PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP
Charley Straiker came in to dinner that night in a highly effervescent
state. This was not at all unusual.
"Listen, Ev!" he cried. "I've seen her! Oh, a peach! a little queen!
Her name is Corinna Playfair. Isn't that mellifluous? Corinna
Playfair! Corinna Playfair! Like honey on the tongue! Listen, when I
came in a while ago I heard a woman's voice talking to Carmen in her
room on the ground floor. So I went back, making out I wanted to see
Carmen. And there she was! Bowled me over completely. Red hair, you
old misogynist! Piles and piles of it like autumn foliage. It's the
colour of a horse chestnut fresh out of the bur--and her skin's like
the inside of the bur--you know--creamy! Oh, ye gods!
"Well, she was telling old Carmen this and that; her blinds wouldn't
work, and the gas-jet in the dressing-room was out of order, and your
Uncle Dudley sees his chance and speaks up. 'I'll fix the gas-jet and
the blinds,' says I. There was nothing free and easy about her,
though. Made her eyebrows go up like two little crescent moons.
Looked at me as much as to say: 'What is this that the cat has brought
in?' 'Oh, thank you very much,' says she in a voice as friendly as a
marble headstone. 'I couldn't think of troubling you. Miss Sisson
will attend to it.'
"But of course old Carmen wasn't going to miss the chance of getting
her odd jobs done for nothing. She took my part. 'Mr. Straiker, Miss
Playfair,' says she, grinning like the cat who's turned over the
goldfish bowl. 'He will fix you up, I'm sure. I wouldn't be able to
get a man in before next week.'
"Well, to make a long story short, I fixed the blinds so's they'd roll
up, and cleaned out the gas burners. She didn't unbend any.
Discouraged all my efforts to make conversation. Thanked me all over
the place, and gave me to understand that I needn't build on it, you
know. But I swear I'll make her thaw out. I've thought of a scheme.
I tried all her burners--to gain time, you understand--and the one she
mostly uses whistles like a peanut stand. So I'm going out to get her
a swell gas mantle to-night, and say Carmen sent it, see? Trust l'il
Charley to find a way!"
Evan, of course, had his own ideas as to entertaining Miss Playfair
this evening. "How about the life class at the League?" he suggested
casually--too casually.
This was a sore subject with Charley. Evan had him there. "Oh, blow
the class!" he said, scowling. "A fellow doesn't get a chance like
this once in a lifetime." He boiled over again. "I say, I didn't
mention her eyes, did I? Lord! They're like immense brown stars!--Oh,
that's rotten! I mean velvety, glowing--oh, words fail me! You'll
have to take her eyes on trust!"
Evan refused to be diverted. "You cut the class last time," he said.
"What do you expect to get out of it?"
"Lord! One would think you wanted to get me out of the way so you
could make up to her yourself!" said Charley, frowning.
Evan glanced at him sharply. This, however, was a random hit. Charley
was quite unsuspicious.
"Only I know you're a hermit-crab, a woman-hater!" he went on.
"It's only last week you were chasing after a blonde," Evan persisted
remorselessly. "When she threw you down you swore you'd go to work."
"Oh, well, I'll go to the old class," muttered Charley. "I'll get the
gas mantle to-morrow."
Evan breathed freely again.
When Charley was safely out of the way Evan made haste to array himself
in the best that their joint wardrobes afforded. They shared
everything. His conscience troubled him a little over his treatment of
Charley, but he salved it with the thought: "Well, anyway, I saw her
first. I quarrelled with her before he even laid eyes on her." Evan
gave anxious thought to the matching of ties and socks, and spent many
minutes in vigorously brushing out a slight tendency to curl in his
hair. He despised curly hair in a man.
But when he was all ready a sudden fit of indecision attacked him, and
he flung himself into the old chair, glooming. She had all but driven
him out of her room the night before. Well, if he presented himself at
her door now, it would be simply inviting her to insult him. Even
though she didn't mean it, even though she might want him to come (Evan
had that possibility in mind, though his ideas as to the psychology of
girls were chaotic), how could he give her the chance to put it all
over him? Surely she would despise him. On the other hand, he could
hardly expect her to make the first overtures. Evan sighed in
perplexity.
It was not that he liked her any the worse for being so difficult; on
the contrary. But he had to think out the best thing to do under the
circumstances, and the trouble was he wanted to go down so badly he
couldn't think at all.
He made up his mind he wouldn't go down--not that night anyway. He
lighted his pipe in defiance of the whole sex. But somehow he couldn't
keep it going. He only smoked matches. Nor keep his legs from
twitching; nor his brain from suggesting vain pretexts to knock at her
door. He might go out and buy her a gas mantle--but that _would_ be a
low trick on Charley. He flung down the pipe, he walked up and down,
he looked out of the window; a score of times he swore to himself that
he would not go down, yet his perambulations left him ever nearer the
door.
Finally with a great effort of the will he closed it. But almost
instantly he flew to open it again, bent his head to listen, then threw
it back with a note of deep laughter. He commenced to run downstairs.
