When Washington Was In Vogue

by Edward Christopher Williams

  “Gracious, Mr. Carr, whatever is it? I am not used to having gentlemen sit in my parlor, and forget my presence completely. You will have to give me the very best of excuses this time.”

  She laughed teasingly, but there was more of pique than of mirth in her tone.

  “Did it look like a trance?” I asked, sparring for time to collect my wandering wits.

  Just then the doorbell rang.

  “I know you are glad,” she said with a short laugh, as she rose and tossed her cigarette into the fire. For neither Reese nor Betty Morrow, it seems, approves of cigarette smoking in women, and Lillian is somehow afraid of Betty Morrow. As for Reese—well, she seems anxious not to displease him too much, so she respects his prejudices.

  The newcomer turned out to be Reese, but the greetings had hardly been exchanged before the Hales arrived, and, in a few minutes, the Morrows and Don. When the card tables were brought out and the lights turned up, I had to stand the battery of sharp eyes turned on that long scratch on my cheek. Don broke the tension—and somehow I think he did it deliberately—by asking me how the fight came out. This caused a laugh all around, and gave me a chance for a humorous rejoinder, and so I did not have to lie to get out of it gracefully. In a moment or two we were busy playing bridge, and one might think the matter quite forgotten.

  But I could not forget it, my mind was certainly not on the cards, and I played an execrable game, much to the annoyance of my partner, Mary Hale, who looked at me quizzically from time to time. Finally, in playing one hand, I failed to apply the most elementary rules of whist.

  “I should like,” said Mary Hale, with a smile, “to know just where Mr. Carr’s mind really is. It certainly is not on this game.”

  This remark turned all eyes on me once more. Miss Barton chimed in with one of her characteristic sallies, which was so clever that in the laugh which it provoked I was momentarily forgotten, but after the merriment had subsided I caught her looking at me with more than casual interest in her keen glance. However, I survived the evening, and really did feel somewhat cheered by the lively company.

  When I got home at a few minutes after eleven, there were several folks in the parlor, and, judging from the sounds, preparations for a supper were being made below stairs. Tommie was coming up from the dining room just as I turned to ascend the stairs after greeting Dr. King and one of the Clements girls, who were standing near the parlor door. Tommie greeted me as cordially as usual, and asked me if I would not join them. Before I could answer, Caroline appeared behind her, but when she saw me she turned quickly and went into the back parlor. So, naturally, I declined Tommie’s invitation, with the excuse that I had just eaten, which was true, and that I was tired and sleepy, which was just about as true as one half of the conventional remarks one makes in gay society.

  Between Saturday and Wednesday nothing of special note happened. It was plain that Caroline was avoiding me, and that she intended to give me no opportunity to see her alone. She goes early every evening to her classes at the University, and when she returns remains in her room, unless Dr. King comes. It may seem strange that I have been unable to see her, but it is nevertheless true. By Wednesday I had made up my mind that I should not let her put me off any longer, so on that evening, I sat resolutely in my room until she returned from the University. This was about ten minutes of nine. I knew that Mrs. Rhodes was down in the dining room, and that Genevieve was out. The moment seemed favorable. So I plucked up courage enough to descend the stairs, and knock at Caroline’s door.

  “What is it?” The voice was hard and incisive.

  “It’s Davy,” I said. “I want very much to talk to you for a few minutes. Won’t you come down to the back parlor? I shan’t keep you long. Please come!”

  There was a short silence, while I stared at the unwinking panels of the cold, unresponsive door. Then came her answer, in the same hard, incisive tone, and, to judge from the sound of her voice, she had not moved from her first position.

  “I can’t come down now, for I am dressing to go out, but I have no desire to talk to you anyway, Mr. Carr.”

  It was like a slap in the face, I assure you, and it’s the most I have been able to get from her since Friday a week ago.

