The Voice of the City
While
the Auto Waits
1,901
words
While
the Auto Waits
Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came again to that quiet
corner of that quiet, small park the girl in gray. She sat upon a bench
and read a book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which print
could be accomplished.
To repeat: Her dress was gray, and plain enough to mask its impeccancy
of style and fit. A large‑meshed veil imprisoned her turban hat and
a face that shone through it with a calm and unconscious beauty. She had
come there at the same hour on the day previous, and on the day before
that; and there was; one who knew it.
The young man who knew it hovered near, relying upon burnt
sacrifices to the great joss, Luck. His piety was rewarded, for, in
turning a page, her book slipped from her fingers and bounded from the
bench a full yard away.
The young man pounced upon it with instant avidity, returning it to
its owner with that air that seems to flourish in parks and public
places—a compound of gallantry and hope, tempered with respect for the
policeman on the beat. In a pleasant voice, he risked an in consequent
remark upon the weather—that introductory topic responsible for so
much of the world's unhappiness—and stood poised for a moment, awaiting his fate.
The girl looked him over leisurely; at his ordinary, neat dress and
his features distinguished by nothing particular in the way of expression.
"You may sit down, if you like," she said, in a full,
deliberate contralto. "Really, I would like to have you do so. The
light is too bad
for reading. I would prefer to talk."
The vassal of Luck slid upon the seat by her side with
complaisance. "Do you know," he said, speaking the formula with
which park chairmen open their
meetings, "that you are quite the stunningest girl I have seen in a
long time? I had my eye on you yesterday. Didn't know somebody was bowled
over by those pretty lamps of yours, did you, honeysuckle?"
"Whoever you are," said the girl, in icy tones, "you
must remember that I am a lady. I will excuse the remark you have just
made because the mistake was, doubtless, not an unnatural one—in your
circle. I asked you to sit down; if the invitation must constitute me your
honeysuckle, consider it withdrawn."
"I earnestly beg your pardon," pleaded the young man. His
expression of satisfaction had changed to one of penitence and humility.
"It was my fault, you know—I mean, there are girls in parks, you
know—that is, of course, you don't know, but -----"
"Abandon the subject, if you please. Of course I know. Now,
tell me about these people passing and crowding, each way, along these
paths. Where are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they happy? "
The young man had promptly abandoned his air of coquetry. His cue
was now for a waiting part; he could not guess the role he would be
expected to play.
"It is interesting to watch them, " he replied,
postulating her mood. "It is the wonderful drama of life. Some are
going to supper and some to—er—other places. One wonders what their
histories are."
"I do not," said the girl; "I am not so inquisitive.
I come here to sit because here, only, can I be near the great, common,
throbbing heart of humanity. My part in life is cast where its beats are
never felt. Can you surmise why l spoke to you, Mr. ?"
"Parkenstacker," supplied the young man. Then he looked
eager and hopeful.
"No, " said the girl, holding up a slender finger, and
smiling slightly. "You would recognize it immediately. It is
impossible to keep one's name out of print. Or even one's portrait. This
veil and this hat of my maid furnish me with an incog. You should have
seen the chauffeur stare at it when he thought I did not see. Candidly,
there are five or six names that belong in the holy of holies, and mine,
by the accident of birth, is one of them. I spoke to you, Mr. Stackenpot
"
"Parkenstacker," corrected the young man, modestly.
"—Mr. Parkenstacker, because I wanted to talk, for once,
with a natural man—one unspoiled by the despicable gloss of wealth and
supposed social superiority. Oh! you do not know how weary I am of
it—money, money, money! And of the men who surround me, dancing like
little marionettes all cut by the same pattern. I am sick of pleasure, of
jewels, of travel, of society, of luxuries of all kinds."
"I always had an idea," ventured the young man,
hesitatingly, "that money must be a pretty good thing."
"A competence is to be desired. But when you have so many
millions that ------- !" She
concluded the sentence with a gesture of despair. "It is the monotony
of it," she continued, "that palls. Drives, dinners, theatres,
balls, suppers, with the gilding of superfluous wealth over it all.
Sometimes the very tinkle of the ice in my champagne glass nearly drives
me mad."
Mr. Parkenstacker looked ingenuously interested.
"I have always liked," he said, "to read and hear
about the ways of wealthy and fashionable folks. I suppose I am a bit of a
snob. But I like to have my information accurate. Now, I had formed the
opinion that champagne is cooled in the bottle and not by placing ice in
the glass."
The girl gave a musical laugh of genuine amusement.