She was singing, the witch! She _had_ made the first overture. Let
her make believe as much as she liked, she must have calculated that
the song would bring him. Outside her door--it was closed to-night--he
pulled himself up short. "Easy! Easy!" he said to himself. "If
you're in such a rush to come when you're called she'll have the laugh
on you anyhow. Let her sing for a while, the darling! You won't miss
anything here."
It was a jolly little song, full of enchanting runs and changes; old
English, he guessed:
"Oh, the pretty, pretty creature;
When I next do meet her,
No more like a clown will I face her frown
But gallantly will I treat her."
"A hint for me," thought Evan, smiling delightedly.
When she came to the end of the song, Evan, fearful that she might open
the door and find him there, hastened on downstairs. Miss Sisson was
in her room at the back with the door open, and Evan stepped in for a
chat, flattering the lady not a little thereby, for Mr. Weir was the
most stand-offish of her gentleman roomers--and the comeliest.
But it is to be feared she didn't get much profit out of this
conversation, for Mr. Weir was strangely absent-minded. His thoughts
were in the room overhead where the heart-disquieting mezzo-soprano was
now singing a wistfuller song and no less sweet:
"Phyllis has such charming graces
I must love her or I die."
Miss Sisson remarked in her most elegant and acid tones: "It's such an
annoyance to have a singer in the house. I already regret that I
yielded to her importunities."
"You fool!" thought Evan. "She makes a paradise of your old rookery!"
At the end of the second song he was sure he heard the singer's light
footsteps travel to the door overhead, linger there, then return more
slowly. The heart in his breast waxed big with gladness. "You blessed
little darling!" he thought. "If it's true you want me, God knows you
can have me for a gift!"
Yet he let her sing another song before he stirred. He bade Miss
Sisson good-night and went deliberately upstairs. She had stopped
singing now. He knocked on the door.
She took her time about opening it. "Oh, it's you!" she said.
"Good evening," said Evan.
"Good evening," she returned with a rising inflection that suggested:
"Well, what do you want?"
Evan was a bit dashed. His instinct told him, though, that he must put
his fate to the test. In other words, he must find out for sure
whether she detested him, or was simply being maidenly. She had not
thrown the door open to its fullest extent, but Evan, gauging the
space, figured that he could just slip in without actually pushing her
out of the way. He did so.
She faced about in high indignation. "Well! You might at least wait
until you are invited!" she said.
Evan had no wish to anger her too far. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said
innocently. "I thought you meant me to come in." He turned towards
the door again.
"Oh, well, as long as you're here I'm not going to turn you out," she
said casually. "But your manners aren't much." She closed the door.
"It's all right!" thought Evan happily.
"I heard you singing," he said, by way of opening the conversation.
"Yes, I have to sing every night for practice," she said quickly. She
wished him to understand clearly that she had not been singing to bring
him.
She sat on the piano bench, but with her back to the piano and her
hands in her lap. Her expression was not encouraging. Evan sat on the
sofa.
"Please go on," he said. "Don't mind me."
"No," she said, with her funny little downright way. "I shan't sing
any more."
"But why?"
"You have provoked me. I can't sing when I am provoked."
"What have I done?"
"The mere sight of you provokes me," she said with more frankness,
probably, than she intended.
"I'm sorry," said Evan. "You're so different, so unusual, I don't know
how to handle you."
The first part of this pleased her, the last outraged her afresh.
"Handle me!" she cried. "I like that!"
Evan saw his mistake. "That's not the word," he said quickly. "I mean
I study how to please you, and only seem to get in wrong."
"Don't 'study'," she said with a superior air. "Just be yourself."
"But I am myself, and it only provokes you."
The brown eyes flashed. "Oh, you're too conceited for words!"
This was a new thought to Evan. He considered it. "No," he said at
last, "I don't think I am. At least not offensively conceited. But it
seems to me you are so accustomed to having men bow down before you
that the mildest independence in a man strikes you as something
outrageous."
This was near enough the truth to be an added cause for offense. She
received it in an ultra-dignified silence.
"I'd like to bow down before you too," Evan went on smiling. "But
something tells me if I did it would be the end of me. You would
despise me."
Her mood changed abruptly. "I feel better now," she said. "One really
cannot take you seriously. I'll sing."
Her hands drifted over the keys, and she dropped into "Mighty lak' a
Rose." The air was admirably suited to the deeper notes of her voice.
The listener's heart was drawn right out of his breast; he forgot at
once his fear of being mastered, and his great desire to master her.
When she came to the end he murmured, deeply moved: "I can't say
anything."
She could have asked no finer tribute. "You needn't," she murmured.
The pleasure she took in his applause was evidenced in the warmth she
imparted to the next song. She made it intolerably plaintive: "Just a
Wearyin' for You."
Evan held his breath in delight. "If the words were true!" he thought.
But though she sang with abandon, she never looked at him. He was
artist enough to know better than to take an artistic performance
literally.
