A PRIVATE DINING ROOM.
Saturday evening was dull enough, being only brightened by a pencilled
note from Miss May, reading simply, "Money received. Will see you
Tuesday." I went over to the Lyceum Theatre to a play called "The Tree
of Knowledge," which I now believe one of the brightest things produced
on the American stage in years, though I was too full of other thoughts
to appreciate it at the time.
It was an attempt to shift the burden of blame that has rested in all
fiction on the shoulders of the man, to that of the woman, and was so
far rather welcome to me. We are a bad lot, as a rule, I am afraid, but
some allowance should be made for a case like the one in the play, where
a well intentioned young fellow is used as a football by a girl who does
not care if his life is ruined, so long as she accomplishes her designs.
I remember being somewhat surprised at the apparent approval of the fine
audience, but that may have been due in a measure to the delightful
acting of the various parts. I had not been to the Lyceum for a long
time and did not remember to have seen the "wronged young man" before,
but he made a most favorable impression on me as more natural and less
stagey than the average. The "villain,"--the masculine one--was an
excellent actor, also. As for the "wicked" woman, I thought, if
Marjorie failed me, I would give her an invitation to spend the rest of
the winter in the Caribbean.
Sunday was weariness itself. I poured over the newspapers, took a walk,
managed to get a short nap, for I was tired, ate my lunch, and then, to
fill up the time, wrote a letter to Miss Brazier, in defense of myself
from the severe attack that unknown young woman had made. It was a silly
proceeding, but I liked to write about Marjorie, even to one wholly
unknown, and this is what I said, as near as I can remember it:
Dear Alice (Ben Bolt):--I feel justified in calling you "Alice," now
it is settled that you are not to be my companion for long and (to
you, doubtless) weary weeks, a liberty I should never have dreamed
of taking had you decided to go. I do not know in what way I have
offended you, which I judge by your letter to be the case, but as
the children say, "If I've done anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of
it." (Of course I don't mean exactly that.) The reason I write this
is to ask you to dine with me (in a highly respectable public dining
room--no cabinet particulaire, mind!) some evening before the 12th,
when I am to sail.
If you will do this, I will fill your shell-like ears with such an
account of your Rival that you will acquit her of intending any of
the horrors you intimate. She is neither, I believe, a sinful
creature nor a dunce--just a sweet, strong-minded, trusting seeker
after change and rest.
And I don't like your insinuations, either, about my own moral
character. If you knew me, I should not blame you so much, but as
you don't--it's simply reprehensible. I have no intention of
"soiling my soul," or that of any other person, but if that awful
event happens (I wonder how I would look with a soiled soul!) you
will be to blame. If you really thought I was in danger, why did you
not do the patriotic thing and offer to go in her place? That would
have disposed of the s--s--possibility.
Now, if you have not already thrown this down in a rage--I judge you
to be a woman of the most fiendish temper!--let me be sensible for
just one moment. I am recovering slowly from a long illness and am
as harmless as a dove. I have, honestly, some work for a typewriter
to do, and my physician has advised me to take one. The young lady
who has agreed to go is not the sort you seem to imagine. She has
consented only after the most distressing stipulations in regard to
my conduct--all of which were entirely unnecessary, by the way. I am
to file a bond to return her to New York by May 1st in absolutely
perfect condition.
Come and dine with me, Alice dear, and have your doubts removed. I
won't bite you, nor offer the slightest familiarity, upon my word!
Name your hotel and, provided it is of undoubted respectability, I
will meet you there at any hour you choose, after 6 P.M., or I will
send a carriage for you. I only wish I could bring 'Marjorie'--isn't
it a perfectly sweet name! One sight of her soulful eyes would say
more than all my protestations. Unhappily she is out of town, and I
am afraid she wouldn't like to be exhibited, if she were here.
You'd best come.
Yours Fraternally,
D. CAMWELL.
The Lambs, Dec. 31, 1897.
It didn't seem too funny, when I read it over, as I thought it would,
but I sent it to East Sixteenth Street by a messenger that I summoned,
telling him to bring an answer, if there was any, and to return for his
pay, if there was none. He came back in half an hour, saying that a boy
at the house took the letter up stairs, presumably to Miss B., and
returned in a few minutes stating that she would reply by mail. As this
exhausted all the fun I could expect out of that matter for the day, I
went over to the Club and lounged away the afternoon.
It was nine o'clock and I had only been at home for a few minutes when a
note came from Statia Barton. It was written in a very cool strain, but
its contents were unexpectedly agreeable, for all that. Statia said she
was afraid she had been a little too severe, and that, as it distressed
Tom very much to have a general falling out, she had made it up with
him. She had nothing to take back in what she had said relating to a
certain matter, (what woman ever took back anything?) but was willing to
admit that it was, really, my personal affair and that she had no right
to control my conduct. She believed it best, on the whole, that we
should see each other as little as possible before I went away, but she
did not wish, on reflection, to make trouble between her brother and his
friend. If Tom wanted me to come to spend an evening with him, she hoped
I would do it, and she promised to keep out of my way.
