Читать книгу Tales from Bohemia - Robert Neilson Stephens - Страница 4

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When Jack Morrow returned from the World's Fair, he found Philadelphia thermometers registering 95. The next afternoon he boarded a Chestnut Street car, got out at Front Street, hurried to the ferry station, and caught a just departing boat for Camden, and on arriving at the other side of the Delaware, made haste to find a seat in the well-filled express train bound for Atlantic City.

While he was being whirled across the level surface of New Jersey, past the cornfields and short stretches of green trees and restful cottage towns, he thought of the pleasure in store for him—the meeting with the young person whom he had gradually come to consider the loveliest girl in the world. Having neglected to read the list of “arrivals” in the newspapers, he knew not at what hotel she and her aunt were staying. But he would soon make the rounds of the large beach hotels, at one of which she was likely to be found.

She did not expect to see him. Therefore her first expression on beholding him would betray her feelings toward him, whatever they were. Should the indication be favourable, he would propose to her at the first opportunity, on beach, boardwalk, hotel piazza, pavilion, yacht or in the surf. Such were the meditations of Jack Morrow while the train roared across New Jersey to the sea.

The first sign of the flat green meadows, the smooth waters of the thoroughfare, the sails afar at the inlet and the long side of the sea-city stretching out against the sky at the very end of the earth is refreshing and exhilarating to any one. It gave a doubly keen enjoyment to Jack Morrow.

“Within an hour, perhaps,” he mused, as the reviving odour of the salt water touched his nostrils, “I shall see Edith.”

When with the crowd he had made his way out of the train, and traversed the long platform at the Atlantic City station, ignoring the stentorian solicitations of the 'bus drivers, he started walking toward the ocean promenade, invited by the glimpse of sea at the far end of the avenue. Thus he crossed that wide thoroughfare—Atlantic Avenue—with its shops and trolley-cars; passed picturesque hotels and cottages; crossed Pacific Avenue where carriages and dog-carts were being driven rapidly between the rows of pretty summer edifices, and traversed the famously long block that ends at the boardwalk and the strand.

He succeeded in getting a third-floor room on the ocean side of the first hotel where he applied. He learned from the clerk that Edith was not at this house. Sea air having revived his appetite, he decided to dine before setting out in search of her.

When, after his meal, he reached the boardwalk, the electric lights had already been turned on and the regular evening crowd of promenaders was beginning to form. He strolled along now looking at the beach and the sea, now at the boardwalk crowd where he might perhaps at any moment behold the face of “the loveliest girl in the world.” He beheld instead, as he approached the Tennessee pier, the face of his friend George Haddon.

“Hello, old boy!” exclaimed Morrow, grasping his friend's hand. “What are you doing here? I thought your affairs would keep you in New York all summer.”

“So they would,” replied Haddon, in a tone and with a look whose distress he made little effort to conceal. “But something happened.”

“Why, what on earth's the matter? You seem horribly downcast.”

Haddon was silent for a moment; then he said suddenly:

“I'll tell you all about it. I have to tell somebody or it will split my head. But come out on the pier, away from the noise of that merry-go-round organ.”

Neither spoke as the two young men passed through the concert pavilion and dancing hall out to a quieter part of the long pier. They sat near the railing and looked out over the sea, on which, as evening fell, the rippling band of moonlight grew more and more luminous. They could see, at the right, the long line of brilliant lights on the boardwalk, and the increasing army of promenaders. Detached from the furthest end of the line of boardwalk lights, shone those of distant Longport. Above these, the sky had turned from heliotrope to hues dark and indefinable, but indescribably beautiful. Down on the beach were only a few people, strolling near the tide line, a carriage, a man on horseback, and three frolicking dogs.

“It's simply this,” abruptly began Haddon. “Six weeks ago I was married to—”

“Why, I never heard of it. Let me congrat—”

“No, don't, I was married to a comic opera singer, named Lulu Ray. I don't suppose you've ever heard of her, for she was only recently promoted from the chorus to fill small parts. We took a flat, and lived happily on the whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels as might be expected. Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back. Since then I haven't been able to find her in New York or at any of the resorts along the Jersey coast. I suppose she was offended at something I said during a quarrel that grew out of my insisting on our staying in New York all summer. Knowing her liking for Atlantic City—she was a Philadelphia girl before she went on the stage—I came here at once to hunt her up and apologize and agree to her terms.”

“Well?”

“Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she is.”

“I suppose you're very fond of her still?”

“Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to have a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her whereabouts unknown.”

Morrow was on the point of saying: “Or perhaps with some other man,” but he checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from attempting to reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or to advise him as to what to do. He knew that in merely letting Haddon unburden on him the cause of anxiety, he had done all that Haddon would expect from any friend.

He limited himself, therefore, to reminding Haddon that all men have their annoyances in this life; to treating the woman's offence as light and commonplace, and to cheering him up by making him join in seeing the sights of the boardwalk.

They looked on at the pier hop, while Professor Willard's musicians played popular tunes; returned to the boardwalk and watched the pretty girls leaning against the wooden beasts on the merry-go-round while the organ screamed forth, “Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow Wow;” experienced that not very illusive illusion known as “The Trip to Chicago;” were borne aloft on an observation wheel; made the rapid transit of the toboggan slide, visited the phonographs and heard a shrill reproduction of “Molly and I and the Baby;” tried the slow and monotonous ride on the “Figure Eight,” and the swift and varied one on the switchback. They bought saltwater taffy and ate it as they passed down the boardwalk and looked at the moonlight. Down on the Bowery-like part of the boardwalk they devoured hot sausages, and in a long pavilion drank passable beer and saw a fair variety show. Thence they left the boardwalk, walked to Atlantic Avenue and mounted a car that bore them to Shauffler's, where among light-hearted beer drinkers they heard the band play “Sousa's Cadet March” and “After the Ball,” and so they arrived at midnight.

All this was beneficial to Haddon and pleasant enough in itself, but it prevented Morrow that night from prosecuting his search for the loveliest girl in the world. He postponed the search to the next day. And when that time came, after Haddon had started for New York, occurred an event that caused Morrow to postpone the search still further.

He had decided to go up the boardwalk on the chance of seeing Edith in a pavilion or on the beach. If he should reach the vicinity of the lighthouse without finding her, he would turn back and inquire at every hotel near the beach until he should obtain news of her.

He had reached Pennsylvania Avenue when he was attracted by the white tents that here dotted the wide beach. He went down the high flight of steps from the boardwalk to rest awhile in the shade of one of the tents.

Although it was not yet 11 o'clock, several people in bathing suits were making for the sea. A little goat wagon with children aboard was passing the tents, and after it came the cart of the “hokey-pokey” peddler, drawn by a donkey that wore without complaint a decorated straw bathing hat. Morrow, looking at the feet of the donkey, saw in the sand something that shone in the sunlight. He picked it up and found that it was a gold bracelet studded with diamonds.

He questioned every near-by person without finding the owner. He therefore put the bracelet in his pocket, intending to advertise it. Then he resumed his stroll up the boardwalk. He went past the lighthouse and turned back.

He had reached the Tennessee Avenue pier without having found the loveliest girl in the world. His eye caught a small card that had just been tacked up at the pier entrance. Approaching it he read:

“Lost—On the beach between Virginia and South Carolina Avenues, a gold bracelet with seven diamonds. A liberal reward will be paid for its recovery at the —— Hotel.”

The hotel named was the one at which Morrow was staying. He hurried thither.

“Who lost the diamond bracelet?” he asked the clerk.

“That young lady standing near the elevator. Miss Hunt, I think her name is,” said the clerk consulting the register. “Yes, that's it, she only arrived last night.”

Morrow saw standing near the elevator door, a lithe, well-rounded girl with brown hair and great gray eyes that were fixed on him. She was in the regulation summer-girl attire—blue Eton suit, pink shirtwaist, sailor hat, and russet shoes. He hastened to her.

“Miss Hunt, I have the honour to return your bracelet.”

She opened her lips and eyes with pleasurable surprise and reached somewhat eagerly for the piece of jewelry.

“Thank you ever so much. I took a walk on the beach just after breakfast and dropped it somewhere. It's too large.”

“I picked it up near Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a curious coincidence that it should be found by some one stopping at the same hotel. But, pardon me, you're going away without mentioning the reward.”

She looked at him with some surprise, until she discovered that he was jesting. Then she smiled a smile that gave Morrow quite a pleasant thrill, and said, with some tenderness of tone:

“Let the reward be what you please.”

“And that will be to do what you shall please to have me do.”

“Ah, that's nice. Then I accept your services at once. I am quite alone here; haven't any acquaintances in the hotel. I want to go bathing and I'm rather timid about going alone, although I'd made up my mind to do so and was just going up after my bathing suit.”

