Pray You, Sir, Whose Daughter? Part 5

He did not finish his remark, but got up and strolled away without the formality of an adieu.

Avery watched his possible future colleague until he was lost in the crowd, and then he walked deliberately over to where the two girls stood.

"I have been talking with your father," he said, smiling and bowing to the older girl, "and although he did not say that I might come and talk to you, he told me who you were, and I think he would not object."

"Oh, no; he wouldn't object," said the younger girl, eagerly. "Would he, Fan? Everybody talks here. He told me so before we came. It's the first time we've been; but he's been before. I think it's splendid, don't you?"

The older girl had not spoken. She was looking at Selden Avery with half suppressed interest and embryonic suspicion. She still knew too little of life to have formed even a clearly defined doubt as to him or his intentions in speaking to them. She was less happy than she had expected to be when she dressed to come with her ever-dawning hope for a real pleasure. She thought there must be something wrong with her because things never seemed to come up to her expectations. She supposed this must be "society," and that when she got used to it, she would enjoy it more. But somehow she had wanted to resent it the first time a man spoke to her, and then, afterward, she was glad she did not, for he had danced with Ettie twice, and Ettie had said it was a lovely dance. She had made up her mind to accept the next offer she had, but when it came, the eyes of the man were so beady-black, and the odor of bay rum radiated so insistently from him that she declined. She hated bay rum because the worst scolding her father ever gave her was when she had emptied his cherished bottle upon her own head. The odor always brought back the heart-ache and resentment of that day, and so she did not think she cared to dance just then.

Selden Avery looked at Ettie. He did not want to tell her what he did think and he had not the heart to dampen her ardor, so he simply smiled, and said:

"It is my first visit here, too; and I don't know a soul. I noticed you two young ladies a while ago, and spoke of you to the gentleman next to me and it chanced to be your father"--he turned to the older girl again--"so that was what gave me courage to come over here. If I had thought of it before he left me, I'd have asked him to introduce me, but I'm rather slow to think. My name is Selden Avery."

"Did father tell you mine?" she asked, looking at him steadily, with eyes that held floating ends of thoughts that were never formed in full.

"No, he didn't," replied Avery, laughing a little. "He told me yours, though," turning to the merry child at his side. "Ettie Berton, Tom Berton's daughter."

Ettie laughed, and clapped her hands together twice.

"Got it right the first time! But what did he give me away for and not her? She is Francis King. That is, her father's name's King, but she is so awfully particular about things and so hard to suit she ought to be named Queen, I tell her, so I call her Queen Fan mostly." There was a little laugh all around, and Avery said:--

"Very good, very good, indeed;" but Francis looked uncomfortable and so he changed the subject. Presently she looked at him and asked:--

"Do you think things are ever like they are in books? Do you think this is? She waved her hand toward the music and the lights. In the books I have read--and the story papers--it all seems nicer than this and--and different. It is because I say that, that they all make fun of me and call me Queen Fan, and father says--" she paused, and a cold light gathered in her eyes. "He don't like it, so I don't say it much, now. He says it's all put on; but it ain't Everything does seem to turn out so different from what you expected--from the way you read about. I've not felt like I thought _maybe_ I should to-night because--because--" she stopped again.

"Because why?" asked Avery, laughing a little. "Because I'm not a bit like the usual story-book prince you ought to have met and--?"

She smiled, and Ettie made a droll little grimace.

"No, it wasn't that at all. I've been thinking most all evening that it wasn't worth--that--"

"Oh, she's worried," put in Ettie, "because she got her father to spend a dollar to bring her. She's afraid he'll throw it up to her afterward, and she thinks it won't pay for that, so it spoils the whole thing before he does it--just being afraid he will. But I tell her he won't, this time. I--" Francis' eyes had filled with tears of mortification, and Avery pretended not to have heard. He affected a deep interest in the music.

"Do you know what it is they are playing now?" he asked, with his eyes fixed upon the musicians. "I thought at first that it was going to be--No, it is--Ton my word I can't recall it, and I ought to know what it is, too. The first time I ever heard it, I remember--"

He turned toward where Francis had stood, but she was gone. "Why, what has become of Miss King?" he asked of the other girl. Ettie looked all about, laughed and wondered and chattered as gaily as a bird.

