Part 9 (1/2)
”Oh!” he took it up. ”A wardrobe-trunk. Rather a small house for you to develop your individuality in, very freely, I should say!”
”Yes, but at least nothing hangs within its walls but of my own choosing.”
”And it's convenient for house-cleaning, too,” he followed it up. ”But see here, is there room for two in it, because I was just going to ask to call.”
”I usually entertain my callers in the garden,” I primly announced.
”How delightful! I much prefer gardens.” And we laughed again. ”Which way?” he abruptly inquired. ”Which way to your garden, please?” We had come to a crossing. I stopped, and he beside me.
”Why, I'm sure I don't know!” Nothing about me looked familiar. ”These winding streets of yours! I'm afraid I'm lost,” I confessed. ”You'll have to put me on a car--a Greene Hill Avenue car. I know my way alone then. At least I believe it's a Greene Hill Avenue car. They've just moved there--my sister. Perhaps you know her--Mrs. William Maynard.”
”Lucy Maynard!” he exclaimed. ”I should say I did! Are you--why, are you her sister?”
He had heard about me then! Of course. How cruel!
”Yes. Why?” I managed to inquire.
”Oh, nothing. Only I've met you,” he brought out triumphantly. ”I met you at dinner, two or three years ago--at your sister's house. We're old friends,” he said.
”Are we?” I asked in wonder. ”Are we old friends?” I wanted to add, ”How nice!”
He looked so steady and substantial, standing there--so kind and understanding. Any one would prize him for an old friend. I gazed up at him. The drifting mist had covered his broad chest and shoulders with a glistening veil of white. It shone like frost on the nap of his soft felt hat. It sparkled on his eyebrows and the lashes of his fine eyes.
”How nice,” I wanted to add. But a desire not to flirt with this man honestly possessed me. Besides I must remember I was tired of men. I wanted nothing of any of them. So instead I said, ”Well, then, you know what car I need to take.”
He ignored my remark.
”You had on a yellow dress--let's walk along--and wore purple pansies, fresh ones, although it was mid-winter. I remember it distinctly. But a hat and a raincoat today make you look different, and I couldn't get near enough to you in the woods. I remember there was a medical friend of your sister's husband there that night, and Will and he monopolized the conversation. I hardly spoke to you; but tell me, didn't you wear pansies with a yellow dress one night at your sister's?”
”Jennings? Are you Bob Jennings?” (Lucy's Bob Jennings! I remembered now--a teacher of English at the University.) ”Of course,” I exclaimed, ”I recall you now. I remember that night perfectly. When you came into my sister's living-room, looking so--so unprofessor-like--I thought to myself, 'How nice for me; Professor Jennings couldn't come; she's got one of the students to take his place--some one nice and easy and my size.' I wondered if you were on the football team or crew, and it crossed my mind what a perfect shame it was to drag a man like you away from a dance in town, perhaps, to a stupid dinner with one of the faculty. And then you began to talk with Will about--what was it--Chaucer? Anyhow something terrifying, and I knew then that you _were_ Professor Jennings after all.”
”Oh, but I wasn't. I was just an a.s.sistant. I'm not a professor even yet. Never shall be either--the G.o.ds willing. I'm trying hard to be a lawyer. Circuitous route, I confess. But you know automobile guide-books often advise the longer and smoother road. Do you mind walking? It isn't far, and the cars are crowded.”
We walked.
”I suppose,” I remarked a little later, ”trying hard to become a lawyer is what keeps your life from being a vacuum.”
”Yes, that, and a little white-haired lady I call my mother,” he added gallantly.
”Do you want to know what keeps my life from being a vacuum?” I abruptly asked.
”Of course I do!”
”Well, then--a little brown Boston terrier whom I call Dandy,” I announced.
He laughed as if it was a joke. ”What nonsense! Your sister has told me quite a lot about you, Miss Vars, one time and another; that you write verse a little, for instance. Any one who can create is able to fill all the empty corners of his life. You know that as well as I do.”
I considered this new idea in silence for a moment. We turned in at Lucy's street.
”How long shall you be here, Miss Vars?” asked Mr. Jennings. ”And, seriously, may I call some evening?”
How could I refuse such a friendly and straightforward request?
”Why, yes,” I heard myself saying, man though he was, ”I suppose so. I should be glad, only----”