less amicable colloquies with a gray-faced, incisive gentleman in a
large, dark, shining office, and the even more occasional gift of
his presence at those convivial functions known as board meetings.
His father, long dead, had been imprudent enough to sow the wind
of financial speculation, and his unworthy son was now languidly
engaged in reaping a whirlwind of coupons and dividends. It is
painful to dwell on so rudimentary a lack of fair play on the part
of Fate, though Benedick occasionally did dwell on it, with a
sardonic grin at the recollection of the modest incomes received by
the more prudent and thrifty members of the family. He made what
atonement he could for his father’s unjustifiable success by a
series of astoundingly lavish gifts, however, and wasted the rest
of it more or less successfully.
“Business” had kept him in town on that March day when he first saw
her. He had arrived at Raoul’s doorstep at exactly five minutes
past twelve; he lunched early, because he was a disciple of the
Continental schedule, and it also avoided interruptions from
over-fervent friends who frequented the place. The pretty cashier
with her red cheeks and her elaborate Gallic coiffure bestowed her
usual radiant smile on him, and Benedick smiled back, with a swift
response that many a débutante would have given a large piece of
her small soul to obtain. Jules, the sallow and gentle-eyed, pulled
out the little round chair with its padded cushions, pushed in the
little round table with its threadbare and spotless cloth, and bent
forward with pencil poised, the embodiment of discreet and eager
interest.
“_Bonjour, monsieur! Monsieur désire?_----”
This, after all, was nearer a home than anything that Larry
Benedick had known for many a weary year--this warm and peaceful
corner, with old Jules and young Geneviève spreading friendliness
all about him, with Raoul out in the tiled and copper-hung kitchen,
alert to turn his skill to service. Monsieur desired? Well,
kidneys flamboyant, perhaps--and then some artichokes with Raoul’s
Hollandaise--and the little curled pancakes with orange and burnt
sugar in the chafing-dish. Demi-tasse, of course, and Bénédictine.
Not yesterday, you see, that March afternoon!--Jules slipped away,
as elated as though he were bearing with him great good tidings,
and the brown-and-gray kitten came out from under the table,
tapping at the cuff of his trousers with an imperious paw, and
he had a smile for it, too. Here in this tranquil space Monsieur
had all that he desired, had he not? Surely, all. He bent forward
to stroke the pink nose of his enterprising visitor, the smile
deepening until the dark face was suddenly young--and the brown
door opened and she came in.
Benedick knew quite well that it was a raw and abominable day
outside--but he could have sworn that he looked up because the room
was suddenly full of the smell of pear blossoms, and lilacs, and
the damp moss that grows beside running brooks--and that he felt
the sunlight on his hands. There she stood, straight and slim,
in her rough green tweed, with her sapphire-blue scarf and the
sapphire-blue feather in the little tweed hat that she had pulled
down over the bright wings of her hair, her face as fresh and
gay as though she had just washed it in that running brook, her
lovely mouse-coloured eyes soft and mischievous, as though she were
keeping some amusing secret. There was mud on her high brown boots,
and she was swinging a shining new brief case in one bare hand.
Benedick stared at that hand incredulously. It wasn’t possible that
anything real could be so beautiful; velvet white, steel strong,
fine and slim and flexible--such a hand Ghirlan-daijo’s great
ladies of the Renaissance lifted to their hearts--such a hand a
flying nymph on a Grecian frieze flung out in quest of mercy. And
yet there it was, so close to him that if he stretched out his
fingers he could touch it!
The owner of this white wonder stood poised for a moment,
apparently speculating as to whether this was the most perfect
place in the world in which to lunch; she cast a swift glance of
appraisal about the shadowed room with its hangings and cushions
of faded peacock-blue, with its coal fire glowing and purring in
the corner and its pots of pansies sitting briskly and competently
along the deep window-sills; she gave a swift nod of recognition,
as though she had found something that she had long been seeking,
and slipped lightly into the chair at the table next to Benedick’s.
Her flying eyes had brushed by the startled wonder of his face
as though it had not been there, and it was obvious that he
was still not there, in so far as the lady was concerned. She
pounced exultantly on the _carte du jour_ and gave it her rapt
and undivided attention; when Jules arrived carrying Benedick’s
luncheon as carefully as though it were a delicate and cherished
baby she was ready and waiting for him--and Jules succumbed
instantly to the hopeful friendliness of her voice.
