Ben Blair

  CHAPTER XVII

  GLITTER AND TINSEL

  Clarence Sidwell--Chad, his friends called him--leaned farther back inthe big wicker chair, with an involuntary motion adjusted hiswell-creased trousers so there might be no tension at the knees, andlooked across the tiny separating table at his _vis-a-vis_, while hiseyelids whimsically tightened.

  "Well," he queried, "what do you think of it?"

  The little brunette, his companion, roused herself almost with a start,while a suggestion of conscious red tinged her face. "I beg yourpardon?" she said, inquiringly.

  The man smiled. "Forgotten already, wasn't I?" he bantered.

  "No, certainly not. I--"

  A hand, delicate and carefully manicured as a woman's, was raised inprotest. "Don't prevaricate, please. The occasion isn't worth it." Thehand returned to the chair-arm with a play of light upon the solitaireit bore. The smile broadened. "You were caught. Confess, and thesentence will be lighter."

  As a wave recedes, the red flood began to ebb from the girl's face. "Iconfess, then. I was--thinking."

  "And I was--forgotten. My statement was correct."

  She looked up, and the two smiled companionably.

  "Admitted. I await the penalty."

  The man's expression changed into mock sternness. "Very well, MissBaker; having heard your confession and remembering a promise toexercise clemency, this court is about to impose sentence. Are youprepared to listen?"

  "I'm growing stronger every minute."

  The court frowned, the heavy black eyebrows making the face reallyformidable.

  "I fear the defendant doesn't realize the enormity of the offence.However, we'll pass that by. The sentence, Miss Baker, brings me back tothe starting-point. You are directed to answer the question justpropounded, the question which for some inexplicable reason you didn'thear. What do you think of it--this roof-garden, and things in general?"The stern voice paused; the brows relaxed, and he smiled again. "Butfirst, you're sure you won't have something more--an ice, a weebottle--anything?"

  The girl shook her head.

  "Then let's make room here at this table for a better man; to hint atvacating for a better woman would be heresy! It's pleasanter over therein the corner out of the light, where one can see the street."

  They found a vacant bench behind a skilfully arranged screen of palms,and Sidwell produced a cigar.

  "In listening to a tale or a confession," he explained, "one shouldalways call in the aid of nicotine. I fancy Munchausen's listeners musthave been smokers."

  The girl steadily inspected the dark mobile face, half concealed in theshadow. "You're making sport of me," she announced presently.

  Instantly her companion's smile vanished. "I beg your pardon, MissBaker, but you misunderstood. I thought by this time you knew me betterthan that."

  "You really are interested, then? Would you truly like to know--what youasked?"

  "I truly would."

  Florence hesitated. Her breath came a trifle more quickly. She had notyet learned the trick of repression of the city folk.

  "I think it's wonderful," she said. "Everything is wonderful. I feellike a child in fairyland; only the fairies must be giants. This greatbuilding, for instance,--I can't make it seem a product of mere six-footman! In spite of myself, I keep expecting a great genie to emergesomewhere. I suppose this seems silly to you, but it's the feeling Ihave, and it makes me realize my own insignificance."

  Sidwell smoked in silence.

  "That's the first impression--the most vivid one, I think. The next isabout the people themselves. I've been here nearly a half-year now, buteven yet I stare at them--as you caught me staring to-night--almost withopen mouth. To see these men in the daylight hours down town one wouldthink they cared more for a minute than for their eternal happiness. I'malmost afraid to speak to them, my little affairs seem so tiny incomparison with the big ones it must take to make men work as they do.And then, a little later,--apparently for no other reason than that thesun has ceased to shine,--I see them, as here, for instance, unconsciousthat not minutes but hours are going by. They all seem to have doublelives. I get to thinking of them as Jekylls and Hydes. It makes me a bitafraid."

  Still Sidwell smoked in silence, and Florence observed him doubtfully."You really wish me to chatter on in this way?" she asked.

  "I was never more interested in my life."

  The girl felt her face grow warm. She was glad they were in the shadow,so the man could not see it too clearly. For a moment she looked abouther, at the host of skilful waiters, at the crowd of brightly dressedpleasure-seekers, at the kaleidoscopic changes, at the lights andshadows. From somewhere invisible the string orchestra, which for a timehad been silent, started up anew, while her answering pulses beat toswifter measure. The air was a familiar one, heard everywhere abouttown; and she was conscious of a childish desire to join in singing it.The novelty of the scene, the sparkle, the animation, the motionintoxicated her. She leaned back in her seat luxuriously.

