THE GIRL AND THE POET
I
WILLIARD sat down to his evening meal. He was later than usual. Thedining-room of the boarding-house was deserted, save for the presence ofthe maid servant, who was sweeping the crumbs from the tablecloth. Hisentrance was acknowledged by a sour smile. Williard was a sort of pariahto the narrow minds of that household, who could not associate greatnessof soul with failure and poverty.
"You won't get much," said the maid. "We are too busy with to-morrow'sChristmas dinner."
To-morrow's Christmas dinner! Williard drew the bread-dish toward himrather mechanically. To-morrow's Christmas dinner! It was Christmas Eveto-night, and he had forgotten! All that day he had wondered why everyface looked so eager and bright in the office, why the jostling crowdsin the streets were so merry and good-humored. To-morrow was Christmas,and he had forgotten!
The maid grumblingly fetched what remained of the supper. The hanginglamp sputtered for lack of oil to feed upon; and all the food tastedvaguely of kerosene. But Williard made no complaint; he was hungry.To-morrow's Christmas dinner!
He was tired. Great names had danced before his eyes that day: namesresounding the fickle world's applause and the jingle of herinconsiderate largess. Not that he envied them, no; rather that theytaught him to despair. In the daytime he read proof in the attic of alarge publishing house; this was existence, it was bread and butter. Butat night, in his little hall bedroom, where the clamors of the citystreets sounded murmurous and indistinct, he still clung to thefragments of early dreams. His verses and stories, lofty and proud,lacked something, for they found no entrance to the garden of fame,which is at best full of false flowers and spurious scents.
For ten years he had striven to attain; and he had failed. He had cometo New York, as thousands of others had come, with hope and her thousandstars, to see them fade away one by one from the firmament of hisdreams. The world has no patience with failure, no treasures for theobscure defeat. Ah, to see one's own people, dressed in clear, beautifultype, move across the white pages, from margin to margin, thinking,acting, speaking! To unravel the scheme of life, with its loves,ambitions and revenges--was there any rapture, any pleasure, half sofine?
The harsh voice of the maid brought him out of his idle dream: for to bea poet is to dream and to suffer.
"There's a letter under your door," said the girl. "Didn't know you werecoming home to supper, so I didn't put it under your plate."
"Thank you."
"I guess you've struck an heiress; that letter smells of sachet powder,"she added, sailing through the swinging door to the kitchen.
Williard folded his napkin and rose. Christmas Eve! Where were the olddays in the little white village, the straw rides, the candy pulls, thegreat logs in the fireplace? Where had youth gone so suddenly? Heclimbed the two flights of stairs to his room, struck a match, and kneltbefore the door. Yes, there was a letter. He held it to his nose andinhaled the delicate odor of violets. A thrill passed through him, athrill that was a mixture of joy, sorrow, love, bitterness and regret.
He unlocked the door, entered the room and lighted the gas. How well heknew the stroke of each letter! How many times in the old days had thatfeathery tracing brought cheer and comfort to him! And now she was gone;out of his meager circle she had passed for ever. Riches! What afortress! What a parapet to scale! What a barrier! The mighty dollar nowbastioned and sentineled her as the drab granite and men-at-arms hadsurrounded the unhappy princesses of feudal times.
From time to time he had read of her; this duke or that prince wasfollowing her about, from resort to resort. She had written once, but hehad not had the courage to answer that letter. Paris, London, Berlin!Her beauty and her wealth had conquered each city in its turn. Heigh-ho!He held the letter as a lover holds a woman's hand: dreamily, dim-eyed,motionless. Finally he broke the seal.
DEAR JOHN:
Home again! Near to Mother Earth again, to the old habits, old longings, old friends. I am never going away again. Now, John, I am giving a little Christmas Eve dinner to-night, informally, to five literary celebrities (four who are known and one who will be), and I want you more than any one else. Why? Well, you are a staff of oak to lean upon--sound and sturdy and impervious to the storms. I want visions of the old days, and somehow they will not come back vividly unless you help me to conjure them. Do you remember _souviens-toi_?... But never mind. I'll ask the question of you when we meet. No excuses, John, no previous engagements. If you have an excuse, destroy it; an engagement, break it. This is a command. If you do not come I shall never forgive you. What do you care if the celebrities have never heard of you? I am sure that not one of them is your peer at heart and mind. I am tired, John, tired of false praises and flattery, tired of worldly things; and somehow your voice is going to rest me. Come at half after eight. NELL.
