At this point I had meant to tell you more of Wally Cabot--most perfect,
most charming of lovers--but first I find that I must describe a passage
which took place one morning between Mary and Uncle Stanley's son Burdon.
Perhaps you remember Burdon, the tall, dark young man who "smelled nice"
and wore a white edging on the V of his waistcoat.
As far back as Mary could remember him, he had appealed to her
imagination.
His Norfolk jackets, his gold cigarette case and match box, his air of
distinction, his wealth of black hair which grew to a point on his
forehead, even the walking stick which he sometimes carried; to Mary's
mind these had always been properties in a human drama--a drama
breathless with possibilities, written by Destiny and entitled Burdon
Woodward.
It is hard to express some things, and this is one of them. But among
your own acquaintances there are probably one or two figures which stand
out above the others as though they had been selected by Fate to play
strenuous parts--whether Columbine, clown or star. Something is always
happening to them. Wherever they appear, they seem to hold the centre of
the stage, and when they disappear a dullness falls and life seems flat
for a time. You think of them more often than you realize, perhaps with a
smile, perhaps with a frown, and generally you dismiss them from your
mind with some such thought as this--"He'll get in trouble yet," or "I
wouldn't be surprised if he makes a great man some day"--or "Something
will happen to that girl yet, if she isn't careful!"
That, in short, was the sort of a character that Burdon Woodward had
always been to Mary. For as long as she could remember him, she had
associated him with romance and drama.
To her he had been Raffles, the amateur cracksman. He had also been
Steerforth in David Copperfield--and time after time she had drowned him
in the wreck. In stories of buccaneers he was the captain--sometimes
Captain Morgan, sometimes Captain Kidd--or else he was Black Jack with
Dora in his power and trembling in the balance whether to become a hero
or a villain. As Mary grew older these associations not only lingered;
they strengthened.
Not long before her father died she read in the paper of a young
desperado, handsome and well-dressed, who held up a New York jeweller at
the point of a gun and relieved him of five thousand dollars' worth of
diamond rings. The story was made remarkable by a detail. An old woman
was sitting at the corner, grinding a hand-organ, and as the robber ran
past her, he dropped one of the rings into her cup.
"Oh, dad," Mary had said, looking up and speaking on impulse, "did I hear
you say last night that Burdon Woodward was in New York?"
"No, dear. Boston."
"Mm," thought Mary. "He'd say he was going to Boston for a blind." And
for many a week after that she slyly watched his fingers, to see if she
could catch him red-handed so to speak, wearing one of those rings! Yet
even while she glanced she had the grace to smile at her fancies.
"All the same," she told herself, "it sounded an awful lot like him."
The encounter which I am now going to tell you about took place one
morning after Mary had been elected to the presidency of the company. She
had just finished breakfast when Burdon telephoned.
"Your father had some private papers in his desk down here," he said. "I
was wondering if you'd like to come down and look them over."
"Thank you," she said. "I will."
Josiah's private room in the factory office building had been an
impressive one, high-ceiled and flanked with a fire-place which was,
however, never lighted. Ancestral paintings and leather chairs had added
their notes of distinction. The office of any executive will generally
reflect not only his own personality, but the character of the enterprise
of which he stands at the head. Looking in Josiah's room, I think you
would have been impressed, either consciously or not, that Spencer & Son
had dignity, wealth and a history behind it. And regarding then the dark
colouring of the appointments, devoid of either beauty or warmth, and
feeling yourself impressed by a certain chilliness of atmosphere, I can
very well imagine you saying to yourself "Not very cheerful!"
But you wouldn't have thought this on the morning when Mary entered it in
response to Burdon's suggestion.
A fire was glowing on the andirons. New rugs gave colour and life to the
floor. The mantel had been swept clear of annual reports and technical
books, and graced with a friendly clock and a still more friendly pair of
vases filled with flowers. The monumental swivel chair had disappeared,
and in its place was one of wicker, upholstered in cretonne. On the desk
was another vase of flowers, a writing set of charming design and a
triple photograph frame, containing pictures of Miss Cordelia, Miss Patty
and old Josiah himself.
Mary was still marvelling when she caught sight of Burdon Woodward in the
doorway.
"Who--who did this?" she asked.