  "This is life," she murmured. "I never grasped the meaning of the worduntil within the last few months, but now I begin to understand. To workmightily when one works, to abandon one's self completely when onerests--that is the secret of life."

  The man in the shadow shifted his position, and, looking up, Florencefound his eyes upon her. "Do you really believe that?" he asked.

  "I do, most certainly."

  Sidwell lit a fresh cigar, and for a moment the light of the burningmatch showed his face clearly. He seemed about to say more; but he didnot, and Florence too was silent. In the pause that followed, the greatexpress elevator stopped softly at the roof floor. The gate opened witha musical click, and a woman and a man stepped out. Both wereimmaculately dressed, both had the unmistakable air of belonging to theleisure class. They spied the place Florence and Sidwell had leftvacant, and leisurely made their way to it. A waiter appeared, a coinchanged hands, an order was given. The man drew out a cigarette casethat flashed in colors from the nearby arc-light. Smilingly the womanheld a match, and a moment later wreath after wreath of curling bluesmoke floated above them into the night.

  Florence Baker watched the scene with a strange fascination. She wasconscious of having at some time visited a play wherein a similar actionhad taken place. She had thought it merely a creation of the writer'simagination at the time, but in her present broadened experience sheknew better. It was real,--real as the air she breathed. She simply hadnot known the meaning of life then; she was merely existing. Now sheknew!

  The waiter returned, bearing something in a cooler. There were a fewswift motions, a pop distinctly heard above the drone of the orchestra.The man tossed aside his cigarette and leaned forward. Two glasses withslender stems, each containing a liquid that effervesced and sparkled,one in the man's hand, one in the woman's, met midway of the board. Theempty glasses returned to the table.

  Many other seekers of pleasure were about, but Florence had no eyes forthem. This pair alone, so indifferent to their surroundings, sothoroughly a part of them, perfectly fulfilled her newly formedconception. They had solved this puzzle of existence, solved it socompletely that she wondered it could ever have appealed to her as apuzzle at all. Again the formula, distinct as the handwriting upon thewall, stood revealed before her. One had but to _live_ life, not reasonit, and all would be well.

  Again and again, the delicate glasses sparkled to waiting lips, andreturned empty to the table. The man lit another cigarette, and itssmoke mingled with the darkness above. In the hands of the waiter thecooler disappeared, and was returned; a second cork popped as had thefirst. The woman's eyes sparkled as brilliantly as the gems upon herfingers. The languor of the man had passed. With the old actionrepeated, the brimming glasses touched across the board, were exchangedafter the foreign fashion, and again were dry. The figure of the manleaned far over the table. He spoke earnestly, rapidly. Unconsciousmotions of his hands added emphasis to his words. Neither he nor she wholistened was smiling now. Instead, there w
as a look, identical uponeither face, a look somehow strangely familiar to the watcher, one shehad met with before, somewhere--somewhere. Memory flew back on lightningwings, searched all the paths of her experience, the dimall-but-forgotten crannies, stopped with pointing finger; and with a tugat her very being, she looked, and unbelieving looked again. Ah, couldit be possible--could it? Yes, there it was, unmistakable; the sameexpression as this before her--there, blazing from the eyes of a groupof strange street-loafers, as she herself, she, Florence Baker, passedby!

  In the shadow the face of the spectator crimsoned, the hot flood burnedat her ears, a tightness like a physical hand gripped at her throat; butit seemed that her eyes could not leave the figures before her. Not thealien interest of a watcher at the play, but a more intense, a morepersonal meaning, was in her gaze now. Something of vital moment to herown life was taking place out there so near, and she must see. Afleeting wonder as to whether her own companion was likewise watchingcame to her, but she did not turn to discover. The denouement,inevitable as death, was approaching, might come if she for an instantlooked away.

  The man out there under the electric globe was still talking; the woman,his companion, still listened. Florence caught herself straining herears to hear what he was saying; but to no purpose. She heard only therepressed murmur of his well-modulated, resonant voice; yet that initself was enough. The old song of the sirens was flowing from his lips,and passion flamed in his eyes. Farther and farther across the tinyintervening table, nearer the woman's face, his own approached. The lastempty bottle, the thin-stemmed glasses, stood in his way, and he movedthem aside with his elbow. So near now was he that their breathsmingled, and as the drone of his voice ceased, the music of theorchestra, a waltz, flowed into the rift with its steady one-two-three.He was motionless; but his eyes, intense blue eyes under long lashes,were fixed absorbingly on hers.

