When Washington Was In Vogue

by Edward Christopher Williams

  “What is the matter, Tommie? Who’s dead?” I queried, between a dance and its encore.

  “You ought to know, Davy,” she countered quickly, “you’re acting like a chief mourner.”

  And she looked at me searchingly with her brilliant black eyes.

  Then an impish impulse possessed me to “start something.”

  “Tommie,” I said, “this is almost our last dance together. I am going away tomorrow morning.”

  If my object was to “start something,” I had surely achieved it. Tommie caught me by the lapel of my coat, and swung me about until I was facing her.

  “Do you mean you are going for good?”

  “Going for good, Tommie! ”

  “But no one knows it,” said she.

  “No—no one but you, and I am asking you to regard as confidential what I have told you.”

  “You mean you are not going to tell anyone?”

  “No, no one but you,” I repeated.

  “But is that fair to your good friends?”

  “I think so. I don’t like farewells, and never did. I would rather slip away quietly. I shall write them all, of course.”

  While we were talking we were standing in front of a group of people among whom was Billie Riddick. I noticed Billie turn her head when Thomasine Dawson raised her voice in one of her queries, and I was afraid Billie had overheard. Just then the music started, and Scott Green came up to claim his dance with Tommie. My dance was with Billie Riddick, and I was wondering whether or not to ask her if she had overheard Tommie and me, when Billie brought me out of my state of wonderment by a question.

  “So you’re going away tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” said I, knowing there was no use in fencing with Billie. “You overheard?” She nodded.

  “Are you going away without telling your friends?”

  “Yes, I like it better that way.”

  “When are you corning back?”

  “Probably never,” said I.

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Have you told Caroline?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Going to?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  “She would not be interested,” I said, somewhat coldly.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Everything. She hardly speaks to me.”

  “So I have noticed,” said Billie. “What is the trouble?”

  “I really can’t make it out.”

  Billie said no more until the dance was over. Then she stood looking at me shrewdly, and I never realized before how penetrating are her green-gray eyes. Then, with that racy diction which makes her so popular among the men, she said:

  “You look like last month’s drunk, Davy Carr! What is the matter with you anyway? Can’t you tell me? I’m your friend.”

  “I know it, Billie,” said I, squeezing her arm, “but I see no good in telling you, nor anyone else.”

  Again Billie pierced me with her green-gray glance. She gripped me by both shoulders, and, as she did so, I was conscious that several people were taking interested note of us.

  “Do you trust me, Davy?”

  “To the limit, Billie,” said I warmly.

  “Have you the next dance engaged?”

  “No,” I said, on recollection.

  “Then do something to please me!” As she spoke, she put her arm under mine and steered me, half yielding, half resisting, toward a secluded corner of the slightly raised balcony which surrounded the hall on all sides. On the way she caught Scott Green by the arm. He turned.

  “Scott, cut the dance with me, and ask that pretty little college girl you’re so crazy about. I have something to say to Davy, and it’s important.”

  Scott demurred slightly, as a man might, but he is a good fellow and a good friend, so he grinned good-naturedly, and said, “All right!”

  We continued our road to the corner of the balcony. When we had finally seated ourselves, and Billie had pushed a table into a position which would make it impossible for anyone to sit too close to us, she turned on me with another searching glance. Then she smiled. And if striking eyes, and a beautiful mouth, and a dimple which comes and goes make an attractive smile, Billie Riddick has one.

  “Davy Carr, I am really fond of you. When you can stand off and look, you can see as much as anybody in the world, but you are farsighted. You can’t see anything close to your own nose. I’ve been expecting to see you wake up and notice things any time within the last two or three weeks, but I think that hope is vain. So I am going to tell you something—and ask you something. First I guess I’ll ask. What’s the trouble between you and Caroline? I’m not fooling. I’m in earnest. I have the best of reasons for asking. You can trust me—you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know that, Billie.”

  “Then, don’t hesitate! Let me say this much first. You are crazy about Caroline Rhodes, and you are going to be crazier before you are any better, or I’m a poor judge of your kind. Now come across!”

  So I, who was dying to tell somebody, told Billie everything, from the very beginning down to the kisses which had been my undoing, and the sad rebuffs which had followed. Billie interrupted with questions which sometimes seemed irrelevant, but I answered them patiently. Then she said:

  “Now I’ll tell you everything. Caroline Rhodes does not care a fig for Will King, except as a friend. He knows it, and I know it. And I did not say ‘think.’ I said ‘know.’ As to whether Caroline cares very much for anyone else or not, that is not for me to say. She’s been a spoiled darling all her days, and the boys have always made a big fuss over her. She’s used to it, and she appreciates herself thoroughly. But what you say about her treatment of you since the night you stole the kisses gives me an idea. I may be wrong, so I shan’t tell what it is. So you run along and dance with the girls, and have as good a time as you can, and keep this in mind: As long as a girl is not in love with someone else, you have a chance. So promise me you won’t turn on the gas until tomorrow morning!”

