I Walked in Arden Part 29

The flowers were ordered from Buffalo and the music from Detroit. The chef of the country club was to procure, by means best known to himself, partridges, and a professional caterer was to furnish the ice-cream. All this Miss Hershey was responsible for. She took charge of all arrangements, and Mr. Claybourne, who was a sensible man and hated display, had not a word to say. Least of all were Helen and I allowed to interfere.

At six on the appointed day I reported at the Claybourne residence on Myrtle Boulevard in full regalia, but withal a curious dryness in my throat. Knowlton had dropped in to grin at me while I dressed, and he had completed my nervousness. "To speak your own language," he had said, as I made ready to leave, "what price Deep Harbor, now, old thing?"

Knowlton was coming to the dance; Miss Hershey had crossed his name off the dinner list.

"Go to h.e.l.l, Knowlton," I replied, slamming the door. I could feel his grin following me through the panels all the way downstairs.

At the Claybournes' I found Mrs. Claybourne collapsed in tears upon the sofa, now that she was to face the casting of the die, and Mr.

Claybourne bending over her trying to coax her to drink a c.o.c.ktail which he held in one hand. Still protesting that alcohol always gave her a sick headache, she finally drank it with what I thought rather practised skill. Meanwhile Mr. Claybourne made violent signs at me to efface myself, which I did by retreating to the back of the pa.s.sage until Helen should come down. Miss Hershey was out at the country club putting the finishing touches to the table.

Helen appeared at last, in a really grown-up evening gown, a bunch of Parma violets pinned to her bodice. My eyes swam a bit as I went forward to meet her, and my legs were most unsteady.

"Lady Grey Eyes," I stammered, and clung to her hand. She was much more composed than I. Save for the bright light that danced and sparkled in her eyes, she might have gone through a hundred such affairs.

"Look, Ted," she whispered. Behind her came Leonidas, new washed and with a small bunch of violets tied by a blue ribbon to his collar.

Leonidas sat down and tried to remove the violets with his paws. We both laughed.

"Is he going?" I asked.

"Of course not, you dear idiot," Helen replied. "But I had to dress him up for the occasion."

At that moment a carriage arrived containing Miss Hemphill and her escort, and into this Mr. Claybourne bundled Helen and me. He would follow with Mrs. Claybourne later. The ride out to the country club was cold and long. The roads were partly frozen and partly covered with snow. We b.u.mped in and out of ruts and the horses steamed. Inside, however, we were all giggles and laughter. Miss Hemphill and her young man, a clerk in the Deep Harbor Smelting Company, teased us, until we reached the club, with well meant but rather elephantine wit.

Soon after we got there the whole dinner party arrived, and we sat down in a deafening uproar of shrill conversation and laughter. The crowd was composed entirely, with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Claybourne, of young friends of Helen's. I was the only non-Deep Harborite present. It seemed a little queer, and once or twice I thought of my father and wondered what he was thinking. Was I really doing the thing he would approve? Then I would look at Helen, and rea.s.surance would return. No one could possibly disapprove of her. The family would be thankful I had been so lucky. Indeed, my luck was a constant source of wonder to me.

How on earth was it possible that Helen should love me? It was beyond reasoning out. And as I pondered this miracle, I could feel Helen's hand steal under the tablecloth and give mine a gentle touch. It was true, then. Once we were caught at this, by the young man on the other side of Helen, and a great to-do of laughter and teasing followed. I was horribly embarra.s.sed that I had put Helen in such a predicament, and a little angry, but she didn't seem to mind the noise at all. How they could talk, those young people! The girls seemed to be screaming, so sharp and shrill were their voices; my ears ached. Every one spoke at once, at the topmost pitch, and no one listened for a reply. I have no idea what it was all about, for I was in such a daze I could neither eat nor make out what was being said. Once or twice Helen said: "Steady, Ted. Try to look cheerful," and I would pull myself together with a smile at her and venture a remark.

After dinner the pandemonium increased with the arrival of those invited to the dance. The orchestra played dance music at what I should have thought an incredible speed. I blundered badly in dancing and left bruises, I fear, on more than one dainty instep. I was at home only when I danced with Helen, but Miss Hershey's etiquette forbade that this should be very often. As hostess Helen had to dance with as many of the young men as possible. Sometimes I lurked gloomy in a corner, disliking the public display of Helen that the party implied. Each time Miss Hershey's watchful eye would ferret me out, and I would be handed over to another young creature.

Dancing in Deep Harbor was a skilful art. The young people of the town approved or condemned newcomers according to the measure of their proficiency on the polished floor. Never did any one earn more deservedly a reputation as an execrable dancer than I did that evening.