But certainly, Mademoiselle could have _sole bonne femme_ and
potatoes allumettes, and a small salad--_oui, oui, entendu_--_bien
fatiguée_, that salad, with a soupçon of garlic in a crust of
bread, and the most golden of oils--yes, and a soufflé of chocolate
with a demi-tasse in which should be just one dash of cognac--oh,
rest assured of the quality of the cognac. Ah, it was to be seen
that Mademoiselle was _fine gourmet_--which was, alas, not too
common a quality in _ces dames_! Fifteen minutes would not be too
long to wait, no? The potatoes--_bon, bon_--Mademoiselle should
see. Jules trotted rapidly off in the direction of the kitchen, and
Benedick’s luncheon grew cold before him while he watched to see
what the miracle at the table beside him would do next.
How long, how long you had waited for her, Benedick the cynic--so
long that you had forgotten how lovely she would be. After all, it
had not been you who had waited; it had been a little black-headed,
blue-eyed dreamer, fast asleep these many years--you had forgotten
him, too, had you not? He was awake now with a vengeance, staring
through your incredulous eyes at the lovely lady of his dreams,
sitting, blithe and serene, within hand’s touch--the lovely lady
who was not too proud to have mud on her boots and who actually
knew what to order for lunch. All the girls that Benedick had
ever known from the fuzzy-headed little ladies in the chorus to
the sleek-locked wives of his best friend and his worst enemy,
ordered chicken à la King and fruit salad and indescribable
horrors known as maple walnut sundaes and chocolate marshmallow
ice cream. But not this lady--oh, not this one! He leaned forward,
breathless; what further enchantments had she in store? Well, next
she took off her hat, tossing it recklessly across the table, and
the golden wings of her hair sprang out alive and joyous, like
something suddenly uncaged--and then she was uncaging something
else, a shabby brownish red book, prying it out of the depths of
the new brief case as though she could hardly wait; he could see
from the way that the white hands touched it that they loved
it dearly--that they had loved it dearly for a long, long time.
It flew open, as though it remembered the place itself, and she
dipped her bright head to it, and was off! Benedick pushed his
untouched plate far from him, leaning forward across the table,
caution and courtesy and decent reserve clean forgotten. What was
she reading that could make her face dance like that--all her face,
the gold-tipped lashes and the brave lips, and the elusive fugitive
in the curve of the cheek turned toward him, too fleeting to be a
dimple--too enchanting not to be one--what in the name of heaven
was she reading? If only she would move her hand a little--ah!
Something came pattering eagerly toward him out of the printed
page--a small, brisk, portly individual with long ears and a
smart waistcoat--his heart greeted it with a shout of incredulous
delight. By all that was wonderful, the White Rabbit! The dim room
with its round tables faded, faded--Benedick the cynic, Benedick
the sceptic, faded with it--he was back in another room, warm with
firelight and bright with lamplight, in which a small black-headed
boy sat upright in a crib, and listened to a lady reading from a
red-brown book--a curly-headed lady, soft-voiced, soft-handed, and
soft-eyed, who for ten enchanted years had read the lucky little
boy to sleep; he had never believed in fairy tales again, after
that soft voice had trailed off into silence. But now--now it was
speaking once more--and once more he believed!
“Oh, the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh, my dear paws! Oh, my fur
and whiskers! She’ll have me arrested as sure as ferrets are
ferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them?”
The little boy was leaning forward, flushed and enchanted.
“Well, but motherie darling, where _could_ he have dropped
them? Where _could_ he have dropped those gloves?”
“_Monsieur désire?_”
Benedick stared blankly at the solicitous countenance, wrenching
himself back across the years. Monsieur desired--ah, Monsieur
desired--Monsieur desired----
He sat very still after that, until she had sipped the last drop of
black coffee out of the little blue cup, until she had pulled the
hat down over the golden wings and wrapped the sapphire scarf about
her white throat and wedged “Alice” back into the brief case, and
smiled at Jules, and smiled at Geneviève, and smiled at the gray
kitten, and vanished through the brown door.
He sat even stiller for quite a while after she had gone; and then
suddenly bounded to his feet and flung out of the room before the
startled Jules could ask him whether there was not something that
he preferred to the untouched Bénédictine.
