Under the Big Dipper

by Desiderius George Dery

CHAPTER XXVIII

BRILLIANT lights flooded the gallery adjacent to the sumptuous dining-room from which it was separated by a balustrade of palms. The tables were occupied by men in sombre evening dress, setting off to greater advantage the bright costumes of the ladies who sat with them. The air palpitated with the hum of talk, the peals of light laughter, the clinking of silver and glass and the music of a string orchestra. The perfumes of flowers, the odors of viands and the scent of tobacco smoke rose like the incense from a burnt-offering. The place was typical of one of the more select of the restaurants in the best sections of New York.

At a small table sat Helène and Morton facing each other. Helène’s face was radiant with a happiness that was reflected from Morton’s eyes as he gazed at her—and her only. Morton had quite forgotten the months of anxiety of the spring and summer, he had cast into oblivion the many questions he had intended to ask. It was enough for him that she was there, facing him, happy and her dear self again. He was wishing he could tell her all he felt and all he could not repress in his face. As a matter of fact, however, he was conversing with her just as any man would do who might be dining at Berry’s with a lady. But he was not conscious of the power habit gave him to hide his emotions.

Helène’s modest frock was quite in contrast to the costly and elaborate gowns of the ladies near her. Those of the sisterhood who sent occasional searching glances at her wished they had the courage to wear so simple a dress and to look so beautiful in it. The men eyed her in open admiration, and the waiters evidently were of the same opinion, for they were most deferential and suave to the slender girl in dove gray with the violets in her corsage.

To Morton the fresh beauty of Helène grew so overpowering in its insistency that he put his feelings into words before he knew what he was saying: “You are bewitching, to-night, Comtesse,” he breathed, “wonderfully so.”

Helène’s face suffused with blushes while she gave him a quick look of surprise; but the next moment she smiled and her smile was like a ray of sunlight through a rift in the clouds.

“The dress is pretty, is it not?” she said. “I am glad now I had the courage to wear it. I did not expect you would take me to so fashionable a place as this seems to be.”

Morton said nothing, but looked volumes. He dared not to say any more; he dreaded a return of shyness and timidity in her, and yet he hoped it would not pass away. He saw the two pretty little hands resting flower-like on the white damask, fingering a fork, and an impulse came over him to take them in his own and tell her there and then, of his love and his heart’s desires. But the primitive man in him held him back; it was so delightful to watch the ebb and flow of shy reserve and unconscious expression in the sweet mobile face. What is it in the human male that prompts him to seek this peculiar pleasure, as of a cat playing with a mouse? Morton would have been highly indignant had any one dared so to characterize his attitude at this moment and he would have been justified, because he was as much the victim as the victimizer—he was simply obeying the compulsion of the moment, enjoying in anticipation the pleasure that he somehow was convinced the future held for him.

The current of his emotions must have leaked through some faulty insulation and induced a corresponding current in Helène, for she suddenly became reserved and shy again. She sought refuge in a question.