I
In the heart of a man there are many chambers. Some of these chambers have locked doors and behind them the world may not penetrate. Dusty, discarded shrines are there with the idols chipped and broken; coffers rotted with money may lie scattered about; brittle bouquets of faded flowers; a coffin plate or two, or perhaps the more grisly husks of dead romances that arise during slumber and break out wailing, haunting the long, barren corridors of the subconscious mind and only laid by sunlight. But among these chambers somewhere is one sweet, clandestine room only unlocked with a golden key on a diamond ring, where warm and ruddy light floods out when the door is opened. Luxury awaits him within, but greater than luxury: the mistress of his soul, soft-armed, starry-eyed, radiant with love. Back over far years or few, when that mistress entered that heart-chamber and consented to remain imprisoned there forever, then was Everyman’s Amethyst Moment.
Man, like the caliphs of old, may possess a thousand wives. But his heart has one mistress only—forever.
There is another phase of this narrative which it is expedient to begin in order to make long preparation for Nathan’s Amethyst Moment. It starts in the city of Springfield, Massachusetts, on a September afternoon twenty years in the past. Upon an iron settee at the edge of a Forest Park lily pond a woman sank to rest and to watch a group of shrieking children playing with the swans.
She was a middle-aged woman, tall, comely, deep-chested, one of those well-favored, high-caste matrons vaguely associated with sweeping, trailing, draping house gowns, with strings of jet and jade licking against her knees and an exotic perfume clinging about her personality like old rose or lavender.
This afternoon she was clothed in black, black walking dress, large black hat, black fur neckpiece, smooth black gloves. She was the widow of a high army officer, killed seven months before in the Philippines. Her name was Gracia Theddon and she lived—somehow—on the income from half a million dollars.
This woman’s face grew wistful as she watched the children. She wanted to call them about her. Then she realized that seven of the ten were clothed alike. The types were too varied to make them brothers and sisters. She was puzzled.
As she watched, one of the smallest youngsters poised on the edge of the water and almost fell forward. In that instant a little girl flashed from a near-by summer house and pulled the baby back from danger.
The child whose watchful eye and quick coördination of mind and body had effected this tiny rescue seized and held Gracia Theddon’s attention. She was slender and dark, the most delicately wrought little girl that had ever moved into Mrs. Theddon’s scheme of things. Her features were cut with the clearness of a cameo. She had strangely calm eyes, extraordinary eyes, even for a child.
The woman finally summoned a youngster, a precocious youngster of few illusions.
“Who’s that little girl, boy?” she asked. “The one with the pretty face and long black curls.”
“Whatcher wanner knowfer?”
Mrs. Theddon found a dime in the tiny bead bag at her girdle.
“Now tell me the little girl’s name and what you know about her.”
“Name’s Leggy—it’s short for sumpin’—Leeg—Leeg—sumpin’ like Leegar.”
“You mean Allegra?”
“Uh-huh!”
“And what’s her last name?”
“Ain’t got none. She didn’t have no fadder nor mudder like the rest of us. The fairies brought her. Leggy says so! Say, there ain’t no fairies, are there?”
“So that’s why you’re all dressed alike. You’re orphans.” Mrs. Theddon’s eyes went back to the little girl. “And who’s looking out for you?”
“Leggy is. We couldn’t come to the Park at all if it warn’t fer her. She’s a cuckoo, Leggy is. She says she saw Santa Claus once. Say, there ain’t no Santa Claus, is there?”
“I used to think so, little boy.”
“I arst Miss Howlan’ once. But she got mad and tol’ me to get the hell out and stop askin’ foolish questions, or she’d slap my mouth——”
“Who’s Miss Howland?”
“She runs the dump we live at. She’s a quince and can’t get married. Say, you’re rich, aincher? Is that a real bird on your hat?”
“And does this Miss Howland swear so before you children?”
“Huh, hell ain’t swearin’. I know lots o’ words worse’n hell. So’s Miss Howland. Gee, you oughta hear her rip when she gets mad. She says goddam an’——”
“Stop, boy, stop! I merely wish to know about that little girl. What’s the name of the Orphanage where you live?”
“The Corpses is Christened—or sumpin’ sounds like it.”
“You mean Corpus-Christi?”
“Uh-huh! Guess so!”
“And how long has that little girl been at the Corpus-Christi Orphanage?”
“Since ’fore the world was made, I guess—a nawful long time. She b’longs to Miss Howlan’.”
“Belongs to her!”
“Yeah! Miss Howlan’s fixed it so Leggy can’t be adopted. When people come and wanner kid, the first they allus grab is Leggy. So Miss Howlan’s hooked her up, and Leggy’ll have to stay to the place and be a orphan till she’s old and got grand-chillun. Miss Howlan’ said she done a good job when she hooked Leggy. I heard her tell Bridget; she cooks the stuff we eat and then eats it herself.”
“And you’re sure you never heard the little girl’s last name?”
“Say, wasser matter wicher? I said she ain’t got none, din’t I? She warn’t born like the rest of us. They found her sleepin’ on a haycock in a field. It was near some woods where the fairies stole out and left her. Say, what’s a haycock?”
“And how long ago was it they found her?”
“Gee, you’re thick, aincher? I said it was a nawful long time back, ’fore my fadder busted my mudder open, and then skipped so he wouldn’t have to go to jail, and they shoved me in the Corpses is Christened dump to be a orphan——”
The boy’s worldly wisdom disturbed Mrs. Theddon so painfully that she finally dismissed him in relief.
Then she called the Fairy Foundling.
The child approached with a dainty deference that won the rich woman instantly—if she had not been won from the first.
This was no laborer’s offspring.
Mrs. Theddon was almost minded to believe in fairies after all.