Arms and the Woman, Harold MacGrath [books you need to read TXT] 📗

said I, scrutinizing the beautiful face so near me. What if they met, as probably they would-Phyllis and Gretchen? "Phyllis," said I, suddenly, "where were you born?"

"Where was I born?" with a wondering little laugh; "in America. Where did you suppose?"

"Eden," said I. "I wasn't sure, so I asked."

"I do not know how to take that," she said, with mock severity.

"Oh, I meant Eden when it was Paradise," I hastened to say.

"Yes," put in Pembroke; "please go back, Miss Landors, and begin the world all over again."

"Phyllis," said I, in a whisper, "have you ever met that remarkable affinity of yours?" I regretted the words the moment they had crossed my lips.

"Yes, you are changed, as I said the other night," distrustfully. "There is something in your voice that is changed. You have grown cynical. But your question was impertinent. Have you found yours?"

I was expecting this. "Yes," I said. "Once I thought I had; now I am sure of it. Some day I shall tell you an interesting story."

"We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening," she said, trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk. "Are you at liberty?"

"No. I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with him."

"If that is all, bring him along. I like his face."

We passed out of the file room.

"Phyllis, we must be going, dear," said Ethel.

I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs. A handsome victoria stood at the curb.

"I shall be pleased to hear your story," said she.

It occurred to me that the tale might not be to her liking. So I said: "But it is one of those disagreeable stories; one where all should end nicely, but doesn't; one which ends, leaving the hero, the heroine, and the reader dissatisfied with the world in general, and the author (who is Fate) in particular."

I knew that she was puzzled. She wasn't quite sure that I was not referring to the old affair.

"If the story is one I never heard before," suspiciously, "I should like to hear it."

"And does it not occur to you," throwing back the robes so that she might step into the victoria, "that fate has a special grudge against me? Once was not enough, but it must be twice."

"And she does not love you? Are you quite sure? You poor fellow!" She squeezed my hand kindly. "Shall I be candid with you?" with the faintest flicker of coquetry in her smile.

"As in the old days," said I, glancing over my shoulder to see now near the others were. A groom is never to be considered. "Yes, as in the old days."

"Well, I have often regretted that I did not accept you as an experiment."

Then I knew that she did not understand.

"You must not think I am jesting," said I, seriously. "The story is of the bitter-sweet kind. The heroine loves me, but cannot be mine."

"Loves you?" with a slight start. "How do you know?"

"She has told me so," lowering my voice.

Frankness of this sort to a woman who has rejected you has a peculiar effect. The coquetry faded from her smile, and there was a perceptible contraction of the brows. Her eyes, which were looking into mine, shifted to the back of the groom. No, I shall never understand a woman. She should have been the most sympathetic woman in the world, yet she appeared to be annoyed.

"What's all this between you and Phyllis?" asked Ethel, coming up.

"There is nothing between her and me," said I.

"Well, there should be," she retorted. "That is the trouble."

My observation was: "I have always held that immediately a woman gets married she makes it her business to see that all old bachelors are lugged out and disposed of to old maids."

"I shall never forgive that," Phyllis declared; "never."

"Then I shall always have the exquisite pleasure of being a supplicant for your pardon. It is delightful to sue pardon of a beautiful woman."

Phyllis sniffed.

"Forgive him at once," said Ethel, "if only for that pretty speech."

Mr. Holland pulled out his watch suggestively.

"Well," I said, "I see that I am keeping you from your lunch. Good-by, then, till dinner, when I shall continue at length on the evils-"

"William," interrupted Ethel, addressing the groom, "drive on."

And so they left us.

"Shall we go to lunch now?" I asked of Pembroke.

"Yes," rather dreamily I thought. "Do you know," with sudden animation, "she is a remarkably beautiful woman?"

"Yes, she is." After all, the sight of Phyllis had rather upset me.

"I had a glimpse of her in Vienna last winter," went on Pembroke. "I never knew who she was."

"Vienna!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. It was at a concert. Her face was indelibly graven on my memory. I asked a neighbor who she was, but when I went to point her out she was gone. I should like to see more of her."

So Gretchen had been in Vienna, and poor Hillars had never known!