It was drizzling in the gray street and he turned his face to it
as though it were sunshine; he glanced in the direction of the
large dark office, and dismissed it with a light-hearted shrug.
Business--business, by the Lord! Not while there was still a spot
to dream in undisturbed. He raced up the apartment-house stairs
three at a time, scorning the elevator, and was in the living room
before the petrified Harishidi could do more than leap goggle-eyed
from his post by the Florentine chest. Harishidi had obviously been
indulging his passion for Occidental music, though you would not
have gathered it from the look of horrified rebuke that he directed
at the Renaissance treasure’s spirited rendition of the “Buzz Town
Darkies’ Ball.” The look conveyed the unmistakable impression that
Harishidi had done everything in his power to prevent the misguided
instrument from breaking out in this unfortunate manner during his
master’s absence, but that his most earnest efforts had proved of
no avail. Benedick, however, was unimpressed.
“For the love of God, shut off that infernal noise!”
Harishidi flung himself virtuously on the offending treasure, and
Benedick stood deliberating for a moment.
“Bring me the records out of the drawer--no, over to the couch--I’m
half dead for sleep after that damned party. Get my pipe; the
briar, idiot. Matches. This the lot Mrs. Benedick sent?”
Harishidi acknowledged it freely, and Benedick shuffled rapidly
through the black disks. Cello rendition of “Eli Eli”; the Smith
Sisters in a saxophone medley; highly dramatic interpretation of
the little idyll from Samson et Delilah; “Kiss Your Baby and Away
We Go” specially rendered by Dolpho, the xylophone king--yes, here
it was.
“An Elizabethan Song, sung by Mr. Roger Grahame of the Santa Clara
Opera Company.”
“Here you are, Hari; put this on your infernal machine. Take the
telephone off the hook and give me another of those cushions.
Where’s an ash tray? All right--let her rip!”
“I play her now?” demanded the incredulous Harishidi.
“You play her now, and you keep right on playing her until I tell
you to stop. What’s more, if I hear another word out of you, you’re
fired. All right--what are you waiting for? Go ahead!”
The quiet room was suddenly flooded with grace and gallantry and a
gay melancholy; a light tenor voice singing easily and happily of
something that was not joy--and was not sorrow--
“There was a lady, fair and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her, passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.
Till--I--die----”
Fair and kind--a lady with gold wings for hair and gray velvet for
eyes--a lady who knew what to have for lunch and who read “Alice
in Wonderland”--a lady who was tall and slim, and had a mouth
like a little girl, and mud on her high boots--white-handed and
white-throated--pear blossoms in the sunlight--fair and kind--
“Her gesture, motion, and her smile,
Her wit, her voice, my heart beguile,
Beguile my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.
Till--I--die.”
Her grace, her voice--a lady who walked as though she were about to
dance--a lady who spoke as though she were about to sing--fair and
kind--gold and ivory--he had seen her before--she lived in a castle
and her hair hung down to her heels--he had ridden by on a black
horse and she had thrown him a rose--a castle by the sea--a castle
behind a hedge of thorns--a castle in a dreaming wood--but he had
found her and waked her with a kiss--no, no, it was he who had been
asleep--a long time--a long time asleep--he wanted to hear the end
of the story, but he was so warm and happy, it was hard to keep
awake--the firelight made strange shadows....
“And so they both lived happily ever after!”
“Then he did find her, Motherie?”
“Of course, of course, he found her, Sleepy Head.”
“Ever, ever after, Motherie?”
“Ever, ever after, little boy.”...
Fair and kind, Golden Hair, smiling in the firelight--smile
again--ever after, she said--ever, ever after....