He bowed low--as d'Artagnan might have bowed to the queen of France--but
came up smiling.
"Your humble, obedient servant," said he. "Can I come in?"
It had been some time since Mary had seen him so closely, and as he
approached she noticed the faultlessness of his dress, the lily of the
valley in his buttonhole, and that slightly ironic but smiling manner
which is generally attributed to men of the world, especially to those
who have travelled far on adventurous and forbidden paths. In another age
he might have worn lace cuffs and a sword, and have just returned from a
gambling house where he had lost or won a fortune with equal nonchalance.
"He still smells nice," thought Mary to herself, "and I think he's
handsomer than ever--if it wasn't for that dark look around his eyes--and
even that becomes him." She motioned to a chair and seated herself at the
desk.
"I thought you'd like to have a place down here to call your own," he
said in his lazy voice. "I didn't make much of a hit with the governor,
but then you know I seldom do--"
"Where did you get the pictures?"
"From the photographers'. Of course it required influence, but I am full
of that--being connected, as you may know, with Spencer & Son. When I
told him why I wanted them, he seemed to be as anxious as I was to find
the old plates."
"And the fire and the rugs and everything--you don't know how I
appreciate it all. I had no idea--"
"I like surprises, myself," he said. "I suppose that's why I like to
surprise others. The keys of the desk are in the top drawer, and I have
set aside the brightest boy in the office to answer your buzzer. If you
want anybody or anything--to write a letter--to see the governor--or even
to see your humble servant--all you have to do is to press this button."
A wave of gratitude swept over her.
"He's nice," she thought, as Burdon continued his agreeable drawl. "But
Helen says he's wicked. I wonder if he is.... Imagine him thinking of
the pictures: I'm sure that doesn't sound wicked, and... Oh,
dear!....Yes, he did it again, then!... He--he's making eyes at me as
much as he dares!..."
She turned and opened a drawer of the desk.
"I think I'll take the papers home and sort them there," she said.
"You're sure there's nothing more I can do?" he asked, rising.
"Nothing more; thank you."
"That window behind you is open at the top. You may feel a draft; I'll
shut it."
In his voice she caught the note which a woman never misses, and her mind
went back to her room at college where the girls used to gather in the
evenings and hold classes which were strictly outside the regular course.
"It's simply pathetic," one of the girls had once remarked, "but nearly
every man you meet makes love the same way. Talk about sausage for
breakfast every morning in the year. It's worse than that!
"First you catch it in their eye and in their voice: 'Are you sure you're
comfortable?' 'Are you sure you're warm enough?' 'Are you sure you don't
feel a draft?' That's Chapter One.
"Then they try to touch you--absent-mindedly putting their arms along the
back of your chair, or taking your elbow to keep you from falling when
you have to cross a doorsill or a curb-stone or some dangerous place like
that. That's always Chapter Two.
"And then they try to get you into a nice, secluded place, and kiss you.
Honestly, the sameness of it is enough to drive a girl wild. Sometimes I
say to myself, 'The next time a man looks at me that way and asks me if I
feel a draft, I'm going to say, 'Oh, please let's dispense with Chapter
Two and pass directly to the nice, secluded place. It will be such a
change from the usual routine!'"
Mary laughed to herself at the recollection.
"If Vera's right," she thought, "he'll try to touch me next--perhaps the
next time I come."
It happened sooner than that.
After she had tied up the papers and carried them to the car, and had
made a tour of the new buildings--Archey Forbes blushing like a sunset
the moment he saw her--she returned to her motor which was waiting
outside the office building. Burdon must have been waiting for her. He
suddenly appeared and opened the door of the car.
"Allow me," he said. When she stepped up, she felt the support of his
hand beneath her elbow.
She slipped into her place at the wheel and looked ahead as dreamy-eyed
as ever.
"Chapter Two..." she thought to herself as the car began to roll away,
and taking a hasty mental review of Wally Cabot, and Burdon Woodward and
Archey Forbes, she couldn't help adding, "If a girl's thoughts started to
run that way, oh, wouldn't they keep her busy!"
It relieved her feelings to make the car roar up the incline that led
from the river, but when she turned into the driveway at the house on the
hill, she made a motion of comic despair.
Wally Cabot's car was parked by the side of the house. Inside she heard
the phonograph playing a waltz.