“Then I am to have the happiness of escorting you into the surf.”

They went bathing together not far from where he had found the bracelet. He discovered that she could swim as well as he; also that in her dark blue bathing costume, with sailor collar and narrow white braid, she was a most shapely person.

She laughed frequently while they were breasting the breakers; and afterwards, as in their street attire they were returning on the boardwalk, she chatted brightly with him, revealing a certain cleverness in off-hand persiflage.

He took her into the tent behind the observation wheel to see the Egyptian exhibition, and she was good enough to laugh at his jokes about the mummies, although the mummies did not seem to interest her. Further down the boardwalk they stopped at the Japanese exhibition, and on the way out he caught himself saying that if it were possible, he would take great pleasure in hauling her in a jinrikisha.

“I'll remember that promise and make you push me in a wheel-chair,” she answered.

When they were back at the hotel, she turned suddenly and said:

“By the way, what's your name? Mine's Clara Hunt.”

He told her, and while she went up the elevator with her bathing suit, he arranged with the head waiter to have himself seated at her table.

He learned from the clerk that she had arrived alone with a letter of introduction from a former guest of the house, and intended to stay at least a fortnight.

At luncheon he proposed that they should take a sail in the afternoon. She said, with a smile:

“As it is you who invites me, I'll give up my nap and go.”

They rode in a 'bus to the Inlet, and after spending half an hour drinking beer and listening to the band on the pavilion, they hired a skipper to take them out in his catboat. Six miles out the boat pitched considerably and Miss Hunt increased her hold on Morrow's admiration by not becoming seasick. At his suggestion they cast out lines for bluefish. She borrowed mittens from the captain and pulled in four fish in quick succession.

“What an athletic woman you are,” said Morrow.

“Yes, indeed.”

“In fact, everything that's charming,” he continued.

She replied softly: “Don't say that unless you mean it. It pleases me too much, coming from you.”

Morrow mused: “Here's a girl who is frank enough to say so when she likes a fellow. It makes her all the more fascinating, too. Some women would make me very tired throwing themselves at me this way. But it is different with her.”

They gave the fish to the captain and returned from the Inlet by the Atlantic Avenue trolley, just in time for dinner. She did not lament her lack of opportunity to change her clothes for dinner, nor did she complain about the coat of sunburn she had acquired.

In the evening, they sat together for a time on the pier, took a turn together at one of the waltzes, although neither cared much for dancing at this time of year, walked up the boardwalk and compared the moon with the high beacon light of the lighthouse.

He bought her marshmallows at a confectioner's booth, a fan at a Japanese store, and a queer oriental paper cutter at a Turkish bazaar. They took two switchback rides, during which he was compelled to put his arm around her. Finally, reluctant to end the evening, they stood for some minutes leaning against the boardwalk railing, listening to the moan of the sea and watching the shaft of moonlight stretching from beach to horizon.

It was not until he was alone in his room that Morrow bethought of his neglect of the loveliest girl in the world. And remorseful as he was, he did not form any distinct intention of resuming his search for her the next day. He rather congratulated himself on not having met her while he was with this enchanting Clara Hunt.

And he passed next day also with the enchanting Clara Hunt. They sat on the piazza together reading different parts of the same newspaper for an hour after breakfast; went to the boardwalk and turned in at a shuffle-board hall, where they spent another hour making the weights slide along the sanded board and then took another ocean bath.

After luncheon they walked up the boardwalk to the iron pier.

Seeing the lifeboat there, rising and falling in the waves, Clara asked:

“Would the lifeguard take us in his boat for a while, I wonder?”

Morrow went down to the beach and shouted to the lifeguard, who was none other than the robust and stentorian Captain Clark. The captain brought the boat ashore and as there were no bathers in the water at this point, he agreed to row the young people out to the end of the pier.

“This is a great place for brides and grooms this summer,” remarked the captain in his frank and jocular way.

Clara looked at Morrow with a blush and a laugh. Morrow was pleased at seeing that she seemed not displeased.

“We're not married,” said Morrow to the captain.

“Not yet, mebbe,” said the captain with one of his significant winks, and then he gave vent to loud and long laughter.

That evening Morrow and Clara took the steamer trip from the Inlet to Brigantine and the ride on the electric car along flat and sandy Brigantine beach. On the return, they became very sentimental. They decided to walk all the way from the Inlet down the boardwalk. He found himself quite oblivious to the crowd of promenaders. The loveliest girl in the world might have passed him a dozen times without attracting his attention. He had eyes and ears for none but Clara Hunt.

