Re-creations

by Grace Livingston Hill

He had promised his mother, in those first days after the break with Evadne, that he would not see her nor communicate with her for at least two years. The time was more than past, yet he felt the righteous obligation of his promise still upon him. He knew that he ought not to see Evadne again. He knew that the very sight of her would stir in him the old interest, which he now felt to be of a lower order than the highest of which he was capable. He could see her sitting now flung back in some bewildering costume that revealed the delicate, slim lines of her figure, some costly bauble smouldering on the whiteness of her neck that might have graced an Egyptian queen, her hair moulded in satin-like folds about her small head, and her slanted eyes half closed, studying him tauntingly as she held her cigarette in her jewelled fingers and considered with what clever personality to bind him next.

The distance of time had shown him that he had been bound, that he had been a fool, and had brought him disillusionment; yet he knew that if he gave it half a chance the enchantment would work again upon him, and he felt contempt for himself that it was so. Yet strangely he found a law within himself that longed again to be enchanted, even while he sneered at the emptiness of it all.

Suppose he should go tonight to meet her—it was tonight. He glanced at the date of the letter to make sure. He could tell almost to a flicker of an eyelash what would happen.

She would meet him as if they had parted but yesterday, and she would ignore all that was passed except that they loved each other. His soul rebelled at the thought of that for he did not now feel that he loved her any longer. The cleanness of his spirit had put that away. She was not his, she was another’s. She was not fit for a real love, even if there had been no barrier. That had been his maturer thought, especially at times when he remembered her deceit. Yet human nature is a subtle thing. Though he resented her thinking that he had continued to care for her, he feared for himself lest when he saw her he would allow her to think that it was so. And yet he longed to go and see how it would be. He felt curious to try his dearly-bought contentment and see if it would hold. Should he go?

His mother would advise against it, of course. But he was a man now. This was his personal responsibility. Whether he should see her or not. All that about her needing advice in trouble was rot, of course. There were plenty of people who could advise her. He could send the old family lawyer to her if necessary. Her plea had been well planned to make him come because she wished to see if he still cared, or if he had forgotten her. But yet it might be salutary for them both for him to go for a few minutes and show her that there was nothing to all the tragedy that they had thought they were living through.

Well,—there was plenty of time to decide what to do. She wasn’t coming till afternoon—he could go, of course, and take her to the Roof Garden for dinner—or perhaps she would better enjoy one of the quieter places—he knew a little Chinese Restaurant that was more her style. However, he would thrash it out during the day. It was getting late and he must hurry to the office. But he must read his mother’s letter first, of course. There might be something she wanted done at once. She was staying in the mountains for a little while with her sister who was recovering from a severe illness, and there often was some shopping she wanted him to attend to at once.

He opened the letter, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Evadne.

The letter was filled with wonderful descriptions of views and people his mother had met, mingled with wise and witty comments on politics and current events. He skimmed it hastily through to the last paragraph which read:

“I came on a lovely clump of maidenhair ferns yesterday in my walk, and I had the gardener at the hotel take them up and box them carefully for me. I want to send them to my little friend, the interior decorator whom I met on the train a few weeks ago. You remember? But after they were all ready to go and I came to look for the address I remembered that I left it in the little drawer of the desk in your apartment. I have tried my best to rack my brains for a clue to the street and number, and can’t remember a thing except that her name was Cornelia Copley. I remembered that because of the Copley prints of which we are both so fond. So rather than give up the idea or trust to the ferns finding her in that big city with just her name and no street address I am sending them to you. I want you to slip the box into your car and take a run out that way the very day they come and deliver them for me, please. I liked that little girl, and I want her to have these beautiful ferns. They will help her decorate her forlorn little house. I hope you won’t consider this a nuisance, son. But you never do when I ask a favor. I know. Be sure to do it at once, for the ferns won’t stand it long without water.”

A knock came on the door just then, and the young man looked up to see the wife of the colored janitor, who looked after the apartment and cooked his breakfast, standing in the open door.