Читать книгу That Affair at Elizabeth - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 4

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"That seems to be all right, Lester," said Mr. Royce, and handed the papers back to me. "I'll be mighty glad when we get that off our hands."

So, I knew, would the whole force of the office, for the case had been an unusually irritating one, tangling itself up in the most unexpected ways, until, with petitions and counter-petitions and answers and demurrers and what not, we were all heartily tired of it. I slipped the papers into an envelope and shot them into a pigeon-hole with a sigh of relief.

"I think that'll end it," I said. "I don't see how there can be any further delay."

"No," agreed our junior, "neither do I. Are the papers in the Griffin case ready?"

"Not yet; I doubt if they will be ready before this afternoon."

"Well, they can wait," he said, and glanced at his watch. "I want to catch the ten-ten for Elizabeth."

"For Elizabeth?"

"Yes. I know it's a mighty awkward time for me to leave, but it's an engagement I've got to keep. You've heard me speak of Burr Curtiss?"

"Yes," I said; "I seem to remember the name."

"He's been one of my best friends for the past ten years. I met him first at Yale, and a liking sprang up between us, which grew stronger as time went on. I played a sort of second fiddle to him, then, for he was president of the class in his senior year and was voted the most popular man in it. He came to New York, as soon as he was graduated, and got a place on the construction staff of the Pennsylvania road. He was assigned to one of the western divisions, and I didn't see anything of him for two or three years, but finally he was recalled, and we used to hobnob at the University Club. Since my marriage, he comes around to smoke a pipe with me occasionally and talk over old times. He's a social fellow, likes companionship, and, my wife says, is just the man to make a woman happy; so when he wrote me a note, two months ago, announcing his engagement, we were naturally curious concerning the woman in the case—for his ideals were high—too high, I always told him."

Mr. Royce paused and sat for a moment smiling out the window at the grey wall of the building opposite.

"I remember it was one evening early last winter," he went on at last, "that Curtiss happened in and, as we sat smoking together, our talk somehow turned to women. It was then I learned what an idealist he was. The woman to win his heart must be accomplished, of course; witty, knowing the world, and yet unsoiled by it, capable of original thought, of being her husband's intellectual companion—so much for the mental side. Physically—well, physically he wanted a Venus de Milo or Helen of Troy, nothing less. I laughed at him. I pointed out that beautiful women are seldom intellectual. But he was obdurate. He protested that he would capitulate on no other terms. I retorted that, in that case, he would probably remain a bachelor."

"But," I remarked, "it seems to me that this friend of yours is a trifle egotistical. What has he to offer in exchange for such perfection?"

"Well," said Mr. Royce slowly, "it would be a good bargain on both sides. Given such a woman, I could fancy her longing for such a man as Curtiss, just as he would long for her. I've told you something of his mental calibre—physically, he's the handsomest man I ever saw. And it seems to me he gets handsomer every year. In our college days, he was rather too stout, too girlish-looking, but hard work and contact with the world have rubbed all that away. George!" he added, "the children of such a pair would be fit for Olympus!"

"And did he find her?" I asked, curious for the rest of the story.

"After I got his note," said my companion, "I hunted him up at his apartments as soon as I could. He let me in himself, got out his cigars, and sat down opposite me fairly beaming. I looked him over—I had never before seen a man who seemed so supremely happy.

"'So,' I asked at last, 'you've found her?'

"'Yes,' he said; 'yes.'

"'The woman you were looking for?'

"'The very woman.'

"'That impossible ideal?'

"'An ideal, yes; but not impossible, since she exists in the flesh and I have found her.'

"'Well, you're a lucky dog,' I said. 'Tell me about her.'

"So he told me—quite a Laura Jean Libbey story. She was everything, it seemed, that could be desired in a woman.

"'And beautiful?' I asked him.

"For reply, he brought out a photograph from his desk. I tell you, Lester, it fairly took my breath away. I felt as though I were looking at a masterpiece—say Andrea del Sarto's Madonna. And I would as soon have thought of marrying the one as the other. It was like snatching a star down out of heaven.

"Curtiss was leaning back in his chair watching me, and he smiled as I looked up.

"'Well?' he asked.

"I went over and shook hands with him—I couldn't find words to tell him what I felt.

"'But where has she been?' I demanded. 'How does it happen she was left for you?'

"'She's been abroad for five or six years,' he explained.

"'That's no answer,' I said. 'Why isn't she a queen, then; or a duchess, at least?'

"'She's had chances enough, I dare say,' and he smiled at my enthusiasm. 'I agree with you that she's worthy to wear a crown; but then, you see, she has ideals, too. Perhaps none of the kings she met measured up to them.'

"'And you did?'

"'She's good enough to think so.'

"I had been idling over the photograph, and my eyes happened to fall upon some lines written across the back—I didn't know them, then, but I've looked them up, since:—

'My days were sunless and my nights were moonless,

Parched the pleasant April herbage and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless,

If you loved me not!'

"I tell you, Lester," and there was a little break in our junior's voice, "I was overwhelmed. You know, love—passion—the real thing the poets write about—has grown mighty rare in this world. We're too commercial for it, I suppose; too much given to calculating chances. But here I was, face to face with it. Well, I was unequal to the situation—I didn't know what to say, but he helped me.

"'The date hasn't been set, yet,' he said, 'but it will be some time in June; and the reason I'm telling you all this is that I'm going to ask a favour of you. It's to be a church wedding and I want you to be best man. I hope you won't refuse.'

"I was glad of the chance to be of service and told him so," concluded Mr. Royce, glancing again at his watch and rising hastily. "The wedding's to be at noon to-day. You see I'm cutting it rather fine. I'd intended to go down yesterday afternoon, but that Barnaby petition upset my plans. I'll be back to-night or in the morning at the latest. In the meantime, if anything imperative turns up, a telegram to the Sheridan House at Elizabeth will catch me."

"Very well," I replied and made a note of the address. "But don't worry about the work here. I'll get along all right."

"Of course you will," he agreed, and an instant later, the door closed behind him.

But more than once in the course of the morning, I was inclined to think that I had spoken too confidently. Mr. Graham, our senior partner, had broken down about a month before, under a stress of work which had been unusual, even for our office, and had been ordered away for a long vacation; one or two members of the office force had resigned to accept other positions, and the task of filling their places was one which required thought and care; so for the time being, we were extremely short-handed.

That morning, perversely enough, it seemed to me that the work piled up even more rapidly than usual, and it was not until the mellow chimes of Trinity, marking the noon hour, floated through the open window, that I succeeded in clearing away the most pressing portion of the morning's business, and leaned back in my chair with a sigh of satisfaction. That Marjoribanks case was now ours; Mr. Royce would approve....

No doubt, at this very moment, he was before the altar of the Elizabeth church, listening to the low responses. I had only to close my eyes to picture the scene—the dim, flower-decked interior; the handsomely-gowned, sympathetically-expectant audience; the bride, supremely beautiful in her veil and orange blossoms, her eyes downcast, the warm colour coming and going in her cheeks....

"Telegram, sir," said a voice, and I swung around to find the office-boy at my elbow. "For you, sir," he added.

I took the yellow envelope and tore it open absently, my mind still on the vision my fancy had conjured up. Then, as my eyes caught the words of the message, I sat bolt upright with a start. It read:

"Come to Elizabeth by first train. Don't fail us."

"Royce."