  On this same Wednesday, after Caroline’s rude rebuff, I returned to my room quite disconsolate, and was smoking and, between puffs, as it were, chewing the rather bitter end of reflection, when I heard the telephone ring in the lower hall, and then my name was called by Mrs. Rhodes. I hurried downstairs, and was surprised to hear the voice of “Madame X.”

  “Hello, Mr. Davy, don’t you want to join us tonight? Our little Wednesday crowd is expected in a few minutes. Some lively folks will be here, and I know you will enjoy it.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, I presume I should have some excuse for declining, but, longing as I did for some distraction, I accepted with eagerness. As I felt at that moment, the livelier the crowd, the better I should like it. So a little after ten I made my appearance, and I assure you the affair was quite as advertised. Except our special friend and the two Baltimore people, all of those mentioned in connection with the famous Sunday supper of three or four weeks ago were present, with several additions. One notable person was the chap Johns, whom I think you met at the Benedicts’ ball during the holidays. He had been drinking too much on that occasion, and he was in the same condition on this. There were two or three flappers present, with whom he danced constantly.

  When I first entered, I was a little scandalized to see a mature man, supposedly of some class, deporting himself in such a manner with such young girls, and I was a little shocked to realize that “Madame X” would tolerate their presence. But after I watched them dance awhile, and saw them drink, and caught a few fragments of their conversation, I decided it was we maturer folks who needed protection. For of all the damned little hussies you ever saw, they were quite the most tiresome. If they are a sample of the present crop, Heaven help us!

  As types—as such they were—they interested me, and I studied them all evening, but it remained for Billie Riddick to sum them up in a few trenchant words. Just before eleven o’clock three or four college boys came in and of course that settled the party for me. I was just meditating what excuse I should give my hostess for such an early departure when in came Billie Riddick. So I decided to stay a few minutes longer. We had a couple of dances together, and during an intermission I asked her what she thought of the flappers.

  The saucy Billie regarded the two who were performing across the room from where we sat. After a few moments of silence, she spoke.

  “If they had any manners, one could excuse their morals, and if they had any morals, one could forgive their manners, or, if they had any sense, one might overlook both the other things. As it is, they’re a total loss, in my opinion!”

  While we were talking, Will Hale came in feeling pretty “rosy” to begin with, and, judging from the way he began on the punch bowl, it would not be long before he would be more than “rosy.” As he attached himself to Billie Riddick, I took advantage of his coming to hunt up my hat and coat, and took a rather cavalier leave. It was nice to get out in the fresh air, and to walk alone under the brilliant winter stars.

  Mary Hale is ill, and our good friend Don has been like one possessed of a hundred imps of unrest. If I had had any doubts as to the depth of his regard for her, I should have them no longer. The white bears at the zoo have nothing on him when it comes to restlessness. Mrs. Hale had been ill for two or three days when first I heard of it, and on Thursday noon I dropped in to see Don to inquire about her. He was on the point of going out as I arrived, and asked me if I should mind accompanying him on one or two errands.

  So we walked about the downtown district while he made purchases. He spent a half hour at a bookstore, making a selection from the recent novels. He usually knows very definitely what he wants, but on this occasion he seemed unusually hard to please.

  “I want something for a friend who is il
l,” he said, “something cheerful, of course. A romantic love story, maybe, or, if you have something with a touch of humor, that would be nice. But it must be good—nothing cheap or trashy.”

  The clerk, who was a most obliging young person, suggested a dozen best-sellers, but Don had a very definite objection to most of them, and somewhat vaguer doubts as to the rest.

  “No,” he said, in answer to a suggestion of the clerk involving one or two of the most approved works of the most advanced type of realism, “they won’t do. I want something clean and normal. They are for Mary,” he added, turning to me. “I could not give her any of that rotten stuff, could I? Help me find something, won’t you?”

  So after much hunting we finally located two books which would pass muster, and when I insisted on adding a third to the package on my own account, Don was as pleased as if I had made him a present.

