II
The host rose, and, leaning on his fingertips, he addressed me: "Sir, all this doubtless strikes you as rather extraordinary."
"Very extraordinary," I replied.
"To dine under such circumstances is not accorded to every man."
"To which do you refer: the honor or the modus operandi?"
"Both. Now, an explanation is due you."
"So I observe,"—gravely.
"The pleasure is mine. To begin with, permit me to introduce you to my guests." One by one he named them, the ladies and gentlemen. I had heard of them all. Money had made them famous. "As for myself, I am Daniel Ainsworth; this is my home. I dare say you have heard of me."
"I have won money on your horses, sir,"—with all the gravity of expression I found possible to assume.
My remark was greeted with laughter.
My host, composing his lips, resumed. "And now, sir, whom have I the honor to address?"
"I am the author of many a famous poem,"—tranquilly.
"Ah!"
"Yes; anonymous. Sir, my name would mean nothing to you or your guests: I am poor."
There was a trace of admiration in the girl's eyes as she turned her head. "Besides," I went on, "I want a little revenge."
"Good!" bawled my host; "good! You're a man of kidney, sir. A gentleman is always a gentleman; and I do not need to look at you twice, sir, to note that my niece's choice has been a happy one."
"You have not introduced me to your niece," said I, "who is, next to myself, the most important guest at the table."
"Hang me! The young lady at your side is Miss Helen Berkeley, the best horsewoman in the state, if I do say so myself."
Great applause, as they say in the press gallery. I looked squarely at the girl, but she was busy turning round her empty wine-glass.
"I appreciate the honor, sir," I said; "but now will you favor me with the modus operandi, or, to be particular, the reason of all this mystery?"
"I approach that at once. This is leap year, as you will recollect. On January first I gave a leap-year party, and in the spirit of fun each lady present declared her intention of bringing to a series of late dinners a gentleman whom none of us knew, either by sight or by reputation. He was to be lured into a carriage by some story or other, and was not to know the true state of things till he sat at the table. My niece was the last on the list. Those who backed down were to give a house-party of a week's length. Women detest house-parties, and that is the one reason why this comedy has gone down the line without a failure. This is the eighth dinner. Each lady present has fulfilled her obligation to the year. We have had some curious specimens of humanity: a barber, a mild lunatic, a detective who thought he was on the trail of some terrible crime, an actor, a political reformer, and an English groom who palmed himself off as a lord. The actor and yourself, sir, are the only men who seemed to possess any knowledge of the various uses of dinner forks."
"You haven't seen me eat yet," I interpolated. All this was highly amusing to me. I was less a victim than a spectator.
"You will do us the honor of permitting us to criticize your knowledge of the forks," laughed Ainsworth. "Now, Nell, tell us how you lured Mr. Anonymous into your carriage."
Very quietly she recounted the tale. She omitted but one incident.
"In front of a club!" cried the ladies in unison. "Why in the world didn't we think of that?"
"Miss Berkeley has omitted one thing," said I maliciously.
"And, pray, what?" asked Miss Berkeley's uncle.
"Remember," she whispered, "you are supposed to be a gentleman."
I took umbrage at the word "supposed."
"Miss Berkeley must tell you what she has omitted in the course of her narrative."
"And I refuse to tell."
"Hang it, Nell, I'll wager Mr. Anonymous kissed you!" cried her uncle.
"Caught!" cried one of the ladies.
"Allow me a word," I interposed. I was already sorry. "There was a method in my action which must not be misconstrued. I believed, for a moment, that Miss Berkeley might be a new species of bunko-steerer. If she objected noisily to my salute I should find my case proved; if she cried, I was wrong."
"And?"
"She did neither. She rubbed her cheek."
"I'll warrant!" my host bawled. "Oh, this is rich! A bunko-steerer!"
"Miss Berkeley," I whispered, "we are quits."
"Not yet,"—ominously.
It was almost time for me to go!
"I was going to ask your pardon," said the uncle in his hunter-voice; "but I think you have been paid for your trouble. Is there anything you would like?"
"Three things, sir."
"And these?" he asked, while every one looked curiously at me. I was still an unknown quantity.
"My hat, my coat, and the way to the door, for I presume you have no further use for me."
My reply appealed to the guests as monstrous funny. It was some time ere the laughter subsided. My host seemed threatened with an attack of apoplexy.
"My dear sir," said he, "I beg of you to remain, not as a source for our merriment, but as the chief guest of honor. I believe you have won that place."
I turned to Miss Berkeley. "Do you bid me remain?"
Silence.
I placed my hand on the back of my chair, preparatory to sliding it from under me. She stayed me.
"Do not go,"—softly. "I haven't had my revenge."
I sat down. I was curious to learn what color this revenge was going to take. "Mr. Ainsworth, my compliments!"—raising my glass, being very careful not to touch the contents.