Home again! She was home! A dizziness fell upon him for a space, and allthings grew blurred and indistinct. When the vapor passed he returnedthe letter to its envelope, opened a drawer in his bureau, and broughtforth an old handkerchief case. In it there were withered flowers,scraps of ribbon, a broken fan, and packets of old letters. He took outone of the packets, raised the ribbon (torn from some gown of hers), andslid under this latest letter, which would probably be the last.
Yes, he would go. And if the celebrities loosed their covert and fatuoussmiles when his back was turned, so be it. His poverty was clean andhonorable. He dressed slowly, and once he gazed into the mirror. Theface he saw there was not inspiring, lined and hollowed as it was; butits pallor lent a refinement to it, that tender, proud refinement whichdescribes a lofty soul, full of gentleness and nobility.
From time to time he approached the window. How the snow whirled,eddied, sank, and whirled again! The arc lamps became luminous clouds.He looked at his shoes. Could he afford a cab? And yet, could he affordto appear before her, his shoes wet, his clothes damp with snow? Hedecided in favor of the cab. It was Christmas Eve; a little luxury wouldnot be wrong.
By-and-by he stepped out of the boarding-house into the storm. Clouds ofmoist feathery particles surged over him, and crept inside his rustyvelvet collar. Suddenly he discovered a handsome coupe standing infront. The footman was walking up and down while the driver beat hishands across his breast. Williard did not understand what this elegantequipage was doing in such a street. Even as he cogitated, the footmandescried him and approached.
"Beg pardon, sir; Mr. Williard?" he inquired.
"Yes, I am Mr. Williard," was the wondering answer.
"Then we are just in time, sir!" The footman ran to the coupe and openedthe door respectfully.
"You have made a mistake, my man," said Williard. "I did not order--"
"We are from Miss Wycklift's," said the footman.
Her carriage! And she had sent it to his boarding-house for fear hemight slip past!
"Are you certain?" he asked, still in doubt.
"If you are Mr. Williard there isn't a particle of doubt, sir." The tonewas perfectly respectful, and did more to determine Williard thananything else.
"Very well," he said.
He entered the luxurious carriage and the door slammed behind him.Presently he was on the way to see the one woman in all the world. Hercarriage! What a delicate bit of charity it was, savoring of athoughtful mind and a warm heart! She knew, then, of his continuedpoverty and wished to save him the embarrassment of going to a dinner ina surface car. There was not the least hint of patronage in the act; itwas simply one of those fine and thoughtful impulses of which only anoble woman is capable. He recalled the first night he had taken her tothe opera. There had been no other woman half so lovely--he had thoughtonly of her. Fool that he was to surrender to this idle dream: but oh!it had been so sweet.
There was a jar, and the carriage and Williard's reverie came to asudden pause. The door opened and the footman's head appeared.
/> "Here we are, sir!"
Williard, still dazed, alighted. He mounted the steps to the door, andwith no little timidity he pushed the electric button. Riches! How thehateful word buzzed in his ears!
II
A PRIM little maid opened the door. She took his hat and coat, anddirected him to the warm and cozy library. As he saw no one about hebelieved that he had committed the unpardonable offense of coming tooearly. It was so long since he had been "out." He wandered among thebookcases and soon forgot where he was, for he possessed the poet'senthusiasm for rare books. The atmosphere seemed spirituous of Balzac,Thackeray, Dumas, Dickens, Scott, Hugo and all the tender poets he lovedso well. And here, right under his hand, was a rare copy of _TristramShandy_. Dear, guileless old Uncle Toby! And then he became conscious ofa Presence.
