The Wit and Humor of America Volume VIII Part 19

I had nothing to offer, and subsided for a s.p.a.ce.

"If we should not find him!"

"I'll sit on his front stoop all night.... Forgive me if I sound flippant; but I mean it." Snow was in the air, and I considered it a great sacrifice on my part to sit on a cold stone in the small morning hours. It looks flippant in print, too, but I honestly meant it. "I am sorry. You are in great trouble of some sort, I know; and there's nothing in the world I would not do to save you from this trouble. Let me take you home and continue the search alone. I'll find him if I have to search the whole town."

"We shall continue the search together,"--wearily.

What had she written to this other fellow? _Did_ she love some one else and was she afraid that I might learn who it was? My heart became as lead in my bosom. I simply could not lose this charming creature. And now, how was I ever to win her?

It was not far up town to the restaurant, and we made good time.

"Would you know him if you saw him?" she asked as we left the cab.

"Not the least doubt of it,"--confidently.

She sighed, and together we entered the restaurant. It was full of theater-going people, music and the hum of voices. We must have created a small sensation, wandering from table to table, from room to room, the girl with a look of dread and weariness on her face, and I with the Frenchman's hat grasped firmly in my hand and my brows scowling. If I hadn't been in love it would have been a fine comedy. Once I surprised her looking toward the corner table near the orchestra. How many joyous Sunday dinners we had had there! Heigh-ho!

"Is that he?" she whispered, clutching my arm of a sudden, her gaze directed to a near-by table.

I looked and shook my head.

"No; my Frenchman had a mustache and a goatee."

Her hand dropped listlessly. I confess to the thought that it must have been very trying for her. What a plucky girl she was! She held me in contempt, and yet she clung to me, patiently and unmurmuring. And I had lost her!

"We may have to go down town.... No! as I live, there he is now!"

"Where?" There was half a sob in her throat.

"The table by the short flight of stairs ... the man just lighting the cigarette. I'll go alone."

"But I can not stand here alone in the middle of the floor...."

I called a waiter. "Give this lady a chair for a moment;" and I dropped a coin in his palm. He bowed, and beckoned for her to follow.... Women are always writing fool things, and then moving Heaven and earth to recall them.

"Monsieur de Beausire?" I said.

Beausire glanced up.

"Oh, eet ees ... I forget zee name?"

I told him.

"I am delight'!" he cried joyfully, as if he had known me all my life.

"Zee chair; be seat'...."

"Thank you, but it's about the hats."

"Hats?"

"Yes. It seems that the hat I gave you belongs to another man. In your haste you did not notice the mistake. _This_ is your hat,"--producing the s.h.i.+ning tile.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he gasped, seizing the hat; "eet _ees_ mine! See! I bring heem from France; zee _nom_ ees mine. _V'la!_ And I nevaire look in zee uzzer hat! I am _pair_fickly dumfound'!" And his astonishment was genuine.

"Where is the other hat: the one I gave you?" I was in a great hurry.

"I have heem here," reaching to the vacant chair at his side, while the French consul eyed us both with some suspicion. We _might_ be lunatics.

Beausire handed me the benevolent old gentleman's hat, and the burden dropped from my shoulders. "Eet ees _such_ a meestake! I laugh; eh?" He shook with merriment. "I wear _two_ hats and not know zee meestake!"

I thanked him and made off as gracefully as I could. The girl rose as she saw me returning. When I reached her side she was standing with her slender body inclined toward me. She stretched forth a hand and solemnly I gave her Mr. Chittenden's hat. I wondered vaguely if anybody was looking at us, and, if so, what he thought of us.

The girl pulled the hat literally inside out in her eagerness; but her gloved fingers trembled so that the precious letter fluttered to the floor. We both stooped, but I was quicker. It was no attempt on my part to see the address; my act was one of common politeness. But I could not help seeing the name. It was my own!

"Give it to me!" she cried breathlessly.

I did so. I was not, at that particular moment, capable of doing anything else. I was too bewildered. My own name! She turned, hugging the hat, the legal doc.u.ments and the letter, and hurried down the main stairs, I at her heels.

"Tell the driver my address; I can return alone."

"I can not permit that," I objected decidedly. "The driver is a stranger to us both. I insist on seeing you to the door; after that you may rest a.s.sured that I shall no longer inflict upon you my presence, odious as it doubtless is to you."

As she was already in the cab and could not get out without aid, I climbed in beside her and called the street and number to the driver.

"Legally the letter is mine; it is addressed to me, and had pa.s.sed out of your keeping."

"You shall never, never have it!"--vehemently.

"It is not necessary that I should," I replied; "for I vaguely understand."

I saw that it was all over. There was now no reason why I should not speak my mind fully.

"I can understand without reading. You realized that your note was cruel and unlike anything you had done, and your good heart compelled you to write an apology; but your pride got the better of you, and upon second thought you concluded to let the unmerited hurt go on."

"Will you kindly stop, the driver, or shall I?"

"Does truth annoy you?"

"I decline to discuss truth with you. Will you stop the driver?"

"Not until we reach Seventy-first Street West."

"By what right--"

"The right of a man who loves you. There, it is out, and my pride has gone down the wind. After to-night I shall trouble you no further. But every man has the right to tell one woman that he loves her; and I love you. I loved you the moment I first laid eyes on you. I couldn't help it. I say this to you now because I perceive how futile it is. What dreams I have conjured up about you! Poor fool! When I was at work your face was always crossing the page or peering up from the margins. I never saw a fine painting that I did not think of you, or heard a fine piece of music that I did not think of your voice."

There was a long interval of silence; block after block went by. I never once looked at her.

"If I had been rich I should have put it to the touch some time ago; but my poverty seems to have been fortunate; it has saved me a refusal. In some way I have mortally offended you; how, I can not imagine. It can not be simply because I innocently broke an engagement."