They were mostly hotel people or apartment people, as Mrs. Forsyth oftenest was herself, but sometimes they were separate-house people. Among these there was one family, not of great rank or wealth, but distinguished, as lifelong New-Yorkers, in a world of comers and goers of every origin. Mrs. Forsyth especially liked them for a certain quality, but what this quality was she could not very well say. They were a mother with two daughters, not quite old maids, but on the way to it, and there was very intermittently the apparently bachelor brother of the girls; at the office Mrs. Forsyth verified her conjecture that he was some sort of minister. One could see they were all gentlefolks, though the girls were not of the last cry of fashion. They were very nice to their mother, and you could tell that they must have been coming with her for years.
At this point in her study of them for her husband’s amusement she realized that Charlotte had been coming to the storage with her nearly all her life, and that more and more the child had taken charge of the uneventual inspection of the things. She was shocked to think that she had let this happen, and now she commanded her husband to say whether Charlotte would grow into a storage old maid like those good girls.
Forsyth said, Probably not before her time; but he allowed it was a point to be considered.
Very well, then, Mrs. Forsyth said, the child should never go again; that was all. She had strongly confirmed herself in this resolution when one day she not only let the child go again, but she let her go alone. The child was now between seventeen and eighteen, rather tall, grave, pretty, with the dull brown hair that goes so well with dreaming blue eyes, and of a stiff grace. She had not come out yet, because she had always been out, handing cakes at her father’s studio teas long before she could remember not doing it, and later pouring for her mother with rather a quelling air as she got toward fifteen. During these years the family had been going and coming between Europe and America; they did not know perfectly why, except that it was easier than not.
More and more there was a peculiarity in the goods selected by Charlotte for sending home, which her mother one day noted. “How is it, Charlotte, that you always send exactly the things I want, and when you get your own things here you don’t know whether they are what you wanted or not?”
“Because I don’t know when I send them. I don’t choose them; I can’t.”
“But you choose the right things for me?”
“No, I don’t, mother. I just take what comes first, and you always like it.”
“Now, that is nonsense, Charlotte. I can’t have you telling me such a thing as that. It’s an insult to my intelligence. Do you think I don’t know my own mind?”
“I don’t know my mind,” the girl said, so persistently, obstinately, stubbornly, that her mother did not pursue the subject for fear of worse.
She referred it to her husband, who said: “Perhaps it’s like poets never being able to remember their own poetry. I’ve heard it’s because they have several versions in their minds when they write and can’t remember which they’ve written. Charlotte has several choices in her mind, and can’t choose between her choices.”
“Well, we ought to have broken her of her indecision. Some day it will make her very unhappy.”
“Pretty hard to break a person of her temperament,” Forsyth suggested.
“I know it!” his wife admitted, with a certain pleasure in realizing the fact. “I don’t know what we shall do.”
III
Storage society was almost wholly feminine; in rare instances there was a man who must have been sent in dearth of women or in an hour of their disability. Then the man came hastily, with a porter, and either pulled all the things out of the rooms so that he could honestly say he had seen them, and that the thing wanted was not there; or else merely had the doors opened, and after a glance inside resolved to wait till his wife, or mother, or daughter could come. He agreed in guilty eagerness with the workmen that this was the only way.
The exception to the general rule was a young man who came one bright spring morning when all nature suggested getting one’s stuff out and going into the country, and had the room next the Forsyths’ original five-dollar room opened. As it happened, Charlotte was at the moment visiting this room upon her mother’s charge to see whether certain old scrim sash-curtains, which they had not needed for ages but at last simply must have, were not lurking there in a chest of general curtainings. The Forsyths now had rooms on other floors, but their main room was at the end of the corridor branching northward from that where the five-dollar room was. Near this main room that nice New York family had their rooms, and Charlotte had begun the morning in their friendly neighborhood, going through some chests that might perhaps have the general curtainings in them and the scrim curtains among the rest. It had not, and she had gone to what the Forsyths called their old ancestral five-dollar room, where that New York family continued to project a sort of wireless chaperonage over her. But the young man had come with a porter, and, with her own porter, Charlotte could not feel that even a wireless chaperonage was needed, though the young man approached with the most beaming face she thought she had ever seen, and said he hoped he should not be in her way. She answered with a sort of helpless reverberation of his glow, Not at all; she should only be a moment. She wanted to say she hoped she would not be in his way, but she saved herself in time, while, with her own eyes intent upon the façade of her room and her mind trying to lose itself in the question which curtain-trunk the scrims might be in, she kept the sense of his sweet eyes, the merriest eyes she had ever seen, effulgent with good-will and apology and reverent admiration. She blushed to think it admiration, though she liked to think it so, and she did not snub him when the young man jumped about, neglecting his own storage, and divining the right moments for his offers of help. She saw that he was a little shorter than herself, that he was very light and quick on his feet, and had a round, brown face, clean-shaven, and a round, brown head, close shorn, from which in the zeal of his attentions to her he had shed his straw hat onto the window-sill. He formed a strong contrast to the contents of his store-room, which was full, mainly, of massive white furniture picked out in gold, and very blond. He said casually that it had been there, off and on, since long before he could remember, and at these words an impression, vague, inexplicable, deepened in Charlotte’s mind.