He turned, and beheld her standing in the doorway. Beautiful, beautiful!The ivory pallor of her complexion, the shadowy wine of her hair, herbrilliant eyes, the glistening whiteness of her neck and arms! He stoodlike stone, incapable of animation. Then he took in a deep breath: hewished to possess absolute control over himself before he touched herhand. Oh, he needed no fire to warm his veins, the blood of which gushedinto his brain like the floods of spring torrents!
"John!" she cried.
She floated toward him, her hands outstretched, a smile of welcome onher lips. He touched her hands with some uncertainty. It was all so likea dream.
"So you are home again?" he said, finding only this commonplace questionamong all the beautiful phrases he had invented for her benefit.
"And I am glad to be home, John; glad. I knew you would come."
"How in the world could I help it?" smiling. "It was very kind of you tosend your carriage. A carriage is a luxury in which I do not oftenindulge. I couldn't invent any excuse; I had no engagement. Besides, Iwould have come anyway."
She laughed, and drew two chairs to the blazing grate and motioned himto be seated.
"Do you know," he began, "but for your note I might have forgotten allabout its being Christmas Eve? To what terrible depths a man falls to beable to confess such a sacrilege! But a lonely man forgets the customsof his youth. There is no Christmas spirit where there are no children,no family ties. I'm a hermit."
"Tell me all about yourself, John," she urged, cleverly seating herselfso that she might see him easily, while he, to see her, would have toturn his head.
"There isn't much to say. I've just gone right on making a failure."
"There is no such thing as failure, John. Failure means effort, andeffort is never failure."
"That is a pretty way of putting it. Well, then, let me say that I amstill unsuccessful. Fame has knocked on my door with soft gloves, and Ihave not heard her; and Fortune never had me on her visiting list." Hestared into the fire.
He was quite unconscious of her minute examination. How changed he was,poor boy! He was not growing old; he was aging. What had wrought thischange? Work? A long series of defeats? Unrewarded toil? She leaned backin her chair, and the light in her eyes would have blinded Williard hadhe turned just then.
"What have you been doing this long year?" he asked presently.
"Wanderlust. I have flitted from place to place, always dissatisfied."
"Dissatisfied--you?"
"Yes, John. To be truly unhappy is to be rich and unhappy. It is thehope of some time being rich that dulls the unhappiness of the poor.Money buys only inanimate things."
"I have heard of you sometimes."
"What have you heard?"
"There was a prince or duke, I forget which."
"He wanted to marry me," lightly.
"And you?"
"It was amusing. Some busybody would always manage to introduce me asthe rich Miss Wycklift; and then the comedy would begin. Perhaps I wasspiteful; but I knew that it was only my money."
"Have you ever looked in your mirror?" Williard asked naively.
"I spend a part of the day before it," she confessed.
"But money is not everything. It is quite possible that these men lovedyou for your own sake."
"Loved for one's own sake," mused the girl. "Yes, that is how I wouldhave it. But how in the world is a rich girl going to tell? I amsuperstitious. For three or four years I have been carrying this littleamulet," she said, holding out for his inspection a silver, thimble-liketrinket. "It represents St. Joseph, the patron saint of spinsters. Anold French nurse gave it to me, and said that if I offered prayers toSt. Joseph I should some day find the man I loved and who loved me. I donot want to be a spinster."
"That is a graceful sentiment."
"Not wanting to be a spinster?"
"Oh, that is not only graceful but commendable," smiling. Then he addedgravely: "Have your prayers been answered?"
"Yes."
Silence.
"Well?" he said, with the slightest tremor.
"Only he hasn't said anything yet."
He moved restlessly. It was all so sad. Yet it was best so. Once he knewher to be beyond his reach he could bring to an end his foolish dream.
"I wonder how I shall begin to tell you my romance," she resumed."Society has done so many evil things in the name of formality. It haslaid down impossible and inhuman rules, destroying freedom of thoughtand action. To these rules we must conform or be ostracized. Might awoman tell a man she loves him, John?"
"That depends wholly upon her knowledge that he loves her."
"So if a woman knows that a man loves her she may, in the pursuit ofhappiness, tell that man?"