"Bully!" cried my host, thumping the table with his fist. "James, a dozen bottles of '96. There's a gentleman,"—nodding to those nearest him; "you can tell 'em a mile off. A little shy of strangers," humorously falling into horse-talk, "but he's money coming down the home-stretch."
Then everybody began to talk at once, and I knew that the dinner proper was on the way.
"Aren't you just a little above such escapades as this?" I asked of the girl.
"Do not make me any more uncomfortable than I am," she begged. "But having gone into it I had too much courage to back down."
"The true courage would have been to give the house-party."
"But men always insist upon your marrying them at house-parties."
"I see I have much to learn,"—meekly. "And the men are right."
"What an escape I have had!"
"Meaning house-parties, or that I am a gentleman?"
"If you had not been a gentleman! For, of course, you are, since my uncle has so dubbed you. If you had not been a gentleman!"
"If you had not been a lady! If you had been a bunko-steerer! And I do not know that you are not one still. Do you believe me? I kept my hand on my wallet pocket nearly all the time."
"I understood you to say that you were poor."
"Oh, I mean that I am too poor to hunt for excitement in bizarre things."
"Confess that you look upon me with a frank contempt!"—imperiously.
"Never!"
"That in your secret mind you write me down a silly fool."
"Allow me to quote Dogberry—'Masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass!' Thus, I may not call you a fool. Besides, it would be very impolite."
"You neither eat nor drink. Why?"
"I demand to retain some of my self-respect."
She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms. She had wonderful eyes, and for as long a time as a minute these eyes impaled me on barbs of light. "You must think us a pack of fools."
"Oh, indeed, no; only rich."
"That is almost an epigram,"—warningly. "You will lead me to believe that you belong to smart society in some provincial town."
"Heaven forfend!"—earnestly.
"But speak all the thought. Nothing prevents truth from either of us to-night."
"All of what thought?"
"We are not fools, only rich."
"Well, I lower the bucket, then; and if I can bring truth to the top of the well you will promise not to blush on beholding her?"
"I promise."
"It is maddening and unhealthy to be rich and idle. The rich and idle do such impossible things in the wild effort to pass away the dragging hours. Society is not made up of fools: rather knaves and madmen. Money and idleness result in a mild attack of insanity."
"Thanks."
"You are welcome. Shall I lower truth along with the butter of flattery?"
"You may lower the butter of flattery. So that is how the great public looks upon us?"
"Yes, in a way; while it envies you."
"I have always been rich. What is poverty like?"
"It is comparative."
"It must be horrid."
"Poverty is ugly only when man himself is the cause of it."
"Another epigram. I have always been under my uncle's care,"—with the slightest droop of the lips.
"Ah! His knowledge ends at the stable and begins at the table: horses and vintages. If a woman had crossed his path he would have been a great man."
"Poor Uncle Dan! To him I am his favorite filly, and he has put huge sums on me to win the ducal race. Everybody says that I'm to marry the Duke of Roxclift."
"And you?" I do not know why my heart sank a little as I put this question.
"I? Oh, I'm going to balk at the quarter and throw the race. To-night, what would you have done in my place?"
"Hailed a gentleman exactly like myself."
She dallied with a rose, brushing it across her lips. "I do not know why I desire your good opinion. Perhaps it's the novelty of sitting beside a man who does not believe in flattery."
"Flattery is a truth that is not true. I think you are charming, beautiful, engaging, enchanting, mystifying. I can think of no other adjectives."
"If flattery is a truth that is not true, then all your pretty adjectives mean nothing."
"Oh, but I do not flatter you. Men flatter homely women—homely women who are rich and easily hoodwinked. What I have offered you in the line of decorative adjectives your mirror has already told you time and time again. If I said that you were witty, scholarly, scientific, vastly and highly intellectual, not knowing you any better than I do, that would be flattery. Do you grasp the point?"
"Nebulously. You are trying to say something nice."
"We are getting on capitally. When I left the club to-night the wildest stretch of my fancy would not have placed me here beside you."
"Yes,"—irrelevantly, "most of us are mad. Everything is so monotonous."
"To-night?"
"Well, not to-night."
"You have not yet asked me who I am."
"Then you are somebody?"—drolly. She contemplated me, speculatively as it were.
I laughed. This was the most amusing and enchanting adventure I had ever had the luck to fall into. "The world thinks so," I replied to her question.
"The world? What world?"
"My world ... and a part of yours."
"Are you one of those men who accomplish something besides novel dinners?"
"So I am led to believe."
"In what way?"
"Ah, but that is a secret."
She shrugged. Evidently she was incredulous. "Are you an actor?" suddenly recollecting where she had picked me up.
"Only in 'All the world's a stage.'"
"I will ask you: Will you do me the honor of telling me who you are?"
"My self-respect denies me that pleasure."
"Fiddlesticks!" This was very human.
