Chapter I
BATHED in the sunshine of one of those perfect days which so often come with Christmas in the South, he stood at the street corner, a light cane across his shoulders supporting his gloved hands, his eyes shifting with ever-changing interest, and a half smile on his swarthy face. It was written all over him that he had no appointments to meet, no duties to discharge; that he was by chance, only, in the moving picture and not of the cast, and that the whole thing, so far as he was concerned, was but a transient show to be enjoyed for its brilliancy of colors and its endless succession of fine Southern faces.
But here was idleness without inertia. Clearly he was one of those rare beings who can radiate energy standing still and convey the impression of impetuous force without motion, a trick of the eyes, a refusal to sag.
Name? Ladies and gentlemen, meet King Dubignon.
King saw her first as she started across Cherry Street from the far corner, a slender figure moving with grace and assurance through the dangerous procession of motor cars, still handled in the South as new toys, and once or twice his lips parted for a warning cry, but she gained the opposite corner with ease and turned straight toward him across Third. Now, of all the throng his alert eyes clung to this approaching figure and began to take note of details—white spats, plain tailor suit, loose blousy waist and flat hat with its little veil of black lace. Soon she was directly in front but her demure gaze was not for him. She was mentally preoccupied. She had thoughts of her own and not having seen the Dubignon eyes and smile she failed to look back after she passed.
The young man released a suspended breath like unto the fervid sigh of a cow settling down to rest, lowered his cane and stood gazing after the receding figure. And not he only, as he noticed with quick jealousy. Every man and woman who met her turned for a second glance. The gentian eyes, radiant face, curved lips parted in a half smile, belonged in an artist’s dream; the slender, supple figure borne along on dainty feet, the subtle grace of her moving, line vanishing into line, curve melting into curve, the free, elastic, boyish stride, were combinations notable even in The City of Beautiful Women, as the aborigines call their Macon.
King was an artist and had dreamed. He had lost something out of his dreams and now he had found something to place in one. He followed and saw her vanish into the crowd of a cheap store, an emporium of ten-cent things; and presently his broad shoulders opened up a path there for himself. Down one aisle and up another; and then he found her. She was critically examining lace at ten cents the yard and did not look up as he passed. The purchase of lace of any kind is a tax on all the faculties if one is faithful.
Checkmate? No. Inspiration! He went forward to the turn of the aisle at the show window near the door. It had occurred to him that sooner or later she would pass out. He took his stand in a little bay of space nearby and waited. Time was no object to him at such a crisis.
When he saw her coming again, threading her way through the crowd and almost without contact, he so maneuvered that she drifted naturally into the little bay promptly vacated for her accommodation. Instantly he was standing directly in front, hat in hand, arresting her departure:
“Beautiful, just a moment, please,” he said, smiling down, “I saw you crossing the street and followed you here. When you leave I shall not follow again. Listen; what I am asking is that you will take my card and have your father, or somebody, inquire about me of one of the bank cashiers on the corner, and then write me your address, won’t you? This isn’t regular, I know,” he continued with increase of vocal momentum, “but it is necessary—absolutely necessary. I have searched and waited for you all my life, and if I lose you now it may be forever.” The girl had drawn back a little and was looking into his face with wonder but without alarm. The Dubignon eyes and smile were irresistible. Nevertheless, now that he had spoken—words altogether different from the formal ones planned—King became self-conscious and troubled. Something jarred. Perhaps it was the twentieth century or the ten-cent store. Besides, he was pointing a piece of cardboard at her in, what must have seemed, a very absurd way. She felt instantly his embarrassment, and women of all ages gain composure when men in their presence lose it. The instinctive response of eyes and lips, vibrant life to impetuous youth, was checked and a tiny, perpendicular line divided her brows:
“Are you quite sane?” she began, her voice reduced almost to a whisper—he thanked God for that. “Stand aside, please, or shall I send for the manager?”
“Perfectly sane,” he said, moving aside, but still holding out the card. “You will not send for anyone, because now the way is open. But all the same, I wish, awfully, you would take my card and when you get home decide. Won’t you, please? It’s just a little, lonesome card,” he added, whimsically. The girl hesitated, questioning him with the wonderful gentian eyes, into which, now of a sudden, came a fixed light. A white wonder paled her face for a fleeting instant, and she moved a step nearer. Doubtingly, the gesture clearly an unconscious one, her hand touched his arm.
“Have I ever seen you before? Do you know my name?” He shook his head, smiling happily. She watched the smile with open interest.
“Think again!” she urged, earnestly. He was deeply troubled. He wished that he might say he had met her as a summer girl somewhere, but he could not. What he did say was:
“It may strike you as absurd, but I have only seen you in a dream—a long dream!” She smiled over this and with sudden decision took the card, dropping it into her shopping bag.
“You are not to follow. You promised!”
“Cross my heart! I shall remain here fifteen minutes. Can you vanish back into your sunbeam in fifteen minutes?”
“Completely.” Her little laugh was the finest thing he had ever heard. She smiled up into his face and passed out.
Fifteen minutes later, having, with the aid of a little lady of blonde accomplishments, selected a dozen pairs of crimson and green socks and paid for them, he looked at his watch.
“My dear,” he said, “I’ve changed my mind. There’s really no room in my grip for this bundle. Christmas is at hand—kindly hand them to Mother, with my best wishes.”
“And I have no mother, and I never saw him before!” she said to the floorwalker, hysterically. “And red and green socks!”
“Easy mash,” he laughed, “he’ll be back. Exchange for something else.” She opened a tiny vanity box and powdered her nose. It was ammunition wasted.
Fate is a merry jade, at times. Half way to Jacksonville in a Pullman next day a young woman with gentian eyes, who had time and again searched her handbag, opened a package of cheap lace to finish dressing a Christmas doll, and a card dropped out. It bore the inscription, “King Dubignon.” Underneath was penciled the information that he was associated with Beeker, Toomer & Church, Architects, New York, and to this was added, “Hotel Dempsey, Macon, three days.” Fate’s little jest was the concealment of the card in a fold of the paper wrapper for twenty-four hours.