  Then we stopped at the corner newsstand, where my companion bought all the latest magazines, a real armful. I wondered if these, too, were for Mary Hale, but of course, I did not ask. Our next stop was at the best florist on F Street, where Don ordered the most beautiful roses he could find, and I a bunch of sweet peas. Then we wandered along the street, talking and looking in shop windows. I supposed our errands were over, but I was mistaken, for on our walk we noted a most attractive window display of nuts, fruits, and candies. After a few moments of silent looking, Don went in, and I followed, like the faithful Achates. He seemed bent on buying everything in the shop, and, as it was not my province to make comments, I merely looked on with keen interest. Some of the things he ordered sent to Mary Hale’s, and some to his own address. Then we divided up our remaining parcels, and walked uptown together.

  That evening I called at his lodgings, and was told to come right up. Don was writing, and resting against a stack of books before him was a beautiful portrait of Mary Hale. It was a stunning picture, and I had never seen it before. Indeed, I had never before seen any photograph of her in his room.

  To my comment on the picture he answered:

  “I got lonesome tonight, and brought it out for company. It is beautiful, is it not? I think it is the most beautiful picture in the world, but I suppose my judgment might be called biased, eh?”

  Then we got to smoking and talking, and, as I showed a disposition to discuss the original of the portrait, he seemed in no wise loath. It was touchingly intimate, too much for me to repeat even to you. This much I can say, it was an eloquent tribute to the lovely lady with the interesting gray eyes.

  As I said above, Don was writing when I came in, and the table was littered with papers and books, and his famous diary was open in front of him. As I looked interested, Don pushed the papers toward me. They were some of those random thoughts which he delights to jot down for his own amusement. One attracted me, not so much by its contents, as by its title, or rather, I should say by the combination of title and contents. I asked Don if I might copy two or three bits, and he said I might, so I append it for your edification. Here it is:

  THE SUMMIT OF LIFE

  The boardwalk stretched away into the darkness, flanked on either side by the soft sand. She leaned heavily on his too-willing arm, and so narrow was the walk that they had to keep very close together, and he could feel the warm contact of her body against him. She held both arms clasped over his forearm. He looked under the big hat, and down at the beautiful face, which showed so pale, so pale in the gathering darkness, and, in the smile of love which greeted him he savored for the first time the joy of this world and the world to come. The winking lights in the cottages they passed seemed to understand, and to flash a friendly greeting. They two were, so it seemed, in the midst of countless friends, and yet alone—as alone as Alexander Selkirk on his uncharted island. Alone! She and he, alone! What a thought! As the realisation of it welled up in his consciousness, as her beloved hands clasped his arm still closer, and as she returned his look of love with one of absolute trust and absolute surrender, he knew, indeed, that for this one moment of all time and all eternity, he stood, godlike, upon the topmost pinnacle of life!

  I wonder if this bit will pique your interest as it did mine, and I wonder—but what’s the use? Besides, there are times when it is neither discreet nor friendly to wonder too much, n’est-ce pas, mon ami?

  My affair is as yet in status quo. If you are one of the righteous, pray for me, for Heaven knows I need it just about now. I caught a glimpse of Thomasine this evening, and she stopped long enough to send you her very best regards.

  Yours, in deep trouble,

  Davy

  FOURTEEN

  The. pangs of unrequited love. Davy packs his trunk.

  The vainest of all vain things—vain regrets.