"Is it possible that I am interesting you?"—surprised.
"You are a clever man, whoever and whatever you are. Where did you learn to read a woman so readily? Who told you that when you confront a woman with a mystery you trap her interest along with her curiosity? Yes, you are clever. If you told me your name and your occupation I dare say I should straightway become bored."
"Truth still shivers on the well's edge."
She nibbled the rose-leaves.
"Does your interest in episodes like to-night always die so suddenly?"—nodding toward the others, who had long since ceased to pay me any particular attention.
"Nearly always."
"Very well; since they have forgotten us let us forget them." I leaned toward her, and my voice was not so steady as it should have been. "In what manner would it benefit me to tell you my name and what my occupation in the great world is? Would it put me on the list of your acquaintance?"
She eyed me thoughtfully. "That depends."
"Upon what?"
"Whether you were worth knowing. I addressed other gentlemen in front of your club. They politely said I had made a mistake."
"They were old or married."
"That wasn't it."
"Then they didn't see you in the light, as I did."
"What difference would that have made?"
"All the difference in the world. But you have tabooed flattery. I see that I should have been a barber, a mild lunatic, or a detective."
"You would have been easier to dispose of."
I directed my gaze toward the door, and she surrendered a smile.
"You might be worth knowing,"—musingly.
"I promise to be."
"I shall give it thought. I should never forgive myself if I were the indirect cause of your joining this carnival of fools."
"I see that I shall last longer in your thoughts as the Unknown."
"Eat," she commanded.
"I am not hungry; I have dined."
"Drink, then."
"I am not thirsty."
She took my glass and poured the contents into hers, then handed it to me. "Now!" she said.
"Why?"
"You make me think of Monte Cristo: what terrible revenge are you going to take?"
"It will be upon myself: that of never forgetting you."
"One single sip!"
I accepted the glass and took one sip. "Now I have lost what I desired to retain—my respect. So long as I touched nothing at this table I held the advantage. My name is—"
She put her hands over her ears. "Don't!"
"Very well: the woman tempted me."
"Haven't you a better epigram?"
"Perhaps I am saving them."
"For what?"
"Who knows that I am not writing a play?"
"I live here; a card will find me on Thursdays after four."
"I will come Wednesdays, thereby saving you the trouble."
"That is not wit; it is rudeness. Do not come either Thursdays or Wednesdays."
"How shall you know who it is?"
"Trust a woman."
"Ah, here comes the butler with the liqueurs. I am glad. Presently I should be making love to you; now I am about to be free."
"Are you quite sure?"—with a penetrating glance. I believe she knew the power of her beauty.
"Well, I shall be free to go home where I belong,"—compromising.
And I rose. Perhaps the drollest episode of the dinner took place as I started for the door.
"Ever heard of Starlight?" cried Uncle Daniel down the room. "No? Well, she's down on the winter books at fifty to one. Stack your money on her now; it's a hunch."
"Thank you," said I. I did not have the courage to ask him what a "hunch" was.
"Good night," said I to the girl, bowing.
"Good night," smiling.
I wonder if she knew that I had stolen the rose? On the way home my mind returned to my play. Had the fourth act gone off as smoothly as the others?
What a girl for a man!
The curtain fell on the first act, and the thrilling sound of beating hands came to me dimly.
"They are calling for you," said Shaw excitedly.
"What am I to do?"—nervously.
"What? Haven't you thought out something to say?"—disgustedly.
"Nary a word!"
"Well, just lead out Miss Blank and bow. You're not an old hand, so they will let you off without a speech."
So I led the young woman who had helped to make me famous to the footlights, and bowed. I do not know what caused me to glance up toward the left upper proscenium, but I did so ... and felt my heart stop and then throb violently. It was Miss Berkeley. Heaven only knows how long I should have stared at her but for the warning pressure of the actress' hand over mine. We disappeared behind the curtain. I was confused by many emotions.
While the hands were shifting about the next "set" a boy handed me the crumpled margin of a program. I unfolded it and read: "Will 'Mr. Anonymous' do Miss Berkeley the honor of visiting her box?"
"Mr. Anonymous" presented himself forthwith. Miss Berkeley was with an elderly woman, who proved to be her grandaunt. I was introduced.
"Aunty, this is the gentleman I told you about. Isn't it terrible?"
"Terrible? I should call it wholly enchanting. Sir, you will pardon the child for her wildness. My nephew doesn't know as much as his celebrated horses. Now, go ahead and talk while I look over the audience."
If only all elderly ladies were as thoughtful!
"And I have read your books; I have witnessed your play!" Miss Berkeley said.
"Thursday, after four?"
"No. Everybody calls then. Come Wednesday."
"I have a confession to make," said I. "You dropped a rose on the floor last night. I stole it. Must I return it to you?"
"I never do anything without a purpose," was all she said.
So I kept the rose.