  She laughed and I laughed, and she shook my hand, and wished me good luck. And the next minute I saw her lithe figure moving gracefully through the crowd in the direction of Don Verney. Of course I was interested, and when she corralled Don, and she dragged him off into the corner we had just vacated, my interest grew. Their interview lasted a long time, and I saw one gentleman looking vainly about the room, after the music had started, for his missing partner, and I strongly suspected that the missing one was the lady with the green-gray eyes who was sitting in back of the post in the gallery talking to my friend Don.

  What other things happened during the evening I did not see, except that I saw Billie talking with Caroline a short time after supper was served. Caroline looked at Billie, it seemed to me, a little belligerently, but Billie said what she had to say in a low voice. Caroline answered, still with her rather belligerent look. Then Billie said something else somewhat at length, and turned and left her, and I plainly saw Caroline’s expression change to one I could not fathom, and she started looking absentmindedly at Billie’s retreating form. Then Caroline turned to Tommie, and asked her a question, and Tommie turned away without answering, leaving Caroline with this same curious look on her face.

  That was all I saw. The rest of the evening I danced mechanically, and it is all a kind of haze to me. A last dance with Mary Hale and the “Home Sweet Home” with Tommie I shall always remember. I wanted so much to tell Mary Hale good-bye. Tommie danced like something possessed, and when it was over, and the rush for wraps had begun, I said, “Well, Tommie, if it is the last, I’m glad it was with you. That, at least, is something to remember!”

  She smiled at me wistfully, and pressed my arm. Then she turned away to speak to someone while I hastened to get our belongings.

  I had told Dr. King not to wait for me, that I should get a taxi for Tommie and me. He looked at me rather questioningly for a second, and then
shrugged his shoulders and said, “All right!”

  When Tommie stood in the doorway of her home to bid me good-bye, I felt as if I was leaving my last friend in the world. There was so much in my heart to say that it almost choked me. For one thing, I regretted suddenly not having taken Tommie into my confidence about Caroline, but it was too late now to remedy that. So with all the beautiful things welling up in me to say, the best I could bring forth was the most conventional little sentence. “It’s been a greater pleasure than I can express to have known you, Tommie. Good-bye!”

  “Thank you, Davy. I can reciprocate that sentiment, as you well know. But you talk as if we are parting for good.” She looked at me sharply.

  “Well, maybe we are,” I said, with a poor attempt at easy jocularity.

  “Don’t you care for us enough to come back to see us?”

  “It’s not a matter of caring. But I don’t believe I shall come back, unless to dance at your wedding, Tommie.”

  “Davy, don’t you mean to tell Caroline good-bye?”

  “No, Tommie. That is, I shan’t try to make an opportunity. She will understand why. Will you do something for me?”

  “Surely. What is it?”

  “Thank Dr. King for me. He has been very kind.”

  “Indeed I shall, but,” she persisted, returning to the previous subject, “if Caroline gives you a chance, will you take it?”

  I guess so.

  She sighed, and looked at me closely. “Good-bye, Davy. I think you are acting foolishly, somehow, but I am puzzled about so many things I am not sure just what to say. If you see Bob before I do, give him my love. I am going to miss you horribly.”

  And without a word, evading my outstretched hand, she closed the door and left me standing rather awkwardly on the steps. I had a curious feeling that she was going to cry, and had left thus abruptly to prevent me from seeing it. I walked to the curb mechanically, paid the taximan, and sent him off, looking at me queerly. It was only minutes after that it came to me that I had given him a fiver for a few blocks’ ride, and had waved away the change.

  I wanted to walk in the air and think. Well, I got the walk, but Heaven knows what I thought about in that interval, for I cannot remember, except that I looked fondly on the now-familiar streets, which I had trodden so often in these past months in such jolly company, and on such pleasing errands. And here I was taking my last look at them!

  Before I came abreast of the house, I looked up eagerly to see if there was a light. There was a faint one in the lower hall, and the outer door of the vestibule was open. That meant that Dr. King had come and gone, and that Caroline had left the outer door open for me, and had left the light for me to turn out. But I saw no light in her room, which is the front one on the second floor.

  I let myself in quietly. There was no light or sound in the back of the house downstairs nor any light upstairs. I stood for a moment hesitating. Then I thought I would take one last look into the grate fire in the back parlor, before which I had spent so many happy hours. There were usually a few embers still burning, even at this time of night. So I slipped out of my coat, and went quietly into the parlor. Then my heart gave a great leap, for Caroline was sitting huddled in her coat, in her favorite corner of the big davenport.

  I stopped halfway, undecided about what to do. Was not this the opportunity for which I had been praying, and yet—the rebuffs of the past few days still rankled in my breast, and my hurt pride strove to assert itself. So, as I said, I hesitated.

  “Pardon me,” I began as calmly as my throbbing pulses would allow, “I thought you had retired. I don’t want to intrude.”

  I half turned, in that second having made up my mind to go if she did not stop me. My sick pride was fighting now!

  Caroline never moved, but she spoke.