It was a queer mixture, take it altogether, but I was very glad to
receive it. The calming effect on my general condition was such that
when I went to bed, I slept for nearly seven hours without interruption,
something I had not done for the previous fortnight.
Monday, on account of New Years, was as dull as Sunday. When I awoke
with the exultant knowledge that it was at last Tuesday morning, I
sprang from bed joyfully. Filling my tub with water as it ran from the
street pipe, I plunged into its icy depths. Rising again I repeated the
operation half a dozen times, until the effect on my entire body was of
a healthy glow, and then proceeded to dress with care. I was long in
selecting a necktie, for one thing, and tried three pairs of cuff-links
before I was content. My coffee was barely tasted, and the newspapers
were scanned as if in a dream.
All the time, mind you, I was trying my best to obey the injunction of
Dr. Chambers to avoid the least excitement. I persuaded myself that I
was simply happy and that no injurious effect could be apprehended from
a merely contented frame of mind. I did not stop to think that I was
pursuing a short road to the nervous prostration from which I had
emerged, and which had its origin in the same lack of control I was
exhibiting.
Tom Barton called about eight o'clock and, as he entered the room, came
straight to me with his right hand extended. I took it heartily in mine,
glad that the chasm between us was bridged at last.
"Dear old fellow," he said, with strong feeling, "forgive me for
anything disagreeable I said, the other day. I feel now that I misjudged
you. Let us end that matter and when you come to my house this evening,
tell me exactly what route you are going to take, so I can arrange where
to write you."
I promised to come if I could, and if that was impossible, to send a
message to account for my absence. I told him I had bought a set of
small maps which would show my route perfectly and that I hoped for
frequent communications with him. Neither of us said anything about
Statia, for I think he felt as I did that we should get along better
without bringing in her name. He was obliged to leave after a brief
call. As soon as he was out of sight I donned my out-door garments and
proceeded by round-about stages toward Miss May's residence.
The hands of my watch pointed to ten exactly, when I rang her bell. It
is considered a virtue, I believe, to be prompt at an appointment. The
woman who attended the door dampened my ardor somewhat, however, by
informing me that Miss May had not yet returned. She suggested that I go
at once to the lady's room and make myself comfortable till she came,
which must be very soon.
I walked slowly up the stairs, which seemed longer than ever, oppressed
with a new series of doubts. Perhaps she would not come at all. Perhaps
she had taken my three hundred dollars and fled to parts unknown.
Perhaps--oh! the ugly things that came into my head between the lower
hall and the door of that empty room.
I turned the knob and entered. Somehow the sight of the things that
belonged to her began to mollify me. There was the chair in which she
had been seated when I saw her last--happy chair! There was the dressing
table, the brush and comb she used, the glass into which she had looked
with her beautiful blue-gray eyes. Yes, and masquerading as a cabinet,
yet deceiving no one for a second, was the folding bed that had often
received her lovely form, with her head pillowed in happy slumber.
It was something to be in the room she occupied, to see the furniture
she used.
I seated myself in her chair--the one I had seen her in--but almost
instantly rose and walked about. My nerves were too much on edge to
permit me to remain long without motion of some kind. At the end of half
an hour I began to grow incensed again. She had made the appointment for
ten o'clock. She knew from previous experience that I would keep it to
the moment. Trains from the suburbs ran frequently enough. Did she
consider me merely a puppet, to be played with?
Between half-past ten and eleven I was a hundred times on the point of
descending the stairs and leaving the house, ending the whole affair.
But I didn't.
She came about ten minutes past eleven, with many expressions of regret
at having kept me waiting. The timepiece at the house of her friend had
broken its mainspring, or something of the sort, and with the
carelessness of a woman she had forgotten to wind her watch the evening
before. The family were all deceived by the fact that the sky was
cloudy. When she reached her station the train had just gone and she was
obliged to wait three-quarters of an hour for another. As soon as she
alighted in New York, she took a cab and bade the driver hasten. Had I
been waiting very long?
I did not know, at that instant, whether I had been a minute or a week,
and I did not care. It was enough that I was again in her presence--that
she had actually arrived. I begged her to say nothing more about it.
"I have kept the cab," she said, looking me full in the face, "thinking
you might be kind enough to go with me to the shops and help me pick out
my things. If it isn't asking too much--"
I assured her it would give me the greatest pleasure to accept the
invitation and that I had no engagement so important as helping her to
get ready for our journey. With a smile, she took off her hat and
arranged her hair at the mirror, with a few passes of the brush and
comb. Then she put it on again and said she was quite ready.
"Drive to Altman's," she said to the cabman, as she stepped inside the
vehicle.
We were together, side by side. Had we been on the way to the steamer
nothing could have exceeded my delight. These preliminaries all tended
in that direction, however, and I was fain to curb my haste and content
myself with the present.