Some of my partners, I could see, frankly pitied Helen. In Deep Harbor, to marry a man who could not dance, or was a bad dancer, was to hang a social old-man-of-the-sea about one's neck. It doomed all "good times"

as far as that couple were concerned. Hence the genuine pity which I saw in the eyes of some of Helen's friends.

A respite came when Knowlton appeared. After he had danced with Helen, I took him around and introduced him to as many young ladies as I was able to identify. Miss Hershey helped me out with a few names, although I was supposed to know them all. Knowlton's eyes twinkled, and the crows' feet at their corners were crinkled with restrained amus.e.m.e.nt as I took him through the ceremonies of introduction. We escaped for a few moments for a cigarette in the sun-parlour, a portion of the verandah enclosed with gla.s.s in the winter time.

"Well, Ted," he grinned at his cigarette, "I certainly have to laugh when I think of you doing the social honours for me in Deep Harbor. I have to hand it to you, Ted, and I mean this seriously. Miss Claybourne's the best of the bunch. She's an A-number-one winner, and you are a d.a.m.ned lucky kid."

"Thanks, Knowlton; I agree with you."

Knowlton puffed his cigarette reflectively. "It's great to be a kid," he said at length. "I never was," he added rather unexpectedly. "When I ought to have been, I was selling goods and studying to be an engineer, evenings. I'm not kicking; I guess I had a pretty good time--even when I didn't know where the next meal was coming from."

I was silent, for it was most unusual for Knowlton to wax confidential about himself.

"But now that things are beginning to come my way, I see a little what I've missed. I'm getting grey here over the temples, Ted, and I'm doggoned if I don't envy you," he finished with queer irrelevance. We both smoked in silence. It is a difficult matter for two men to say what is on their minds. I liked Knowlton, and I wanted to tell him I did, but I didn't dare try for the words.

"I guess we are none of us, Ted," he went on, "as practical and hard-headed as we make ourselves out to be. I used to think I had no time to bother with women."

"He travels furthest who travels alone," I murmured, rather startled by such a quotation on such an evening.

"It's a mistake, Ted," Knowlton came back. "It isn't true. The fellow who said that was trying to conceal bankruptcy with a little window-dressing."

"Knowlton," I stammered, making a desperate effort, "I--I--"

He cut in on me. "Thanks, Ted. I like you too. Let's let it go at that,"

and he threw away his cigarette stub and went in to the ballroom. I sat and wondered at the hint of tragedy the always smiling Knowlton had shown me. "After all," I reflected, "he is still young." "Ah, but he is not a kid, don't you see?" my old annoyer Reason interjected. "That's the point." I lit another cigarette. "I wonder why it is great to be a kid?" I asked. Reason was prompt with a reply, "Because kids enjoy everything without stopping to think."

I looked up, to see Helen in the doorway, surrounded by formally attentive swains.

"Ted," said Helen coming up to me. "This is our dance. How could you?"

It was the first time I had ever been conscious of hurting her, and I was truly contrite. I explained about Knowlton as we danced around the room.

"The poor old dear," said Helen. "You would never guess it from those adorable crow's feet of his."

"Knowlton isn't old," I objected, almost shocked.

"Well," Helen went on, "he's almost middle-aged."

But we soon changed the subject, for we had more important things to talk about.

The dance came to an end at last, since there is a limit to the physical endurance of even the youth of Deep Harbor. I was f.a.gged, and, now the excitement had pa.s.sed, there were deep circles under Helen's eyes. "Take me home, Ted," she whispered, and with infinite craft and skill, we eluded Miss Hershey and got a carriage to ourselves.

We sat for a long time in silence, as we bounced over the ruts, her hand resting in mine.

"It is Christmas day, dearest," I bent over her and said. She looked into my eyes.

"Our first Christmas together, Ted. How many will there be?" Suddenly there came a little catch in her voice, and she cried against my shoulder, as if frightened. I comforted her, and she again looked up, a smile coming through wet eyes.

"Christmas. We'll never forget, will we Ted?"

We looked out at the arc lamps of Deep Harbor ahead. On the left, the frozen, snow-covered lake looked like some strange continent of the moon in the glowing light. The fields and vineyards were dimly white, with dark patches showing. The snow had been thinned by a thaw. We looked together, now ahead, now left, now right, that we might impress the scene on our memories forevermore. It was very still save for the rattle of the carriage and the occasional voice of the driver speaking to his horses. Far on the other side of the town the flare of a Bessemer steel works suddenly lit up the sky, for its furnaces never rested, day or night.