* * * * *
The next day he was at Raoul’s at a quarter to twelve, and when
Jules asked what Monsieur desired, he told him to bring anything,
it made no difference to him! The stupefied Jules departed to the
kitchen, where he was obliged to remain seated for several moments,
owing to a slight touch of vertigo, and Monsieur sat unmolested
in his chair in the corner, his eyes fastened on the brown door
as though they would never leave it. He was still sitting there,
feverish and preoccupied, half an hour later, having dutifully
consumed everything that Jules put before him without once
removing his eyes from the door. It wasn’t possible--it wasn’t
possible that she wouldn’t come again. Fate could not play him so
scurvy a trick; but let him lay eyes on her just once more, and
he would take no further chances with Fate! He would walk up to
her the second that she crossed the threshold, and demand her name
and address and telephone number and occupation---- And the door
opened, and she came in, and he sat riveted to his chair while she
bestowed a bunch of violets the size of a silver dollar on the
enchanted Geneviève, a smile of joyous complicity on the infatuated
Jules, and a rapturous pat on the gray kitten. After a while he
transferred his gaze from the door to the table next to him, but
otherwise he did not stir. He was thinking a great many things
very rapidly--unflattering and derisive comments on the mentality
of one Larry Benedick. Idiot--ass! As though any lady who held her
bright head so high would not disdain him out of measure if she
could get so much as a glimpse into the depths of his fatuous and
ignoble mind. Ask her for her address indeed! His blood froze at
the thought.
The lady, in the meantime, had ordered lunch and discarded her hat
and pried another treasure from the brief case; this time it was
brown and larger, and she held it so that Benedick could see the
title without irreparably ruining his eyes. “Tommy and Grizel”--the
unspeakable Tommy! She was reading it with breathless intensity,
too, and a look on her face that struck terror to his heart, a
look at once scornful and delighted and disturbed, as though Tommy
himself were sitting opposite her. So this--this was the kind of
fellow that she liked to lunch with--a sentimental, posturing young
hypocrite, all arrogance and blarney--it was incredible that she
couldn’t see through him! What magic had this worthless idiot for
ladies?
Benedick glared at the humble-looking brown volume as though he
would cheerfully rip the heart out of it. He continued to glare
until the white hands put it back into the brief case with a
lingering and regretful touch, and carried it away through the
door; no sooner had it closed than he jammed on his hat and brushed
rudely by the smiling Geneviève and out into the wind-swept street.
There he paused, staring desperately about him, but the sapphire
feather was nowhere to be seen, and after a moment he started off
at a tremendous pace for his apartment, where he proceeded to keep
his finger on the elevator bell for a good minute and a half,
and scowled forbiddingly at the oblivious elevator boy for seven
stories, and slammed the door of the living room so vigorously
that the red-lacquered frames leapt on the wall.
He crossed the room in three lengthy strides, and slammed his
bedroom door behind him even more vigorously. The bedroom was
exactly half the size of the tiled bathroom, so that the artistic
sister-in-law had only been able to wedge in a Renaissance day-bed
and a painted tin scrap basket--but Benedick found it perfectly
satisfactory, as she had permitted him to use books instead of
wall-paper. All the ones that she considered too shabby for the
living room rose in serried ranks to the high ceiling--Benedick
had substituted a nice arrangement of green steps instead of a
chair, and had discovered that he could put either these or the
scrap basket in the bathroom, if it was necessary to move around.
He mounted the steps now, and snatched a brown volume from its
peaceful niche on the top shelf next to “Sentimental Tommy,”
climbed down and sat on the Renaissance day-bed, wrenched the
book open so violently that he nearly broke its back, and read
about what happened to Tommy on the last few pages--served him
damned well right, too, except that hanging was too good for him.
Sentiment! Sentiment was a loathsome thing, not to be borne for a
moment.
The third time that he read it he felt a little better, and he
got up and kicked the scrap basket hard, and telephoned to the
incisive gentleman in the office that he wouldn’t be around
because he had neuralgia and phlebitis and a jumping toothache,
and telephoned his ravished sister-in-law that he’d changed his
mind and would be around for dinner at eight if she’d swear to seat
him next to a brunette. Subsequently he was so attentive to the
brunette that she went home in a fever of excitement--and Benedick
ground his teeth, and prayed that somehow his golden lady might
know about it and feel a pang of the soft and bitter madness known
as jealousy, which is the exclusive prerogative of women. He lay
with his head in the pillow on the Renaissance bed most of the
night, cursing his idiocy with profound fervour, wondering what
insanity had made him think for a moment that he was interested in
that yellow-haired girl, and resolving not to go near Raoul’s for
at least a week. She was probably someone’s stenographer--or a lady
authoress. Every now and then he slipped off into horrid little
dreams; he was building a gallows out of pear trees for a gentleman
called Tommy, and just when he had the noose ready, it slipped
about his own throat--and he could feel it tightening, tightening,
while someone laughed just behind him, very soft and clear--he woke
with a shiver, and the dawn was in the room. He wouldn’t go to
Raoul’s for a month....
