Chapter III
LENT was well under way and the first Easter displays in show windows when on a Saturday morning, King found a little note perched on the top of his office mail, which read:
“If you will be at the old Delmonico corner near Union Square Saturday at 4 P. M., you may walk with me as far as Twenty-third Street, on condition that you turn back there, and in the meantime ask me no questions. Don’t come if the conditions don’t suit.”
Whence she came, he never knew, but as he stood waiting, she appeared before him, her face radiant, her gentian eyes smiling up to his. He lifted his hat quickly and fell into step with her along the east side of Broadway. Now that the supreme moment had arrived, he raged inwardly that a species of dumbness should have seized upon him. Turning her head away, the girl laughed softly. She had no fears. The subtle instinct of her sex had informed her that it was not a contest between man and girl, but between woman and boy. The discovery pleased her. And then, smiling, she challenged him:
“Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”
King rallied:
“This; you are to marry me, of course. That was arranged in the beginning of all things. The important thing now is to get acquainted.” Again the low, sweet laugh and upturned face:
“Sounds like the verdict of a fortune teller. One of your old South Atlantic voodoos been earning a dollar?” He was amazed. It was not to be the last time this girl was to amaze him. She was an amazing girl.
“Why place me at the South Atlantic?”
“Oh my! Innocent! Doesn’t everybody know Charleston and Savannah brogue when they hear it?”
“Close. But it was a little further down. Are we so distinct, though?”
“Nobody can imitate it. I’ve tried. The fraud was apparent. My poor voice sticks. I can’t change it.”
“God forbid! But—getting back to the wedding—I am in earnest.”
“And you don’t know even my name!”
“I have name enough for two.”
“Nor who I am.”
“I know who you will be. That’s enough.”
“Nor if I am—nice.”
“Don’t jest.”
“Nor my profession. I may be an artist’s model, soubrette, chorus lady, paid companion, waitress, manicurist, or lady’s maid.” She glanced down at her very homely dress.
“I don’t care what your profession has been. I can look into your face and see that it has been honorable. It’s going to be Mrs. King Dubignon. Look up! I love you, can’t you see it?” Her eyes, swimming in light and laughter, met his.
“You absurd boy! Do you always make love this way? Is it the custom—‘a little further down’ than Charleston and Savannah?”
“I have never before spoken of love to a girl. My lips have never touched a girl’s.” And then, “I have been waiting for you!”
A deep flush suffused her neck and face, and for the first time she betrayed confusion.
“Don’t, please!” she whispered. “It is impossible that any man could love any girl so suddenly. And I don’t like to be treated as a silly.” King had whirled suddenly and was facing her.
“Impossible? Do you know that it takes all the will power I can exert to keep from snatching you up in my arms? I resist because I don’t want to frighten you. What do I care for people, for Broadway? This is the twentieth century! We haven’t time to play guitars under windows or sit in the moonlight week after week testing our emotions. We live by faith, move by faith—faith in ourselves, first, because if we are square, that’s faith in God; and then by faith in our women. And when they are square, that’s trust in God. We don’t just meet the women He creates for us; we have known them all along. We just recognize them and take their hands in ours for eternity. My soul has been sitting at the window all my life, waiting, watching. I have found you. Name? family? occupation?—they are hung on human beings as so many garments. I don’t know any of yours, but I recognized you at the first glance. You are for me and I for you! And in your heart, you know it!”
“Come, oh, come!” she whispered hurriedly, paling a little. “We must not stand talking on the street. See, people are beginning to stare. You are making me conspicuous.” He followed her in silence disdaining to look about him, but already regretting his outburst. It had gathered more force and emphasis than he intended. His moodiness returned. Where were all the fine things he had planned to say? What a thistle eater he was!
They had reached Madison Square. She regained composure first and seated herself on a convenient bench. He heard again the sweet, low laughter and felt her eyes looking up to him.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he questioned ruefully.
“Immense!” Very prompt.
“You believe me, nevertheless.”
“Oh, I believe you do. But come, sit down and tell me about that home, a little further down than Charleston and Savannah. Coast?”
“Island,” he said, rather glad of the change.
“Surf, and all that, I suppose?”
“Nothing finer on the ocean. Coney Island, Rockaway, Cape May, Atlantic City—why, the surf there is a ripple compared with Cumberland and Tybee.”