  It was the woman's turn to move. Gradually, gracefully, unconsciously,her own face came forward toward his. Sparkling in the light, a jewelledhand rested on the surface of the table. A tinge of crimson mounted thelong white neck, and colored it to the roots of her hair. The arteriesat the throat throbbed under the thin skin. Simultaneously, the openinggate of the elevator clicked, and a man--another with that unmistakableair of leisure--approached; but still she did not notice, did not hear.Instead, with a sudden motion, heedless of surroundings, reckless ofspectators, her face crossed the gap intervening between her and hercompanion; her lips touched his lips, caught fire with the contact, metthem again and again.

  Watching, scarcely breathing, Florence saw the figure of the man comecloser. His eyes also were upon the pair. He caught their every motion;but he did not hurry. On he came, leisurely, impassively, as though outfor a stroll. He stopped by their side, a darkening shadow with amask-like face. Instinctively the two glanced up. There was a crash ofglassware, as the tiny table lurched in the woman's hand--and they wereon their feet. A moment the three looked into each others' eyes, lookeddeep and long; then together, without a word, they turned toward theelevator. Again, droning monotonously, the car appeared and disappeared.After them, vibrant, mocking, there beat the unvarying rhythm of thewaltz, one-two-three, one-two-three.

  In the shadow, Florence Baker's face dropped into her hands. When atlast she glanced up another couple, likewise immaculate of attire,likewise debonair and smiling, were seated at the little table. Sheturned to her companion. His cigar was still glowing brightly. He hadnot moved.

  "I think I'll go home now, if you please," she said, and every trace ofanimation had left her voice. "I'm rather tired."

  The man roused himself. "It's early yet. There'll be vaudeville here ina little while, after the theatre."

  The girl observed him curiously. "It's early, did you say?"

  Sidwell smiled indulgently. "Beg your pardon. I had forgotten ourstandards were not yet in conformity. It is so considered--here."

  Florence was very quiet until they reached the steps of her own home. Alight was in the open vestibule, another in the library, where Scotty,his feet comfortably enclosed in carpet-slippers and elevated above hishead, was reading. Then she turned to her escort.

  "You won't be offended, Mr. Sidwell, if I ask you a question?"

  The electric light on the nearby corner shone full upon her soft brownface, a very serious face now, and the man's glance lingered there."Certainly not," he answered.

  Florence hesitated. Somehow, now that the moment for speaking hadarrived, the thing she had in mind to say did not seem so easy afterall. At last she spoke, hesitatingly: "You seem to be interested in me,seem to take pleasure in being in my company. For the last few months wehave been together almost daily, but up to that time we had lived livesas unlike as--as the city is from the prairie. I know you have manyother friends, friends you've known all your life, whose ideals andpoints of view came from the same experience as your own." Shestraightened with dignity. "Why is it that you leave those friends tocome here? Why do you find pleasure in taking me about as you do? Why isit?"

  Not once while she was speaking had the man's eyes left her face; notonce had he stirred. Even after she was silent he remained so; anddespite the compelling influence which had prompted the question,Florence could not but realize what she had done, what she had all butsuggested. The warm color flooded her face, though she held her eyes upbravely. "Tell me why," she repeated firmly.

  Sidwell still hesitated. Complex product of the higher civilization,mixture of good and bad, who knows what thoughts were running riot inhis brain? At last he aroused and came closer. "You ask me a very hardquestion," he said steadily; "the most difficult, I think, you couldhave chosen; one, also, which perhaps I have already asked myself."Again he took a step nearer. "It is a question, Florence, that admits ofbut one answer; one both adequate and inadequate. It is because you areyou and woman, and I am I and man." Of a sudden his dark face grewswarthier still, his voice lapsed from its customary impersonal. "Itmeans, Florence Baker--"

  But the sentence was not completed. As suddenly as the change had cometo the man's face, the girl had understood. With an impulse she couldnot have explained to herself, she had drawn away and swiftly mountedthe steps of the house. Not until she reached the porch did she turn.

  "Don't, don't, please!" she urged. "I beg your pardon. I shouldn't haveasked what I did. Forget that I spoke at all." She was struggling forwords, for breath. Her color came and went. "Good-night." And nottrusting herself to look back, oblivious of courtesy, she almost raninto the house.

  Standing as she had left him, his hat in his hand, Clarence Sidwellwatched her pass through the lighted vestibule into the darknessbeyond.