At five minutes to twelve he crossed the threshold, and she was
there already with her hat off and a little fat green-and-gold
book propped up against her goblet. Thank God that she had left
that brown bounder at home! Benedick stared earnestly, and felt
a deeper gratitude to Robert Herrick and his songs than he had
ever known before. It was easy to see that she was safe in green
meadows, brave with cowslips and violets and hawthorn and silver
streams, playing with those charming maids, Corinna and Julia.
Benedick breathed a sigh of relief, and when her lunch arrived
he was stricken again with admiration at the perfection of her
choice. Herrick himself could have done no better; the whole-wheat
bread, the primrose pats of butter, the bowl in which the salad
lurked discreetly--but he could see the emerald green of cress, and
something small and silver and something round and ruddy--radishes
and onions shining like jewels! There was a jar of amber honey,
a little blue pitcher of thick cream, and a great blue bowl of
crimson berries--strawberries in March, with a drift of fresh green
mint leaves about them. Here was a lady who was either incredibly
wealthy or incredibly spendthrift! She closed her book when Jules
put this other pastoral before her, and ate as though it might be
a long, long time before she would eat anything again, though she
managed to look as though she were singing all the time. There
was a bit of cream left for the kitten, and she fed it carefully,
patted its white whiskers, and was gone.
Benedick strolled out thoughtfully, remembering to smile at
Geneviève, and feeling more like a good little boy than a ripened
cynic. It was incredible how virtuous it made one feel to be
happy! He wanted to adopt a yellow dog and give money to a beggar
and buy out a florist shop. The florist shop was the only object
accessible, and he walked in promptly; the clerk had spoken to
him before he realized that he couldn’t send her flowers, because
he didn’t happen to know who she was. He might tell him to send
them to the Loveliest Lady in New York, but it was a little
risky. However, he bought an armful of daffodils, and a great
many rose-red tulips, and enough blue and white hyacinths to fill
a garden, and went straight back to his apartment without even
waiting for change from the gold piece that he gave to the clerk.
He handed them over to the startled Harishidi with the curt order
to put them in water; never mind if he didn’t have enough vases.
Put them in high-ball glasses--finger-bowls--anywhere--he wanted
them all over the place. The buyer of flowers then retired and
put on a gorgeous and festively striped necktie, washed his face
and hands with a bland and pleasing soap, brushed his black hair
until it shone, smiled gravely at the dark face in the mirror, and
returned to the sitting room. There he selected a white hyacinth
blossom with meticulous care, placed it in his buttonhole, and
earnestly requested Harishidi to retire and remain in retirement
until summoned.
He spent quite a long time after that, drawing the curtains to shut
out the grayness, struggling despairingly over the diminutive fire,
piling the cushions so that they made a brilliant nest at one end
of the velvet sofa, placing a gold-tooled volume of Aucassin and
Nicolette where she could reach it easily--oh, if he could not send
his flowers to her, he would bring her to his flowers! He adjusted
the reading lamp with its painted parchment shade and dragged a
stool up to the sofa. It was his sister-in-law’s best find--a broad
and solid stool, sedate and comely--he sat there clasping his
knees, his cheek against the velvet of the sofa--waiting. After a
long time, he drew a deep breath, and smiled into the shadows. He
did not turn his head; what need to turn it?
She was there--he could see her sinking far back into the scarlet
cushions, greeting his flowers with joyous eyes. She had on a
cream-coloured dress of some soft stuff, and a long chain of
amber beads; the lamplight fell on her hair and on her clasped
hands--and still he sat there, waiting. What need had they of
speech? There was a perfume in her hair--a perfume of springtime,
fleeting and exquisite; if he reached out his hand he could touch
her. He sat very still; after a little while he felt her hand on
his dark head, but still he did not stir--he only smiled more
deeply into the shadows, and closed his eyes---- His eyes were
still closed when Harishidi came in to ask him if he had forgotten
dinner, and his lips were parted, like a little boy lost in a happy
dream--in a happy, happy dream....