Chapter VIII
NOW that Fate had gotten her stride, things moved fast. King was in the office of Mr. Church checking up some plans, when the great banker, Throckmorton, was ushered in by Mr. Beeker in person. He did not look up. He was more than a little sore that so long a time should have elapsed since his plans went into the banker’s hands without a decision having been arrived at. So much depended on those plans.
Mr. Throckmorton’s visit was an event of note. He usually sent for the men he wanted to see; he did not visit. Mr. Church was on his feet instantly. The visitor did not take the proffered seat but began with bluff geniality:
“So, it was you, Mr. Church, who designed our memorial window! Mrs. Vandilever was my sister, you know—I am glad to meet you in person. I want to consult with reference to some changes in the Vandilever residence and the possible use of certain features of the window. Those little faces—”
“That was one of the firm’s designs, Mr. Throckmorton”—King’s presence had forced his hand—“I can’t claim the credit. Individuals don’t count here. It’s the old newspaper ‘we,’ you know.”
“But I want to consult the actual artist—the creator—for a special reason, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, sir. Oh, Mr. Dubignon, you originated the general idea in the Vandilever window, did you not?” Mr. Church turned with a show of indifference to the draughtsman, who now looked up, a slight smile on his lips.
“Yes,” he said, “and the details, also, if I remember right.”
“Hello, Dubignon, you here? Glad to meet you again,” said the banker, to the profound amazement of Mr. Church. “I have a mind to tear away the hall glass around home for something that tells a story. Can you run around this evening for a little professional talk? Shall want the same child faces you used in the church. They closely resemble a niece of mine who is to be with us Christmas, and I am planning a surprise. Come at eight thirty.”
And promptly at eight thirty, as testified by little chimes in the great hallway, King entered the home of the great banker—fairyland, it seemed.
Back in his own room, an hour later, he sat and stared out over the white city, as one who had dreamed an exquisite dream and could not clear his eyes of it. He had been employed, or the firm he served had, through him, to compose a strange picture in glass—a picture of remarkable significance for him. What an exquisite comedy! The commission was carte blanche as to price and the central figure was to be himself—humble draughtsman! It was too much for his sense of humor. He threw back his head and laughed long and loud. Oh, for ten minutes of Billee! Where the deuce was Billee, anyway? And why didn’t Mr. Throckmorton talk about the plans he already had? He had casually, he hoped it sounded that way, inquired of him as to how the office building matter was coming on, and had been told, casually, it certainly sounded that way, that he hadn’t got a report yet.
Fate moved again. Fate had certainly waked up. This time she moved a castle.
“Sit down, Dubignon.” King took the nearest chair, a little weakly. It was his first summons to the senior partner’s room. Now that man of business leaned back from his desk and surveyed him with interest. What had happened? And then:
“I have reported favorably on the plans you submitted to Throckmorton. They are fine. A man doesn’t have to plan but one such building to make good. Dubignon, you are wasted in stained glass. Throckmorton informs me that he will accept the plans and finance the building. The firm of Beeker, Toomer & Dubignon will erect it.” He pushed a paper across the desk for King to sign, and proffered a pen.
“Sir!”
“Rather sudden, I know; but Toomer and I have bought out Church and you are in. There are no details. The building you bring in settles all.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I think I should like to go out and faint awhile.”
“Go when you please. Partners don’t ask permission. Hunt her up, my boy, and tell her about it. There’s always a ‘her’ in a young man’s life. There was in mine.”
“The trouble is, sir, I don’t know where my ‘her’ is. I seem to have lost her.”
“Don’t bother. She’ll turn up. They always do. Here, you are going without signing the papers.” King signed, and shook hands fervently.
Mr. Beeker drew a box of Havanas from his desk and taking one shoved the others across to him.
“Tell me the truth, Dubignon”—his face was full of smiles and he leaned back, cutting the cigar—“did you put those plans across on old Throckmorton before he had decided to put up any building at all?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“And you refused to alter your plans to suit his frontage—made him buy $269,000 worth more?”
“I couldn’t change the proportions, sir, to fit his frontage. It would have cut my building to thirty stories.” Mr. Beeker looked at him affectionately.
“My boy, will you mind if I tell you the difference between a crank and a genius?”
“Of course not, sir.”
“A genius is a crank who has succeeded. You’ve had a narrow escape.”