And that night, far from reproaching himself for his conduct toward the loveliest girl, etc., he hardly thought of her at all, more than to wonder by what good fortune he had avoided meeting her. Some of the people at their hotel made the same mistake regarding Morrow and Clara as Captain Clark had made; the two were seen constantly together. Others thought they were engaged.

Morrow spoke of this to her next morning as they were being whirled down to Longport on a trolley car along miles of smooth beach and stunted distorted pine trees. “I heard a woman on the piazza whisper that I was your fiancé,” he said.

“Well, what if you were—I mean what if she did?”

At Longport they took the steamer for Ocean City. They rode through that quiet place of trees and cottages on the electric car, returning to the landing just in time to miss the 11.50 boat for Longport. They had to wait an hour and a half and they were the only people there who were not bored by the delay. They returned by way of Somers' Point.

While the boat was gliding through the sunlit waters of Great Egg Harbour Inlet, Clara's hand happened to fall on Morrow's, which was resting on the gunwale. She let her hand remain there. Morrow looked at it, and then at her face. She smiled. When the Italian violin player on the boat came that way, Morrow gave him a dollar. Alas for the loveliest girl in the world!

They passed most of that evening in a boardwalk pavilion, ostensibly watching the sea and the crowd. They went up the thoroughfare in a catboat the next morning, and, strange as it seemed to them, were the only people out who caught no fish. The captain winked at his mate, who grinned.

In the afternoon, while Morrow and Clara stood on the boardwalk looking down at the Salvation Army tent, along came that innocent eccentric “Professor” Walters in bathing costume and with his swimming machine. The tall, lean whiskered, loquacious “Professor” had made Morrow's acquaintance in a former summer and now greeted him politely.

“How d'ye do?” said the “Professor.” “Glad to see you here. You turn up every year.”

“You're still given to rhyming,” commented Morrow.

“Yes, I have a rhyme for every time, in pleasure or sorrow. Is this Mrs. Morrow?”

“No.”

“You ought to be sorry she isn't,” remarked the “Professor,” taking his departure.

Morrow and Clara walked on in silence. At last he said somewhat nervously:

“Everybody thinks we're married. Why shouldn't we be?”

She answered softly, with downcast eyes:

“I would be willing if I were sure of one thing.”

“What's that?”

“That you have never loved any other woman. Have you?”

“How can you ask? Believe me, you are the only girl I have ever loved.”

That evening, after dinner, Morrow and Clara, the newly affianced, about starting from the hotel to the boardwalk, were at the top of the hotel steps when a man appeared at the bottom.

Morrow uttered a cry of recognition.

“Why, Haddon, old boy, I'm glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my wife that is to be.”

Haddon stood still and stared. Clara, too, remained motionless. After a moment, Haddon said very quietly:

“You're mistaken. Let me introduce you to my wife that is.”

Morrow looked at Clara. She turned her gray eyes fearlessly on Haddon.

“You, too, are mistaken,” she said. “I had a husband before you married me. He's my husband still. He's doing a song and dance act in a variety theatre in Chicago. I'm sorry about all this, Mr. Morrow. I really like you. Good-bye.”

She ran back into the hotel and arranged to make her departure on an early train next morning.

Haddon turned toward the boardwalk, and Morrow, quite dazed, involuntarily followed him. After a period of silence, Morrow said:

“This is astonishing. A bigamist, and a would-be trigamist. She came here the night before you left. How did you find out she was here?”

“I read it in the Atlantic City letter of The Philadelphia Press that one of the Comic Opera singers daily seen on the boardwalk is Miss Clara Hunt, who is known to theatre-goers by her stage name, Lulu Ray. These newspaper correspondents know some of the obscurest people. If I had told you her real name, you would have known who she was in time to have avoided being taken in by her.”

“Her having another husband lets you out.”

“Yes. I'm glad and sorry, for damn it, I was fond of the girl. Excuse me awhile, old fellow. I want to go on the pier and think awhile.”

Haddon went out on the pier and looked down on the incoming waves and thought awhile. He found it a disconsolate occupation, even with a cigar to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd on the boardwalk and tried to forget her.

Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched. Looking around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the world.

“Well, by Jove, Edith,” he said. “At last I've found you!”

“Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for the last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura.”

Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he proposed to her on the pier.

“I will say yes,” she replied, “if you can give me your assurance that you've never been in love with any one else.”

“That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever loved.”