“Mother,” she said, for she had now disused the earlier “mamma” in deference to modern usage, “how old was I when we first took that five-dollar room?”
She asked this question after she had shown the scrim curtains she had found and brought home with her.
“Why? I don’t know. Two or three; three or four. I should have to count up. What makes you ask?”
“Can a person recollect what happened when they were three or four?”
“I should say not, decidedly.”
“Or recollect a face?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then of course it wasn’t. Mother, do you remember ever telling me what the little boy was like who gave me all his playthings and I couldn’t decide what to give him back?”
“What a question! Of course not! He was very brown and funny, with the beamingest little face in the world. Rather short for his age, I should say, though I haven’t the least idea what his age was.”
“Then it was the very same little boy!” Charlotte said.
“Who was the very same little boy?” her mother demanded.
“The one that was there to-day; the young man, I mean,” Charlotte explained, and then she told what had happened with a want of fullness which her mother’s imagination supplied.
“Did he say who he was? Is he coming back to-morrow or this afternoon? Did you inquire who he was or where?”
“What an idea, mother!” Charlotte said, grouping the several impossibilities under one head in her answer.
“You had a perfect right to know, if you thought he was the one.”
“But I didn’t think he was the one, and I don’t know
that he is now; and if he was, what could I do about it?”
“That is true,” Mrs. Forsyth owned. “But it’s very disappointing. I’ve always felt as if they ought to know it was your undecidedness and not ungenerousness.”
Charlotte laughed a little forlornly, but she only said, “Really, mother!”
Mrs. Forsyth was still looking at the curtains. “Well, these are not the scrims I wanted. You must go back. I believe I will go with you. The sooner we have it over the better,” she added, and she left the undecided Charlotte to decide whether she meant the scrim curtains or the young man’s identity.
It was very well, for one reason, that she decided to go with Charlotte that afternoon. The New-Yorkers must have completed the inspection of their trunks, for they had not come back. Their failure to do so was the more important because the young man had come back and was actively superintending the unpacking of his room. The palatial furniture had all been ranged up and down the corridor, and as fast as a trunk was got out and unlocked he went through it with the help of the storage-men, listed its contents in a note-book with a number, and then transferred the number and a synopsis of the record to a tag and fastened it to the trunk, which he had put back into the room.
When the Forsyths arrived with the mistaken scrim curtains, he interrupted himself with apologies for possibly being in their way; and when Mrs. Forsyth said he was not at all in their way, he got white-and-gold arm-chairs for her and Charlotte and put them so conveniently near the old ancestral room that Mrs. Forsyth scarcely needed to move hand or foot in letting Charlotte restore the wrong curtains and search the chests for the right ones. His politeness made way for conversation and for the almost instant exchange of confidences between himself and Mrs. Forsyth, so that Charlotte was free to enjoy the silence to which they left her in her labors.
“Before I say a word,” Mrs. Forsyth said, after saying some hundreds in their mutual inculpation and exculpation, “I want to ask something, and I hope you will excuse it to an old woman’s curiosity and not think it rude.”
At the words “old woman’s” the young man gave a protesting “Oh!” and at the word “rude” he said, “Not at all.”
“It is simply this: how long have your things been here? I ask because we’ve had this room thirteen or fourteen years, and I’ve never seen your room opened in that whole time.”
The young man laughed joyously. “Because it hasn’t been opened in that whole time. I was a little chap of three or four bothering round here when my mother put the things in; I believe it was a great frolic for me, but I’m afraid it wasn’t for her. I’ve been told that my activities contributed to the confusion of the things and the things in them that she’s been in ever since, and I’m here now to make what reparation I can by listing them.”
“She’ll find it a great blessing,” Mrs. Forsyth said. “I wish we had ours listed. I suppose you remember it all very vividly. It must have been a great occasion for you seeing the things stored at that age.”
The young man beamed upon her. “Not so great as now, I’m afraid. The fact is, I don’t remember anything about it. But I’ve been told that I embarrassed with my personal riches a little girl who was looking over her doll’s things.”
“Oh, indeed!” Mrs. Forsyth said, stiffly, and she turned rather snubbingly from him and said, coldly, to Charlotte: “I think they are in that green trunk. Have you the key?” and, stooping as her daughter stooped, she whispered, “Really!” in condemnation and contempt.
Charlotte showed no signs of sharing either, and Mrs. Forsyth could not very well manage them alone. So when Charlotte said, “No, I haven’t the key, mother,” and the young man burst in with, “Oh, do let me try my master-key; it will unlock anything that isn’t a Yale,” Mrs. Forsyth sank back enthroned and the trunk was thrown open.