“You swim, of course.”
“All islanders swim, like river rats. You should see the breakers at Cumberland—twenty miles of them down to Dungeness. It takes a swimmer to get through there, and back, when the wind is in the northeast. But it’s second nature with the natives. They ride the combers like wild horses.”
“How long have you ever been in the water—there, among the—wild horses?” She leaned forward eagerly, her eyes searching his every feature.
“Ten hours, once. You see I was pretty small and the tide took me out. But it couldn’t drown me. And a lumber boat happened along.”
“But if the boat hadn’t happened along?”
“Oh, the tide would have brought me back. Dead, maybe, but I think not. I am a floater. Some swimmers are not balanced right for floating. Women hardly ever.” She gave him a friendly smile.
“And there is where your home is?”
“What the war left of it—two wings of a cochina house and an unbroken view of desolation. But it was home.”
“Now you are talking sensibly. Home! That’s always worth talking about. Let’s quit the foolish love business.”
“And yet, it is love that makes the home.”
“True. But think of a home where the wife was won, a stranger, by a stranger, on the street.”
“That is strongly put. I had not thought of it that way.”
“Better now than too late.”
“The answer is, in my case, that you are not a stranger. Outside of every man’s life there is a woman standing—just outside, her radiance across his path. He is always conscious of her there, but he cannot see her. He finds himself striving because of her; ambitious, because of her. Then one day she steps in and he recognizes her. And because of her he keeps his soul clean and face to the sunrise. Some call her the Ideal. But I know her as the woman God made for me. Now you understand what I meant when I said I had waited for you all my life.”
“What a beautiful thought!”
“It’s not my fault I met you on the street.”
“Perhaps it may not always be, on the street.”
“You mean you will let me come to see you some day?”
“I am not suggesting that.”
“Then, you never will?”
“I have not said so.” He relapsed into moody silence.
“Listen,” she said, at length, picking up the loose end. “You are not altogether a stranger either.” Again that swift, half mocking, upward smile. “Outside of every girl’s life there is a man standing—just outside, his shadow across her path. She is always conscious of him there; she knows him as the man God made for her, but she cannot see him. Then, one day, he steps in and she recognizes him.”
“What a beautiful thought!” he echoed. And then: “Down in Macon, for instance, did you recognize me?”
“I am inclined to think I did,” she answered with a faint smile. “Nevertheless, I took you at your word, and asked about you.”
“In Macon?”
“No, silly.”
“What did you learn?”
“Oh, you are a talented young draughtsman, and ambitious. Also, you are a dreamer, an impetuous dreamer. You certainly are that. If I were an adventuress as well as—penniless, I might marry you and take chances on your success. I could always quit, you know. But I am not an adventuress and marriage is impossible for us.”
“Why impossible?” The sun was gone.
“There is a fact—I can’t tell you now. And you were to ask me no questions. But the fact is, now, insurmountable.”
“Tell me that fact.”
“I cannot. But, on my honor, if I did you would not want to marry me. You would leave me on the street and never return.” Her face, now grave and earnest, was lifted fearlessly and her eyes met his in sincerity. His dumb distress touched her. Her color deepened a little—the passing of a thought. The light of battle flashed in his brown eyes.
“Here is the limit you set—Madison Square. Here is my answer: The only fact I recognize is, you have stepped into my life; you are my woman. Beautiful, come with me to the City Hall for a license, and then to the minister. Yonder is a taxi. I love you—I’d just as lieve marry you out of the street as out of a palace!” He drew a thin circlet of gold from his finger. “Here is my mother’s wedding ring, almost her sole legacy to me. It goes with my faith that you are the kind of woman she was!” Mist was in the eyes, turned suddenly away, and then back to him. Her face glowed with an almost unearthly light and beauty. She reached out, took the ring, kissed it and handed it back.
“With reverence,” she said tenderly, “but I cannot wear it. There is a reason why I can not. It’s not for me now. You’ll know some day.” Mystified, he stood silently watching her face. And then:
“You’ll see me again soon, won’t you?”
“Perhaps. But I am not always free. I shall have to pick a time. Now, you go back, please. I must go on. But wait—I—I want to thank you for that faith. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever known. It would not be hard to learn to love such a—boy.”
She smiled divinely. “Goodbye!”
One of them looked back, after the parting. The psychologists know which.