held
him. It was true that he seemed to have always been conscious of this
girl whose vivid beauty now enslaved him. (These artists have wider
worlds than the common run of humans.) But what fact had she in mind
which, if revealed, would make his love impossible? Who and what was
she? He gathered the threads of evidence: her time was not her own;
she was, by her own admission, or so he construed it, penniless; he
had met her when offices were discharging stenographers for the day,
and shop girls were beginning to start homeward; when she left him,
she went in the direction of the theater district. But why shouldn’t
he marry a stenographer, or an actress, or a shop girl? Or even a
model or manicurist or a lady’s maid, if she were square? What had her
occupation to do with his happiness?
King was younger than his years, as are most Southerners, but he was
sensitive to delicate influences. Without analysis, he knew that this
girl had touched an atmosphere of refinement and was educated. And
she had traveled. But what was so poor a girl doing in Charleston and
Savannah and Macon? It sounded like a theatrical route. One day, on
impulse, he consulted a theatrical agency and learned that “Naughty
Marietta” had been in Macon on the 23d of December and Jacksonville
on the 24th. He knew the opera and had seen its array of beauties and
yet he could not figure out why, being of the Marietta company should
keep her from marrying him. But--and there came the devil’s hand in his
affairs--but these theater girls marry so recklessly! King sat up in
bed when this thought arrived and uttered a word he had learned from
his grandfather’s overseer. It was not a nice word. And yet--and here
a gentler voice intervened--and yet, don’t you know the girl isn’t
married? Don’t you know?
Of course he knew, the girl was not married!
Then what the thunder was all the row about? Father in the
penitentiary? Mother scrubbing office buildings for a living? Brother a
pickpocket? Sister gone to the bad? Tuberculosis? Pellagra? Not these
latter, certainly.
And what had the others to do with her marrying him? Nothing, if he had
a say so.
He dismissed them with a mental finger-snap, and put his faith again in
destiny. She was his woman. He would win her in spite of herself.
Then on the fifth day came a little note. He was to be at the entrance
to the Metropolitan Museum at one hour past high noon. He was there
promptly. She descended from a bus at the corner and came to him
rapidly.
“Inside,” she said, smiling but passing. He followed. Inside she fell
back with him. Then came the quick, characteristic upward look. The
gentian eyes were troubled.
“What have you been doing to yourself, little boy? Are you working too
hard?”
“Scarcely that,” he laughed, “but possibly sleeping less than usual.
And you?--but why ask! You are the same radiant, beautiful girl as when
I first saw you.”
“Don’t, please. I detest flattery.”
“The word ‘beautiful’ doesn’t flatter you. But I think I understand.
However, if I’m not to call you that, what am I to do for a name? Can’t
you trust me with some little old name?”
“My uncle calls me Billee, when he finds me amiable; Bill, when he is
displeased, and William, when he is out of all patience. You can take
them all three. You’ll need them later.”
“Miss Billee will do for me.”
“Billee, or nothing, sir!”
“All right. Now then, Billee, listen to me. You’ve been through this
place?”
“Dozens of times. I suggested it because at this hour it is not
frequented by--because it is apt to be uncrowded, and I wanted to be
alone with you. Forgive me if I shock you.”
“Forgive you! Come, I know a place where few people will be passing.
It is both public and private.”
“All right. Let’s go sit down and tell glad stories of live kings.”
“Good paraphrase. Where did you learn the original?”
“Oh, I read to an old lady friend a great deal. I’m learning lots of
pretty things in books.” Lightly touching her arm, he guided her to a
broad seat screened by a marble group at the far end of the hall.
“Here is the place! Now I have a confession to make. I have not been
strictly true to you--to myself.”
“Been flirting elsewhere?”
“The truth is I inquired of a theatrical agency what company was
in Macon on December 23d, the day I met you, and was informed it
was ‘Naughty Marietta.’ That is all. Don’t think I am asking you a
question. It makes no difference to me if you are Marietta herself or a
chorus girl.” Billee gasped and after a swift glance to his solemn face
laughed until her eyes swam in tears.
“You dear boy! No, I am not an actress, that is, professionally. I went
to Jacksonville, since you want to know, as--can you stand a shock?”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t care to know.” She picked at a darned place in
her glove.
“As the companion of an old lady. Are you very much disappointed?”
“Happy old lady!” said King fervently. “Disappointed? I have an intense
admiration for the girl who earns her own living. But, Billee, why
work?”
“Don’t! You have forgotten the fatal fact.”
“But there is no fact that can be fatal to us, unless--unless, you are
already married!” She considered this a moment, her face very grave.
“And you think it possible that I might be married and at the same time
willing to meet you this way? How could you love such a person?”
“I don’t think so,” said King miserably, in over his head, “but there
are only two things could keep you from me--death and marriage. And
believe me, Billee, you are far from dead.” Then suddenly the little
hand was slipped in his and he saw his own image in the gentian eyes.
“King--you will let me call you that, won’t you?--my King! Oh, don’t
you understand? There must be a mystery between us; how long, the good
God only knows--but it may not keep us from each other all the time.
Can’t we be just sweethearts till then? Don’t you know I love to be
with you--and--and would love you--if I might? Don’t you know? Don’t
you know, King?” The inevitable happened. She was swept up in the
arms of the young man and his lips were pressed to hers. For one long
moment, while the world swam about her and her heart stood still, she
lay unresisting, helpless. Then he released her and leaped to his feet.
“My God!” he cried in a whisper, staring at her, incredulous. “Can you
ever forgive me? I was crazy, mad--I did not know what I was doing!
Billee, go! Leave me and never come back! I deserve it!” He was
trembling from head to foot. She arose with slow dignity, her face
very pale, and tidied her slightly disarranged dress, her eyes timidly
searching the perspective ahead, and lips quivering. There was but one
couple in view and their backs were turned.
“King,” she said, “you must promise me you’ll never do that again; you
must, King, or I shall have to leave you and not return.”
“I swear it! Never until you lay your head on my breast, of your own
free will!” But presently she turned and faced him bravely, her eyes
again on his. A new note was in her voice. She seemed older.
“King, I can’t bear to see you look unhappy; and I am not a hypocrite.
I forgive you, because--I am glad you kissed me, just once--and in that
way. Now, I do not doubt--”
“You cannot doubt--”
“I do not doubt _myself_! King, my splendid boy--oh, this is shameful!”
She choked, covered her eyes with one hand, stretched the other
blindly toward him, but before he could take it, was gone. He stood as
she left him, looking down the vista through which she fled, but seeing
nothing. Presently he pressed the back of one hand to his eyes and then
examined it in wonder.
“Oh Terence! Terence! what would you give to see that! You’d blackmail
me fifty years.”