She then forgot what she had wanted it opened for. Charlotte said, “They’re not here, mother,” and her mother said, “No, I didn’t suppose they were,” and began to ask the young man about his mother. It appeared that his father had died twelve years before, and since then his mother and he had been nearly everywhere except at home, though mostly in England; now they had come home to see where they should go next or whether they should stay.
“That would never suit my daughter,” Mrs. Forsyth lugged in, partly because the talk had gone on away from her family as long as she could endure, and partly because Charlotte’s indecision always amused her. “She can’t bear to choose.”
“Really?” the young man said. “I don’t know whether I like it or not, but I have had to do a lot of it. You mustn’t think, though, that I chose this magnificent furniture. My father bought an Italian palace once, and as we couldn’t live in it or move it we brought the furniture here.”
“It is magnificent,” Mrs. Forsyth said, looking down the long stretches of it and eying and fingering her specific throne. “I wish my husband could see it — I don’t believe he remembers it from fourteen years ago. It looks — excuse me! — very studio.”
“Is he a painter? Not Mr. Forsyth the painter?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Forsyth eagerly admitted, but wondering how he should know her name, without reflecting that a score of trunk-tags proclaimed it and that she had acquired his by like means.
“I like his things so much,” he said. “I thought his three portraits were the best things in the Salon last year.”
“Oh, you saw them?” Mrs. Forsyth laughed with pleasure and pride. “Then,” as if it necessarily followed, “you must come to us some Sunday afternoon. You’ll find a number of his new portraits and some of the subjects; they like to see themselves framed.” She tried for a card in her hand-bag, but she had none, and she said, “Have you one of my cards, my dear?” Charlotte had, and rendered it up with a severity lost upon her for the moment. She held it toward him. “It’s Mr. Peter Bream?” she smiled upon him, and he beamed back.
“Did you remember it from our first meeting?”
In their cab Mrs. Forsyth said, “I don’t know whether he’s what you call rather fresh or not, Charlotte, and I’m not sure that I’ve been very wise. But he is so nice, and he looked so glad to be asked.”
Charlotte did not reply at once, and her silent severity came to the surface of her mother’s consciousness so painfully that it was rather a relief to have her explode, “Mother, I will thank you not to discuss my temperament with people.”
She gave Mrs. Forsyth her chance, and her mother was so happy in being able to say, “I won’t — your temper, my dear,” that she could add with sincere apology: “I’m sorry I vexed you, and I won’t do it again.”
IV
The next day was Sunday; Peter Bream took it for some Sunday, and came to the tea on Mrs. Forsyth’s generalized invitation. She pulled her mouth down and her eyebrows up when his card was brought in, but as he followed hard she made a lightning change to a smile and gave him a hand of cordial welcome. Charlotte had no choice but to welcome him, too, and so the matter was simple for her. She was pouring, as usual, for her mother, who liked to eliminate herself from set duties and walk round among the actual portraits in fact and in frame and talk about them to the potential portraits. Peter, qualified by long sojourn in England, at once pressed himself into the service of handing about the curate’s assistant; Mrs. Forsyth electrically explained that it was one of the first brought to New York, and that she had got it at the Stores in London fifteen years before, and it had often been in the old ancestral room, and was there on top of the trunks that first day. She did not recur to the famous instance of Charlotte’s infant indecision, and Peter was safe from a snub when he sat down by the girl’s side and began to make her laugh. At the end, when her mother asked Charlotte what they had been laughing about, she could not tell; she said she did not know they were laughing.
The next morning Mrs. Forsyth was paying for her Sunday tea with a Monday headache, and more things must be got out for the country. Charlotte had again no choice but to go alone to the sto
rage, and yet again no choice but to be pleasant to Peter when she found him next door listing the contents of his mother’s trunks and tagging them as before. He dropped his work and wanted to help her. Suddenly they seemed strangely well acquainted, and he pretended to be asked which pieces she should put aside as goods selected, and chose them for her. She hinted that he was shirking his own work; he said it was an all-summer’s job, but he knew her mother was in a hurry. He found the little old trunk of her playthings, and got it down and opened it and took out some toys as goods selected. She made him put them back, but first he catalogued everything in it and synopsized the list on a tag and tagged the trunk. He begged for a broken doll which he had not listed, and Charlotte had so much of her original childish difficulty in parting with that instead of something else that she refused it.
It came lunch-time, and he invited her to go out to lunch with him; and when she declined with dignity he argued that if they went to the Woman’s Exchange she would be properly chaperoned by the genius of the place; besides, it was the only place in town where you got real strawberry shortcake. She was ashamed of liking it all; he besought her to let him carry her hand-bag for her, and, as he already had it, she could not prevent him; she did not know, really, how far she might successfully forbid him in anything. At the street door of the apartment-house they found her mother getting out of a cab, and she asked Peter in to lunch; so that Charlotte might as well have lunched with him at the Woman’s Exchange.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1021