I took Pembroke to the club that afternoon, and we dallied in the billiard room till time to dress for dinner. Dinner came. But Phyllis forgot to ask me about the story, at which I grew puzzled, considering what I know of woman's curiosity. And she devoted most of her time to Pembroke, who did not mind. Later we went to the theatre-some production of Gilbert and Sullivan. Whenever I glanced at Phyllis I fell to wondering how Gretchen would have looked in evening dress. Yes, Phyllis was certainly beautiful, uncommonly. For years I had worshipped at her shrine, and then-how little we know of the heart. I was rather abstracted during the performance, and many of my replies went wide the mark.

As we were leaving the foyer, Phyllis said: "Jack, a man has been staring me out of countenance."

"Pembroke?" I laughed.

"No. And moreover, the stare was accompanied by the most irritating sneer."

"Point him out to me when we reach the street," I said, humoring what I thought to be a fancy, "and I'll put a head on him."

The sneer was probably meant for an ogle. Beauty has its annoyances as well as its compensations. As we came under the glare of the outside lights, Phyllis's hand tightened on my arm.

"Look! there he is, and he is making for us."

At the sight of that face with its hooked nose, its waxed mustache and imperial, I took a deep breath and held it. In the quick glance I saw that his right arm hung stiffly at his side. I attempted to slip into the crowd, but without success. He lifted his hat, smiling into the astonished face of Phyllis.

"The Princess Hildegarde-" But with those three words the sentence on his lips came to an end. Amazement replaced the smile. He stepped back. Phyllis's eyes expressed scornful surprise. What she understood to be rudeness I knew to be a mistake. He had mistaken her to be Gretchen, just as I had mistaken Gretchen to be Phyllis. It was a situation which I enjoyed. All this was but momentary. We passed on.

"Was the man crazy?" asked Phyllis, as we moved toward the carriages, where we saw Pembroke waving his hand.

"Not exactly crazy," I answered.

"The Princess Hildegarde; did he not call me that?"

"He did."

"He must have mistaken me for some one else, then."

"The very thing," said I. "I wonder what he is doing here in London?"

"Mercy! do you know him?"

"Slightly." We were almost at the carriage. "I am sorry to say that he is a great personage in this very court which you are so soon to grace."

"How strange! I'm afraid we shan't get on."

Pembroke and I dismissed our carriage. We were going back to the club. Ethel and her husband were already seated in their carriage.

Said Phyllis as I assisted her to enter; "And who is this Princess Hildegarde?"

"The most beautiful woman in all the world," I answered with enthusiasm. "You will meet her also."

"I do not believe I shall like her either," said Phyllis. "Good night;" and the door swung to.

Pembroke and I made off for the club. . . . Perhaps it was my enthusiasm.


CHAPTER XVII

I had just left the office when I ran into Pembroke, who was in the act of mounting the stairs. It was Saturday morning. Phyllis had left town.

"Hello!" he cried. "A moment more, and I should have missed you, and then you would not have learned a piece of news."

"News?"

"Yes. I have made up my mind not to go home till February."

"What changed your plans so suddenly?" I asked.

"My conscience."

"In heaven's name, what has your conscience to do with your plans?"

"Well, you see, my conscience would not permit me to meet such a remarkable woman as Miss Landors without becoming better acquainted with her." He swung his cane back and forth.

"This is very sudden," said I, lighting a cigar. "When did it happen?"

"What time did she come into your office the other day?"

"It must have been after eleven."

"Then it happened about eleven-fifteen." Pembroke's eyes were dancing. "Do you-er-think there are any others?"

"Thousands," said I, "only-" I turned the end of my cigar around to see if the light had proved effective.

"Only what?"

"Only she won't have them."

"Then there is really a chance?"

"When a woman is not married there is always a chance," said I, wisely. "But let me tell you, cousin mine, she has a very high ideal. The man who wins her must be little less than a demigod and a little more than a man. Indeed, her ideal is so high that I did not reach it by a good foot."

Pembroke looked surprised. "She-ah-rejected-"

"I did not say that I had proposed to her," said I.

"If you haven't, why haven't you?"

"It is strange." As his face assumed an anxious tinge, I laughed. "My dear relative, go ahead and win her, if you can; you have my best wishes. She is nothing to me. There was a time-ah, well, we all can look back and say that. If it isn't one woman it's another."

Sunshine came into Pembroke's face again. "Ideal or not ideal, I am going to make the effort."

"Success to you!" patting his shoulder. He was good to look at, and it was my opinion that Phyllis might do worse. We miss a good deal in this world by being over particular.

We were coming into Trafalgar. Nelson stood high up in the yellow fog.

"Nature is less gracious than history