  “Will you answer one question for me, Davy Carr?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Are you going away tomorrow morning? ”

  “Yes, at ten o’clock.”

  “What time were you planning to leave the house?”

  “A little after nine.”

  “Then you did not expect to see me?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “You were going, just like that, without a word?”

  “Yes—why?”

  “Well, Billie Riddick said so, but I did not believe it. And I asked Tommie, and she would not answer me, but she didn’t deny it. But it’s so, isn’t it? It’s so?”

  I was silent for a moment. Then she went on.

  “Life teaches us some hard lessons, doesn’t it?”

  All this conversation without turning her head to look at me.

  “For example?” I queried.

  I still stood, with my coat on my arm, by the end of the davenport farthest from Caroline. Then I decided to take a hand in the conversation.

  “If you will please tell me one single thing you have said or done in the past two or three weeks which would lead me to suppose you would be interested in the least either in my going or staying, I will cite you a dozen to show the reverse.”

  There was momentary silence.

  “Have you forgotten what happened in this room? … Have you forgotten that?” she said.

  “No, I couldn’t forget it!”

  “If you could not, do you think I could?”

  “No, if I thought you could, I should not care whether you did or not, and I should not be here talking to you.”

  For the first time since I had entered the room Caroline looked at me for a brief second. Then she looked away again.

  “Will you answer one question?” I asked.

  1 guess so.

  “Then tell me, please, why you were so dreadfully shocked because I kissed you. Did no one ever try to kiss you before?”

  “ You never did, Davy Carr, nor had you ever made love to me in any fashion whatsoever, nor had you ever, in any way, told me that you cared for me—nor did you on that occasion, nor have you since that time! Further, you have been for some time at functions of every kind with another woman. Why should you think that you could, without a preliminary word or act, forcibly kiss me—without even so much as a ‘by your leave’? The fact that you have not a reputation for doing that sort of thing, and the fact that your reputation, indeed, is quite the reverse, only makes it all the worse in my opinion. How low must I stand in your eyes? I cannot quite visualize you as even thinking of such a thing—much less doing it—with most of our mutual friends. I suppose I must be in part to blame, but after all, that does not make it any easier, does it? I know I have been a little fool in many ways, and I have tried to shock you deliberately sometimes. Well, if I was trying to make an impression along that line, I certainly succeeded, did I not? I had made up my mind that, if you thought that of me, I should never demean myself by any words of explanation. But now that you are going away, I feel differently about it, somehow. I want to treat myself fairly. So I am going to humiliate myself, mortify my vanity, by asking you to believe that I am not that kind of a girl, Mr. Carr. Of course you will have to take my simple word for it.”

  Her tone, which at first had been incisive and more than a little sharp, had gradually shaded off into a note of sadness and regret. I was stirred to my depths. I started to answer. Then I stopped abruptly.

  “Will you wait for me two minutes?” I said.

  She looked up at me in surprise and perplexity.

  “Yes, but why should I wait? For what?”

  “Just wait,” said I, “and you will see.”

  Then I tiptoed rapidly up the stairs to my room, opened my trunk, and took from it the little box containing the handkerchiefs, programs, notes, and other memorabilia relating to Caroline. Then I rummaged in my half-packed bag, and fished out my diary. When I entered the back parlor a minute later, Caroline looked at me with eyes full of wonder. When I drew near I could see, too, that she had been crying. I sat two or three feet from her on the davenport, and placed the little box in her lap. Then I
snapped on the light behind her.

  “Will you look at those things carefully, please? When you are through with them, I have something else to show you.”

  “But what have they—” she began, but I interrupted her.

  “Just look, please, before you say anything more.”

  So she took them up, one by one—her handkerchiefs, the programs, the paper napkins with names and inscriptions, and the notes, on monogrammed paper, bits of cardboard, the back of a torn blank check. One by one she examined them, one by one she read them, and little by little her look softened, and a rosy glow suffused her neck and brow and cheeks.

  Then she looked up at me in some embarrassment—the shyest, sweetest, loveliest face I ever hope to look upon—and sat with red lips parted as if she would speak, but could not find the words.

  Before she could say anything, I held out my diary to her, holding it open with my finger.

  “This is my private diary, Caroline, written for my eyes alone. No one in the world has seen it but you. Read from there on. I think there is nothing in those pages you should not see, but if there should be, I ask you to hold it sacredly confidential.”

  I moved close beside her, and looked over her shoulder as she read, beginning with the night of the stolen kisses, when I first realized that I loved her. Day after day, with nothing but her name, and my hopes, and fears—mostly fears, alas!—and each trivial incident magnified into importance by association with her personality. At first she read steadily enough, then she slackened, stopped short—and, letting the book fall, buried her head in her hands and commenced to cry softly. My impulse to take her in my arms was all but uncontrollable, but by some miracle and self-restraint I waited. In a few minutes she straightened up.

  “My cards are on the table, dear lady, faces up. I do not know how I can make myself clearer. If you will tell me how, I’ll try to do it.”