Chapter IV
FOUR days of suffering registered on the Southerner. In the hours when he should have been sleeping, he picked at the meshes that held him. It was true that he seemed to have always been conscious of this girl whose vivid beauty now enslaved him. (These artists have wider worlds than the common run of humans.) But what fact had she in mind which, if revealed, would make his love impossible? Who and what was she? He gathered the threads of evidence: her time was not her own; she was, by her own admission, or so he construed it, penniless; he had met her when offices were discharging stenographers for the day, and shop girls were beginning to start homeward; when she left him, she went in the direction of the theater district. But why shouldn’t he marry a stenographer, or an actress, or a shop girl? Or even a model or manicurist or a lady’s maid, if she were square? What had her occupation to do with his happiness?
King was younger than his years, as are most Southerners, but he was sensitive to delicate influences. Without analysis, he knew that this girl had touched an atmosphere of refinement and was educated. And she had traveled. But what was so poor a girl doing in Charleston and Savannah and Macon? It sounded like a theatrical route. One day, on impulse, he consulted a theatrical agency and learned that “Naughty Marietta” had been in Macon on the 23d of December and Jacksonville on the 24th. He knew the opera and had seen its array of beauties and yet he could not figure out why, being of the Marietta company should keep her from marrying him. But—and there came the devil’s hand in his affairs—but these theater girls marry so recklessly! King sat up in bed when this thought arrived and uttered a word he had learned from his grandfather’s overseer. It was not a nice word. And yet—and here a gentler voice intervened—and yet, don’t you know the girl isn’t married? Don’t you know?
Of course he knew, the girl was not married!
Then what the thunder was all the row about? Father in the penitentiary? Mother scrubbing office buildings for a living? Brother a pickpocket? Sister gone to the bad? Tuberculosis? Pellagra? Not these latter, certainly.
And what had the others to do with her marrying him? Nothing, if he had a say so.
He dismissed them with a mental finger-snap, and put his faith again in destiny. She was his woman. He would win her in spite of herself.
Then on the fifth day came a little note. He was to be at the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum at one hour past high noon. He was there promptly. She descended from a bus at the corner and came to him rapidly.
“Inside,” she said, smiling but passing. He followed. Inside she fell back with him. Then came the quick, characteristic upward look. The gentian eyes were troubled.
“What have you been doing to yourself, little boy? Are you working too hard?”
“Scarcely that,” he laughed, “but possibly sleeping less than usual. And you?—but why ask! You are the same radiant, beautiful girl as when I first saw you.”
“Don’t, please. I detest flattery.”
“The word ‘beautiful’ doesn’t flatter you. But I think I understand. However, if I’m not to call you that, what am I to do for a name? Can’t you trust me with some little old name?”
“My uncle calls me Billee, when he finds me amiable; Bill, when he is displeased, and William, when he is out of all patience. You can take them all three. You’ll need them later.”
“Miss Billee will do for me.”
“Billee, or nothing, sir!”
“All right. Now then, Billee, listen to me. You’ve been through this place?”
“Dozens of times. I suggested it because at this hour it is not frequented by—because it is apt to be uncrowded, and I wanted to be alone with you. Forgive me if I shock you.”
“Forgive you! Come, I know a place where few people will be passing. It is both public and private.”
“All right. Let’s go sit down and tell glad stories of live kings.”
“Good paraphrase. Where did you learn the original?”
“Oh, I read to an old lady friend a great deal. I’m learning lots of pretty things in books.” Lightly touching her arm, he guided her to a broad seat screened by a marble group at the far end of the hall.
“Here is the place! Now I have a confession to make. I have not been strictly true to you—to myself.”
“Been flirting elsewhere?”
“The truth is I inquired of a theatrical agency what company was in Macon on December 23d, the day I met you, and was informed it was ‘Naughty Marietta.’ That is all. Don’t think I am asking you a question. It makes no difference to me if you are Marietta herself or a chorus girl.” Billee gasped and after a swift glance to his solemn face laughed until her eyes swam in tears.
“You dear boy! No, I am not an actress, that is, professionally. I went to Jacksonville, since you want to know, as—can you stand a shock?”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t care to know.” She picked at a darned place in her glove.
“As the companion of an old lady. Are you very much disappointed?”
“Happy old lady!” said King fervently. “Disappointed? I have an intense admiration for the girl who earns her own living. But, Billee, why work?”
“Don’t! You have forgotten the fatal fact.”
“But there is no fact that can be fatal to us, unless—unless, you are already married!” She considered this a moment, her face very grave.
“And you think it possible that I might be married and at the same time willing to meet you this way? How could you love such a person?”
“I don’t think so,” said King miserably, in over his head, “but there are only two things could keep you from me—death and marriage. And believe me, Billee, you are far from dead.” Then suddenly the little hand was slipped in his and he saw his own image in the gentian eyes.
“King—you will let me call you that, won’t you?—my King! Oh, don’t you understand? There must be a mystery between us; how long, the good God only knows—but it may not keep us from each other all the time. Can’t we be just sweethearts till then? Don’t you know I love to be with you—and—and would love you—if I might? Don’t you know? Don’t you know, King?” The inevitable happened. She was swept up in the arms of the young man and his lips were pressed to hers. For one long moment, while the world swam about her and her heart stood still, she lay unresisting, helpless. Then he released her and leaped to his feet.
“My God!” he cried in a whisper, staring at her, incredulous. “Can you ever forgive me? I was crazy, mad—I did not know what I was doing! Billee, go! Leave me and never come back! I deserve it!” He was trembling from head to foot. She arose with slow dignity, her face very pale, and tidied her slightly disarranged dress, her eyes timidly searching the perspective ahead, and lips quivering. There was but one couple in view and their backs were turned.
“King,” she said, “you must promise me you’ll never do that again; you must, King, or I shall have to leave you and not return.”
“I swear it! Never until you lay your head on my breast, of your own free will!” But presently she turned and faced him bravely, her eyes again on his. A new note was in her voice. She seemed older.
“King, I can’t bear to see you look unhappy; and I am not a hypocrite. I forgive you, because—I am glad you kissed me, just once—and in that way. Now, I do not doubt—”
“You cannot doubt—”
“I do not doubt myself! King, my splendid boy—oh, this is shameful!” She choked, covered her eyes with one hand, stretched the other blindly toward him, but before he could take it, was gone. He stood as she left him, looking down the vista through which she fled, but seeing nothing. Presently he pressed the back of one hand to his eyes and then examined it in wonder.
“Oh Terence! Terence! what would you give to see that! You’d blackmail me fifty years.”