Nothing more was said for a long time. She passed from one song to
another, singing from memory; dreamily improvising on the piano
between. She chose only simple songs in English which pleased Evan
well--could she read his heart?--the "Shoogy-Shoo"; "Little Boy Blue";
the "Sands o' Dee."
Evan was incapable of criticising her voice. Some might have objected
that it lacked that bell-like clearness so much to be desired; that it
had a dusky quality, but Evan was not quarrelling because it was the
voice of a woman instead of an angel. One thing she had beyond
peradventure, temperament; her heart was in her singing, and so it
played on his heartstrings as she willed.
While he listened enraptured, he saw the moon peek over the buildings
in the next street. He softly got up and turned off the impertinent
gas. Beyond a startled glance over her shoulder she made no objection.
He was utterly fascinated by the movements of the bright head, now
raised, now lowered, now turned towards the window in the changing
moods of the songs.
Moonlight completed the working of the spell that was laid upon him.
For the moment he ceased to be a rational being. He was exalted by
emotion far out of himself. He experienced the sweetness of losing his
own identity. It was as if a great wind had snatched him up into the
universal ether, a region of warmth of colour and perfume. But he was
conscious of a pull on him like that of the magnet for the iron, a pull
that was neither to be questioned nor resisted.
At the last she turned around on the bench again, and her hands dropped
in her lap. "That is all. I'm tired," she said like a child.
With a single movement the rapt youth was at her feet, weaving his arms
about her waist. Unpremeditated words poured from him; words out of
deeps in him of which up to that moment he was unconscious.
"Oh, you woman! You are the first in the world for me! I know you
now! I feel your power! It's too much for me. And I'm glad of it! I
have waited for you. I looked for you in so many girls' faces only to
find emptiness. I began to doubt. Love was just a poetic fancy, I
thought. But I have found it. Let me love you."
She was not surprised, nor angry. She gently tried to detach his arms.
"Oh, hush! hush!" she murmured. "It is not me! It is just the music!"
"It is you! It is you!" he protested. "I knew it when I first saw
you. You or none!"
"But how silly!" she said in a warm, low voice. "You have seen me
twice."
"What difference does that make?" he said impatiently. "One cannot be
mistaken about a thing like this. I love you with all my heart. It
only takes a second to happen, but it can never be undone while I live.
You have entered into me and taken possession. If you left me I should
be no more than a shell of a man!"
"Ah, but be sensible!" she begged him. He thought he felt her
fingertips brush his hair. "Try to be sensible. Think of me."
"I wish to think only of you. What do you want me to do?"
"Get up and sit beside me. Let us talk."
He sat beside her on the bench. He did not offer to touch her again.
The moonlight was in her face; the lifted, shadowy oval seemed angelic
to him, he was full of awe.
"You're so beautiful!" he groaned, "so beautiful it hurts me!"
"Hush!" she said, "you mustn't talk like that."
"Is it wrong?"
"Yes--no! I don't know. I can't bear it!"
"You can do what you like with me."
"You don't mean that really."
"I do. I have longed to be able to give myself up wholly."
"Then be my brother, my dear brother."
Evan frowned. "You mean----?"
"Be my brother," she repeated. "I need your help."
"But--but how can I?" said Evan. "I am only a man."
"The other thing only frightens me," she said quickly. "I like
you--but I cannot return that. This is not just the feeling of a
moment. It will never change. I know myself. But be my friend. Take
what I can give you. Do not force me to be on my guard. I wish to let
myself go with you."
"That is what I wish," he said quickly. Poor Evan felt hollow inside:
hollow and a little dazed. The cloud-piercing tower of his happiness
had collapsed. A sure instinct told him that what she proposed was
impossible, and what was more, absurd. But he clutched at straws. The
idea of giving her up altogether was unthinkable. Moreover he was
incapable of resisting her at that moment. It was easy enough to
silence that inner voice. He said nothing, but merely raised her hand
to his lips.
"Swear it," she murmured.
"You dictate the oath."
"Swear that you will be my friend, and nothing but my friend."
"I swear it."
Suddenly leaning forward she kissed his cheek as a sister might have
done--but the spot glowed long afterwards. Then she jumped up.
"You must go now."
"Not quite yet," he pleaded, "Corinna."
"Oh!" she rebuked him.
"But you're my sister now."
"Very well, you may call me Corinna, but you must go. What will the
landlady say?"
"But you said you needed my help. How can I rest not knowing----"
"But that's too long a story to begin now. There's no immediate danger
threatening me. There will be other nights."
"How can I wait twenty-four hours?"
"How would you like to get up early and go walking in the country
before the day's work?"
"I'd like it above all things."
"Then call for me at eight. We'll have breakfast at the French pastry
shop. My first lesson's at eleven."
"Great!"
"Now go."
"Say good-night, Evan."
"I will when I am more accustomed to you."
"But try it just for an experiment."
"Well--good-night, Evan."
His name was so sweet on her tongue it required all his self-control to
remember his oath. He turned away with a groan.
"Good-night, Corinna."