"You should know," she explained, in an indulgent tone,
"that we of the non-useful class depend for our amusement upon
departure from precedent. Just now it is a fad to put ice in champagne.
The I idea was originated by a visiting Prince of Tartary while dining at
the Waldorf. It will soon give some other whim. Just as at a dinner party
this week on Madison Avenue a green kid glove was laid by the plate of
each guest to be put on and used while eating olives."
"I see," admitted the young man, humbly. "These
special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar to the
common public. "
"Sometimes," continued the girl, acknowledging his
confession of error by a slight bow, "I have thought that if I ever
should love a man it would be one of lowly station. One who is a worker
and not a drone. But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth will prove
stronger than my inclination. Just now I am besieged by two. One is a
Grand Duke of a German principality. I think he has, or has had, a wife,
somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty. The other is an
English Marquis, so cold and mercenary that I even prefer the diabolism of
the Duke. What is it that impels me to tell you these things, Mr.
Packenstacker?"
"Parkenstacker," breathed the young man. "Indeed,
you cannot know how much I appreciate your confidences."
The girl contemplated him with a calm, impersonal regard that befitted the
difference in their stations.
"What is your line of business, Mr. Parkenstacker?" she
asked.
"A very humble one. But I hope to rise in the world. Were you
really in earnest when you said that you could love a man of lowly
position?"
"Indeed I was. But I said 'might.' There is the Grand Duke and
the Marquis, you know. Yes; no calling could be too humble were the man
what I would wish him to be "
"I work," declared Mr. Parkenstacker, "in a
restaurant."
The girl shrank slightly.
"Not as a waiter?" she said, a little imploringly.
"Labor is noble, but—personal attendance, you know—valets and
------------.”
"I am not a waiter. I am cashier in"—on the street they
faced that bounded the opposite side of the park was the brilliant
electric sign "RESTAURANT"—"I am cashier in that
restaurant you see there."
The girl consulted a tiny watch set in a bracelet of rich design
upon her left wrist, and rose, hurriedly. She thrust her book into a
glittering reticule suspended from her waist, for which, however, the book
was too large.
"Why
are you not at work?" she asked.
"I am on the night turn," said the young man; "it is
yet an hour before my period begins. May I not hope to see you
again?"
"I do not know. Perhaps—but the whim may not seize me again.
I must go quickly now. There is a dinner, and a box at the play— and,
oh! the same old round. Perhaps you noticed an automobile at the upper
corner of the park as you came. One with a white body."
"And red running gear?" asked the young man, knitting his
brows reflectively.
"Yes. I always come in that. Pierre waits for me there. He
supposes me to be shopping in the department store across the square.
Conceive of the bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our
chauffeurs. Goodnight."
"But it is dark now," said Mr. Parkenstacker, "and
the park is full of rude men. May I not walk—?"
"If you have the slightest regard for my wishes," said
the girl, firmly, "you will remain at this bench for ten minutes
after I have left. I do not mean to accuse you, but you are probably aware
that autos generally bear the monogram of their owner. Again, goodnight.
"
Swift and stately she moved away through the dusk. The young man
watched her graceful form as she reached the pavement at the park's edge,
and turned up along it toward the corner where stood the automobile. Then
he treacherously and unhesitatingly began to dodge and skim among the park
trees and shrubbery in a course parallel to her route, keeping her well in
sight.
When she reached the corner she turned her head to glance at the
motor car, and then passed it, continuing on across the street. Sheltered
behind a convenient standing cab, the young man followed her movements
closely with his eyes. Passing down the sidewalk of the street opposite
the park, she entered the restaurant with the blazing
sign. The
place was one of those frankly glaring establishments, all I white paint
and glass, where one may dine cheaply and conspicuously.
The girl penetrated the restaurant to some retreat at its rear,
whence she quickly emerged without her hat and veil.
The cashier's desk was well to the front. A red-haired girl on the
stool climbed down, glancing pointedly at the clock as she did so. The
girl in gray mounted in her place.
The young man thrust his hands into his pockets and walked slowly
back along the sidewalk. At the corner his foot struck a small, paper-covered
volume lying there, sending it sliding to the edge of the turf. By its
picturesque cover he recognized it as the book the girl had been reading.
He picked it up carelessly, and saw that its title was "New Arabian
Nights," the author being of the name of Stevenson. He dropped it
again upon the grass, and lounged, irresolute, for a minute. Then he
stepped into the automobile, reclined upon the cushions, and said two
words to the chauffeur:
"Club,
Henri."
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