"I expect she's gone home. She's the queerest you ever saw. I guess she didn't want me to say that about her pa. But it'll make him madder than anything if she has gone that way. He won't like it at all--an' I can't blame him. What's the use to be so different from other folks?" she inquired, sagely, and then she added, laughing: "I don't know as she is so different, either. We all hate things, but we pretend we don't. Don't you think it's better to pretend to like things, whether you do or not?"

"No," replied Avery, beginning to look with surprise upon this small philosopher who had no conception of the worldly wisdom of her own philosophy.

"I do," she said, laughing again. "It goes down better. Everybody likes you better. I've found that out already, and so I pretend to like everything. Of course I do like some of 'em, and some I don't, but it's just as easy to say you like 'em all." She laughed again, and kept time with her toe on the floor.

"Just what don't you like?" asked Avery, smiling. "Won't you tell me, truly? I won't tell any one, and I'd like to be sure of one thing you object to--on principle."

"Well, tob--Do you smoke?" she asked.

He shook his head, and pursed up his lips negatively.

"I thought not," she said, gaily. "You look like you didn't. Well, I hate--hate--hate--hate smoke. When I go on a ferry-boat, and the air is so nice and cool and different from at home, and seems so clean, I just love it, and then--"

"Some one sits near you and smokes," put in Avery, consolingly.

"Yes, they do; and I just most pray that he'll fall over and get drownded--but he never does; and if he asks me if I object to smoke, I say, 'Oh! not at all!' and then he thinks I'm such a nice, sensible girl. Fan tells 'em right out that she don't like it. It makes her deadly sick, and the boys all hate her for it. Her father says it's da---- I was going to say his cuss word, but I guess I won't. Anyhow, he says it's all nonsense and put on. I guess I better go. There is her father looking for us. Poor Fan'll catch it when we get home!

Good-night. I've had a lovely time, haven't you?" She waved her hand.

Then she retraced the step she had taken. "Don't tell that I don't like tobacco," she said, and started away laughing. He followed her a few steps.

"How is any fellow to know what you really do like?" he asked, smiling, "if you do that way?"

"Fan says n.o.body wants to know," she said, slyly. "She says they want to know that I like what they want me to like, and think what they think I think." She laughed again. "And of course I do," she added, and bowed in mock submission. "Now, Fan don't. That's where she misses it; and if she don't--reform," she said, lowering her voice, as she neared that young lady's father, "she is going to see trouble that is trouble. I'll bet a cent on it. Don't you?" she asked, as she bestowed a bright smile upon Mr. King.

"Yes," said Avery, and lifting his hat, turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.

"Where's Fan?" inquired that young lady's father in a tone which indicated that, as a matter of course, she was up to some devilment again.

"She got a headache and went home quite a while ago," said that young lady's loyal little friend. "She enjoyed it quite a lot till she did get a headache." As they neared the street where both lived, Ettie said: "That man talked to her, and I think she liked him."

"Humph!" said Mr. King. "I wouldn't be surprised. She'd be likely to take to a lunatic. I thought he was about the d.a.m.nedest fool I ever saw; didn't you?"

"Yes," said Ettie, laughing, "and I liked him for it."

Mr. King burst into a roar of laughter. "Of course you did! You'd like the devil. You're that easy to please. I wish to the Lord Fan was," and with a hearty "goodnight," he left her at her father's door, and crossed the street.

Once outside the garden, Avery drew from his pocket the little pamphlet which his club friend had given him, and ran his finger down the list.

"King, member the--ah, ha! one end of his ward joins mine! 'M-m-m; yes, I see. He is one of the butchers. I suspected as much. Let me see; yes, he votes my ticket, too. If I'm elected we'll be comrades-in-arms, so to speak I suppose I ought to have told him who I was; but if I'm elected he'll find out soon enough, and if I'm beaten--well, I can't say that I'm anxious to extend the acquaintance." He replaced the book in his pocket as the guard called out, 'Thirty-Fourth Street! 'strain for Arlem!' and left the train, musing as he strolled along. "Yes, Gertrude was quite right--quite. We fortunate ones have no right to allow all this sort of thing to go on. We have no right to leave it entirely to such men as that to make the laws. I don't care if the fellows up at the club do guy me. Gertrude--" He drew from his breast-pocket a little note, and read it for the tenth time.