"I think you ought to see what it costs to dress a young woman who is
going to masquerade as the cousin of a gentleman of means," said Miss
May, as we turned the corner. "I want you to decide on each article,
since the expense is to come out of your pocket. I must say another
thing also, at this time. I shall not consider as my own anything I need
to buy. I am merely in the position of an actress whose wardrobe is to
be provided by her manager. Whenever our engagement terminates I will
return every article to you in as good shape as possible."
I was staggered by the suggestion, as well as impressed by the sentiment
that led her to make it.
"What could I do with a lot of gowns--and--lingerie?" I inquired,
helplessly. "They would be a veritable drug on my hands."
"They could be altered," she said, thoughtfully. "I shall be very
careful of them."
"Altered!" I cried. "For whom?"
"For the next typewriter you may happen to engage."
I laughed to conceal the disagreeable feeling which the thought gave me.
"As a joke that is stupendous," I said, "but, if you don't mind, I would
rather you would be funny on some other subject."
She relapsed into silence, something after the manner of a child who has
been chidden, which did not add to my ease. I had no idea of scolding
her. Luckily we were soon at Altman's.
I had come provided with plenty of money that time. The cash she had
brought was exhausted when we left this place and we did not seem to
have got much for it, either. A milliner was next visited, where the
price of the few articles purchased was forgotten in my admiration of
the charming appearance Marjorie made in her new headgear. Then we drove
to another establishment, where she was obliged to hide herself from
view for three-quarters of an hour, with a bill of eighty-five dollars
as the result. She explained that she had got nothing she could possibly
avoid, when it was considered that we might be several weeks at a time
without a laundress, and I said the only fear I had was that she would
buy too little.
A boot shop came next in order, where I had a jealous pang as one of the
salesmen fitted her with various articles in his stock, all suitable
for a warm climate, at a total cost of forty dollars. And then we drove
about, from glove shop to perfumer's, from umbrella maker to fan dealer,
from this to that, and the hands on my watch showed that it was nearly
five o'clock.
"I think that is about all for to-day," said Miss May, drawing a long
breath. "You must be glad it's over."
"Not at all," I replied. "Isn't it about time, though, that we had
something in the way of refreshment?" (She had declined several offers
to lunch during the preceding five hours.) "Mayn't I tell the driver now
to take us to a restaurant?"
She consented, after a little thought, and also said she would leave the
place to me. When I suggested the Hotel Martin, she thought a little
longer, and then surprised me with a request that I would get a private
room.
"Impossible," I said, when I could catch my breath. "They will assign no
party of two to a room alone."
She blushed, which was not surprising. I had put her in the position of
wishing to break a puritanic rule of which she had never heard.
I mentioned several other places, and we finally agreed on one some
distance up-town, at which I told her the regulation against a single
couple dining alone did not apply. She was rather tired and leaned back
in the carriage in a manner that showed it. I studied her face as much
as I could without appearing to stare, but it was wholly
expressionless.
"You are very good to me," she said, after a long pause.
"And you are very kind to me," I answered.
"What a lot of money we have spent to-day," she added. "Aren't you sorry
yet?"
"No," I answered, smiling. "Not yet."
"I shall need almost nothing more," she said, "to appear in a garb that
will not disgrace you. Nothing, but a little jewelry, I think."
I said we would go to-morrow and attend to that, or she could go alone
if she preferred, and send the bills to me.
"It must be lovely to have all the money one wants," she remarked,
dreamily. "To order whatever you please without stopping to see if you
can afford it."
"Yes," I assented.
"You can do that?" said Miss May, putting one of her gloved hands on my
arm.
"Within a reasonable limit. My wants are seldom extravagant."
"Why," she asked, slowly, "is the world arranged so unevenly? Why are
some provided with all they want, and more, while others have to study
each item of actual necessity?"
"That is a deep question, that I would not like to settle in my present
state of hunger," I replied, at which she smiled and sat up in the
carriage. "We are luckily near the end of our route. I think I had best
dismiss the cab and get another one when we leave."
She agreed and then asked if I had any objection to her donning a veil.
It was all right, of course--dining in a private room with her
employer--but it might not seem so to a casual passer, who would
possibly recognize her face at some future period. A woman had to be so
particular.
I cut her explanations short by saying that I did not object to the
idea, but quite approved of it; at which she put on the veil, which to
my consternation was blue and quite opaque. I did not wish to let any
difference of opinion come between us, but I reflected that if one of my
friends saw me, with a woman veiled like that, his conclusions would be
anything but pleasing. There is such a thing as going too far.
We were shown to a nice little room, where the waiter came near getting
himself into trouble by informing me with needless severity that it was
not permitted to lock the door.
Miss May did not seem to hear what he said. She was removing her blue
veil at a little glass that hung on the wall.
When she took the chair opposite to me and accepted the menu at my
hands, she looked so charming that I had to put a veritable Westinghouse
brake on my arms.