But King went back half blind with excitement to his office to find that a postman had left some letters, and Terence, good old Terence, had placed one with a zigzag address on top. It was more of a jumping than a running hand, and had become associated in the mind of the observant Irish lad with dollar tips. It was from Billee in California. The old lady had carried her off to Los Angeles and she hadn’t said goodbye because she knew she would cry on the street, and would he please forgive her, she was so unhappy. And, yes, she was coming home soon; and the little circle in the letter was made by running a pencil around a certain ring. She had laid a kiss in the circle and hoped it wouldn’t fall out. The spot on the paper close by? She had forgotten to wipe her eyes. All this and more.
The cicada wears his homely brown suit seven years, and rambles around in the dark underground, perfectly content. Then something happens to him inside and he comes up, crawls on a limb and presently splits his suit wide open down the back. Now he is out with iridescent wings, a guitar under his arm, and life is one long, sweet summer dream.
New York was getting uncomfortably small for King Dubignon. The world itself didn’t feel too large.
Then the window at the end of the Throckmorton hall was finished by the factory and skilled workmen placed it. King went around by appointment to view it Christmas eve with the arc light of the street shining through, the hall lights dimmed. It represented a river night scene, New York’s skyline in the distance and the stars above. On the water in the foreground floated a boy and on his breast lay the face of a sleeping child, her arms clasping his shoulders. A beam of light disclosed the two faces. In design, in execution, in effect, it was admirable. Even King, sitting off up the hallway with Mr. Throckmorton, for the perspective, could find no fault, though, naturally, modesty checked pride.
And then to King Dubignon came the shock by which all other emotions measured as tremors. It was as though lightning had descended on his uncovered head. For a lady’s maid, in cap and apron, stood by Mr. Throckmorton, saying:
“A call, sir, at the private phone.” And that maid was Billee. She saw him as he swayed to his feet, and drew back timidly, lifting a warning hand behind the banker’s vanishing form.
“Billee!” he gasped. “You! You!” He rushed toward her, but she side-stepped hurriedly, whispering:
“Don’t, King! Think of what you are doing! This house, a waiting maid! It’s ruin for you! Don’t spoil all! And think of me!” He hesitated and sank groaning into a chair.
“I was thinking of you,” he said weakly.
“Are you so sorry for me as that?” she said, standing with downcast eyes.
“Sorry? Sorry for you? Just wait till I get you outside. Sorry? Child, we’ve got the biggest thing coming you ever dreamed of! I am full partner in the firm now. It’s Beeker, Toomer & Dubignon. I’ve made good! Have you seen the evening papers? Every notable piece of work I have done for New York is mentioned; there is a picture of my office building, and all about my family. Billee, the world is mine, and you are the most wonderful thing in it!”
“But I—I am only—” she glanced down at her dress. “Oh, King, you are beyond me now. You won’t need Billee any more.”
“Need you! I’ve made good for two,” he shouted, “and Billee is the other one.” Billee’s hands were behind her. Now, slowly they were withdrawn, bringing away the apron and revealing the simple short dress of a child. The little cap of the housemaid was lifted, and from beneath it fell down a long plait of hair, ribboned at the end. She came slowly and kneeled by him and lifted her face. Upon it the window shed its tints. She seemed to float in a golden mist.
“The little dream girl—praying!” he whispered in awe.
Then with closed eyes she laid her cheek on his breast, her arms half enfolding him.
“And this one, King?” But King was beyond further speech.
Doubtingly, reverently he touched the little head. His lips parted for one long, deep breath, while the furniture in the room whirled about him in a most absurd manner.
“Well!” she said, at length, her eyes opening and mouth curving into the challenging smile. “I did it of my own free will. Why don’t you?”
Again the inevitable happened, but this time Billee did not struggle nor King ask forgiveness.
“Oh, King!” she whispered gently, freeing herself at length and taking his face between her soft hands, “my splendid boy-man, you said you’d come back when you were famous, didn’t you? King, all that my father, my mother had are mine—this house—everything—mine and yours. It’s our Christmas! Let’s always be ‘just sweethearts’.”
An old man who was peeping in at the door drew a deep breath, smiled and went back to his den and chair to pick up a paper wherein was a noble building of thirty-five stories. But his eyes closed over it, the room blurred, and his head sank back among the cushions. It was May in New England and the bees and apple blossoms were there, and green fields and the song birds and a little sister with the lovelight in her eyes.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.