I kissed her good-night at her door and walked down Myrtle Boulevard, in the dawn, alone. At my rooms I found a letter from my father, together with a generous check. "Buy Helen a Christmas present out of this," was his only comment on sending me the money. I could not sleep, but the factory was to be shut down on Christmas Day, so the loss of sleep did not matter. The future stood before me like an impenetrable wall. I wanted to see the other side. It seemed absurd, preposterous, that one couldn't fathom that mystery. It was not fair to make one face life without knowing what to expect. Of what use were hopes or plans, if out of that void some unforeseen thing struck at one? Yet fear, I knew, was more deadly than any blow that could come from the dark. One must grope ahead, like a child going into a cellar, but if one feared the dark, then the thing would become intolerable. It would add terrors that were not there and deprive one of the power to deal with the things that were.

What was it Helen had asked? How many Christmas days would there be for us? Granting three score and ten as the limit, there should be not less than fifty such days. Fifty times to remember all that today meant to us. "I wonder why most stories stop when they are married?" I asked myself. "Don't they dare tell the rest of it?" Reason refused to make any comment, for Reason, too, was baffled by that mystery of the future.

Christmas dinner was a solemn family function held at three o'clock in the afternoon. Besides Helen, Mrs. Claybourne, Mr. Claybourne, and me, there were Helen's Uncle Peter, from Dayton, Ohio, and his wife. Uncle Peter and Aunt Ethel had come to Deep Harbor with a double motive--to spend Christmas and to inspect the potential nephew-in-law. Uncle Peter was affable and jocose, slightly older than his brother, Mr. Claybourne, but similar in type. He had not quite the same force of character or skill in business, I decided after hearing one of his anecdotes.

Anecdotes are a sore betrayer of man's mental make-up. They should be told only by persons who have nothing to fear from self-revelation. Aunt Ethel was a woman of firmness and impregnable self-complacency. "In Dayton we--" was her regular introduction to the simplest statement. She wore gold-bowed invisible gla.s.ses and had pastry-coloured hair. Of the two I immediately plumped for Uncle Peter and his anecdotes. They were more rea.s.suring than Aunt Ethel's views upon conduct.

Mrs. Claybourne had marvellously recovered from the day before. She was in a mood as closely approximating the cheerful as one could expect. In fact, I had never before seen her thus close to having a good time. The shortcomings of Jane, the maid, seemed the only flies in her ointment.

These were gone over rather thoroughly with Aunt Ethel, but were mostly out of the way by the time we sat down to dinner. According to Helen, Jane was a treasure who survived endless faultfinding and nagging with the patience of a saint; in Mrs. Claybourne's account, she was a wilful conspirator against the tidiness, peace, and happiness of the whole house. The fact that Jane had been with the Claybournes three years seemed to me evidence in favour of Helen's version.

The dinner was truly marvellous. There is no other word to express it.

Mr. Pickwick never fared better at Dingley Dell. Such turkeys as America produces do not grow again until heaven is reached. Before a fine specimen of this delectable bird was eaten on this day, Uncle Peter, rather vigorously prompted by Aunt Ethel, said grace. Uncle Peter spoke the kind of grace that one makes up as one goes along, and he landed himself in a sentence from which there was no retreat, either forward or backward. Just as Helen mischievously and irreverently kicked me on the shin under the table, Uncle Peter cut the Gordian knot of his rhetoric by a loud "Amen." My laugh, therefore, did no damage to the proprieties.

Helen and I were too light-hearted and hungry to be abashed by any amount of family. Excitement had spoiled our appet.i.tes on the day before, but now there was no stopping us. We laughed so loudly at Uncle Peter's anecdotes that he gave himself an encore on several of them, and we clearly were his firm friends. Our plates went back for turkey and cranberry sauce again and again. Mr. Claybourne produced his champagne and ran through all his favourite toasts. Mrs. Claybourne smiled at least three times. Aunt Ethel declined champagne with great firmness, and her eye upon Uncle Peter noticeably reduced the quant.i.ty he would have drunk. He had to s.n.a.t.c.h it in nervous sips when his wife seemed most engaged. He was, therefore, always a gla.s.s behind Mr. Claybourne and me. I grew reckless enough, in spite of a severe shin kick from Helen, to propose Aunt Ethel's health. Uncle Peter enthusiastically seconded me, seeing a chance to get down a whole gla.s.s, and Mr.

Claybourne joined in. Aunt Ethel was compelled to acknowledge the compliment with rather a frigid bow, and I gathered that "we in Dayton"

didn't drink many toasts in champagne. After dinner Uncle Peter forced one of his black cigars upon me and imperilled all the structure of good feeling the dinner had built up in me. Deep Harbor gave me many opportunities to curse the proximity of the island of Cuba to the United States. In spite of the cigar, Helen and I skipped away, under a volley of Uncle Peter's winks, and sat down to talk things over.

"Do you feel any more engaged than you did yesterday?" I asked.