"I am so gratified to hear that you have accepted the nomination," it said. "You have the time, and mental and moral equipment to give to the work Were I a man, I should not sleep o' nights until some way was devised to prevent all the terrible poverty and ignorance and brutishness we were talking about the other day. I went to see that Spillini family again. I was afraid to go alone, so I took with me two girls who are in a sewing cla.s.s, which is, just now a fad at our Church Guild. I thought their experience with poverty would enable them to think of a way to get at this case; but it did not. They appeared to think it was all right It seems to me that ignorance and poverty leave no room for thought, or even for much feeling. It hurt me like a knife to have those girls laugh over it after we came out; at least, one of them laughed, and the other seemed scornful, It is not fair to expect more of them, I know, for we expect so little of ourselves. It is thinking of all this that makes me write to tell you how glad I am that you are to represent your district in Albany. Such men are needed, for I know you will work for the poor with the skill of a trained intellect and a sympathetic heart. I am so glad. Sincerely your friend, Gertrude Foster."

Mr. Avery replaced the note in his pocket, and smiled contentedly. "I don't care a great deal what the fellows at the club say," he repeated.

"I'm satisfied, if Gertrude--" He had spoken the last few words almost audibly, and the name startled him. He realized for the first time that he had fallen into the habit of thinking of her as Gertrude, and it suddenly flashed upon him that Miss Foster might be a good deal surprised by that fact if she knew it. He fell to wondering if she would also be annoyed. There was a tinge of anxiety in the speculation. Then it occurred to him that the sewing cla.s.s of the Guild might give an outlet and a chance for a bit of pleasure to that strange girl he had seen at Grady's Pavilion, and he made a little memorandum, and decided to call upon Gertrude and suggest it to her. He fell asleep that night and dreamed of Gertrude Foster, holding out a helping hand to a strange, tall girl, with dissatisfied eyes, and that Ettie Berton was laughing gaily and making everybody comfortable, by a.s.serting that she liked everything exactly as she found it.

VI

The next evening Avery called upon Gertrude to thank her for her letter, and, incidentally, to tell her of the experience at Grady's Pavilion, and bespeak the good office of the Guild for those two human p.a.w.ns, who had, somehow, weighed upon his heart.

Avery was not a Churchman himself, but he felt very sure that any Guild which would throw Gertrude Foster's influence about less fortunate girls, would be good, so he gave very little thought to the phase of it which was not wholly related to the personality of the young woman in whose eyes he had grown to feel he must appear well and worthy, if he retained his self-respect. This bar of judgment had come, by unconscious degrees, to be the one before which he tried his own cases for and against himself.

"Would Gertrude like it if she should know? Would I dislike to have her know that I did this or felt that?" was now so constantly a part of his mental processes, that he had become quite familiar with her verdicts, which were most often pa.s.sed--from his point of view, and in his own mind--without the knowledge of the girl herself.

He had never talked of love to her, except in the general and impersonal fashion of young creatures who are wont to eagerly discuss the profound perplexities of life without having come face to face with one of them.

One day they had talked of love in a cottage. The conversation had been started by the discussion of a new novel they had just read, and Avery told her of a strange fellow whom he knew, who had married against the wishes of his father, and had been disinherited.

"He lost his grip, somehow," said Avery, "and went from one disaster into another. First he lost his place, and the little salary they had to live on was stopped. It was no fault of his. It had been in due course of a business change in the firm he worked for. He got another, but not so good a situation, but the little debts that had run up while he was idle were a constant drag on him. He never seemed able to catch up. Then his wife's health failed. She needed a change of climate, rare and delicate food, a quiet mind relieved of anxiety, but he could not give her these. His own nerves gave way under the strain, and at last sickness overtook him, and he had to appeal to me for a loan."