  Monday, February 12

  Dear Bob:

  It is very late. I have just finished the task of getting my things in some kind of order preliminary to packing for the long trip South. I note that I say “finished,” but that is not quite correct— I have just stopped because I am tired and “out of sorts.” There is still much to do. Never before have I been in such a mood, my friend. I trust you may be spared such an experience. It may perhaps give you an idea of my state of mind when I tell you that for the first few minutes after Thomasine showed me her ring, my only feeling was one of almost unalloyed envy. When you reflect how fond I am of you and how deep is my affection for Tommie, you can plumb, approximately at least, the depths of my dejection. Then, too, I had so long looked forward to the time of your engagement, for I foresaw weeks ago that it was coming, coming none the less surely, if slowly, and yet I got out of it for the first moments no shred of joy, but only just the bitterness of envy. I am ashamed of myself as I write it down, and maybe it is just because I am ashamed that I do confess it and write it. Of course I rebounded quickly from this extreme of baseness, and, my ordinary normal nature asserting itself, I was properly and sincerely glad, though I fear that Tommie was a bit surprised and hurt at the somewhat conventional tone of my first words of congratulations. She looked at me very queerly. Utterly cast down as I was, I caught that look, and it brought me to my usual senses. So I acted as a normal being should when one of the loveliest girls in the world shows him the ring which symbolizes her betrothal to his dearest friend. As might be expected, I tried to make up for the most unnatural coldness of my first words, and succeeded so well that she immediately brightened up, and the look of surprise faded quickly from her eyes—almost the most beautiful, the most honest eyes in the world. I know you will understand and pardon that “almost” I congratulate you, Bob, from the bottom of my heart, and I think you are the luckiest man I know. Nothing could make me happier than this, except the quite impossible happening that the girl that I am mad about, and who evidently despises me, should open her heart and consent to look with favor on me.

  As I said in my opening lines, I have been putting things in order preliminary to packing up. This preparation process was necessary, for some things go in my trunk, some in my bag, and some are to be boxed and marked for shipment by freight. I have asked Mrs. Rhodes to let me pay for my room for two months after I leave, in the event that I should find it necessary to return here for a short time. I have no idea how long I shall be in Columbia and Charleston, for so much depends on what luck I have. If the records are rich in grist for my mill, I may find it profitable to remain longer. As to the islands along the South Carolina coast, that special quest should not take many days. When that is done, and sufficient material collected, I shall want to go somewhere to work it into shape. It is possible that I may return here for that, but unless the atmosphere changes a great deal, I imagine it might be a most unprofitable venture. So disturbed have I been for days on end that my work has suffered a great deal. If such a condition should persist, it would be far better, I think, to go elsewhere. Don’t you agree with me? I am wondering if one of the small towns near New York—in Jersey, up the Hudson, or on Long Island—would not give me the quiet I need, with the chance of running into
the city whenever I wished. Think it over, won’t you?

  Sometimes it appears as if I have been here but a few short days, and then again, when I reflect on the multitude of friends I have made, the functions I have attended, and the work I have accomplished, it seems a long, long time since last September. I am sure now, if I can judge from the exquisite torture I am undergoing these days, that I have never been in love before. I have only thought I was. I can no more get Caroline out of my mind than I can stop breathing by merely taking thought. I know you wonder why I have not come to a settlement of some kind with her, but there are two good reasons why I have not. In the first place, I am deadly afraid of the outcome of such an interview. I can readily understand the feelings of a man who is convinced that he has a mortal malady, but is afraid to undergo an examination to settle the matter pro or con. I am reasonably sure Caroline does not love me, certainly not in any such wise as I love her, but I just have not the nerve to hear her say so. As long as I don’t ask, I can at least hope, and while there is hope, life is still worth living. Then again, even if I had the nerve to face the music boldly, there is, short of using actual force, no way in which I could have obtained an interview with Caroline. As I have said before, I don’t feel equal to talking to her confidentially in the midst of a crowd of people, and she just won’t let me see her under any other conditions. The last three times I have begged for a hearing she has said, with a coldness which is so unlike her that it cuts me like a knife, “I have told you more than once that I don’t want to talk with you, Mr. Carr!” And she has shown me so plainly that my presence is obnoxious to her that there is nothing a self-respecting man can do but clear out and let her alone. This I have done so far. I have thought of writing, too, and have made several attempts at starting, but it was so unsatisfactory that I gave up trying, and decided to reserve it for a last resort.