"I see no reason why not. To love is natural. Love is stronger thanlogic, stronger than formality. But this should always be borne in mind:for a woman to propose to a man, the man must be her equal in allthings--wealth of mind and wealth of purse."
"Oh, now you are going back to the conventionality of things," sheprotested. "How I hate conventional mediocrity! I have hated it eversince I came to this horrid city. Don't you sometimes long for the olddays, John: the sermons in stones, the good in everything?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"Well, I am going back to the old village in the spring. John," softly,"why didn't you answer my letter?"
"The little orbit around which I take my flight could scarce interestyou," lamely. "There were princes and dukes in your train, and greatfetes, and bewildering cities besides."
"It hurt," she said simply.
"Hurt? Have I hurt you?" the repressed tenderness in his voice shakinghim. "Oh, if I had known that you really wanted to hear from me!"
"And why should I not? Were we not boy and girl together? And you alwayswrote such charming letters, cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny. Therenever was any worldliness, nor cynicism. I have kept all your letters;and even now I find myself returning to them, as one returns to oldfriends."
He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.
"Cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny," she went on. "The man I love islike that. He is good and cheerful and brave. Nobody ever hears himcomplain. But he is poor, John, dreadfully poor; and what makes it sohard, he is dreadfully proud. So I must put my own pride underfoot andtell him that he is wrong to spoil two lives, simply because I am richand he is poor. And if he rejects me I shall throw away this littleamulet, and lose faith in everything."
Williard had nothing to say. Rather he saw himself once more in hislittle hall bedroom, his face buried in packets of old letters.
"Dinner is served." The butler appeared.
Williard rose.
"Come, sir," she said as the butler went out.
Somehow her hand slid comfortably into his and she guided him throughthe hall. The touch of her hand was ecstasy.
"There was a time when you used to kiss my hand," she said.
With the forgotten gallantry of olden times suddenly returned, he benthis head and kissed the hand in his, to hide his dimming eyes!
They then entered the dining-room. Covers had been laid for six. Therewas a candle at each plate, but upon
four of the plates rested books!The poet looked at the girl: ah, the brave and merry eyes that met his!
"Permit me, Mr. Williard," she said, making a courtesy, "to introduceyou to the celebrities. Yonder is Mr. Thackeray, and next to him is Mr.Dickens; on the opposite side are MM. de Balzac and Dumas. Behold Mr.Esmond and Mr. Copperfield, the kindly Cousin Pons and the braveD'Artagnan! Ah, John, I was so afraid that you might invent an excusethat I took to this little subterfuge. Do you forgive me?"
"I would have come anyway."
"Why?"
"Because."
"That is a woman's answer."
"Well, because I wanted to see you."
"That is better."
What a fine dinner it was! With that tact of which only a woman of theworld is capable she drew him out by degrees. He became animated, merry,witty; all the channels of his broadly educated mind loosed theircurrents. He was the poet and the man of letters.
"But what would you do in my place, John?" she asked finally.
"As to what?"
"As to the man whose poverty keeps him outside my gates; this man Ilove, whose pride is striving to cheat me out of that which is mineown?"
All the light went out of Williard's eyes. He had forgotten!
"You are sure he loves you?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Well," with a forced smile, "this is the last week of leap year; whynot ask him? Custom allows such action once in four years."
"You are not laughing?"
"No, I am not laughing," truthfully enough.
"John--will you marry me?" Her voice was low, like music in a church.
How still everything suddenly grew!
"Will you marry me, John; or will you break my heart with your foolishpride?"
He stared at her dumbly. She balanced the image of St. Joseph in herhand.
"Shall I toss it into the fire?" she asked presently, a wearinessstealing into her tones.
He tried to speak, but could not. She made as though to fling the imageinto the fire, when he leaned across the table and caught her hand.
"I'm a miserable coward," he said, choking.
"So am I, John. I was afraid I might lose you."
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Throughout the document, the oe-ligature was replaced with "oe".
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents ofthe speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break upparagraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.
Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not correctedexcept that on page 210 a period was added after "He was a failure".
The Best Man Page 9