Part 88

Such an effort it was to say that!

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” said she.

“What?” cried Gunnar. “If I’m sorry?”

“No!” said Ingeborg.

It was like a blow to him. He could not speak for a time. He had humbled himself again, and still she was cold and stern--and still so dear to him!

“She’s right!” he cried, in his heart. “If she knew--”

Suppose she did know? He was ready to believe that her clear and innocent glance had a terrible penetration. He could not understand her. Perhaps, in some way of her own, she did know all the wrong things he had done.

“Ingeborg!” he cried. “I--I’m sorry I did that! I--”

Despair and pain choked him. In his blind need for her kindness, he came close to her, sat down on the step below her, and buried his head in his hands.

“If you would marry me, Ingeborg,” he said, “then I’d be different!”

“Marry you?” she said. “Do you think I am like that? Do you think I would marry the first man who comes along? Why, I don’t even know you, Gunnar Jespersen!”

“Ingeborg!” he said.

And that was all he could say. He could not tell her what he meant--that for her sake he would give up all his pride, that for her sake he was sick and ashamed. All he could do was to speak her name.

She made no answer. He waited and waited for even one word, but in vain.

“Are you--mad at me, Ingeborg?” he asked unsteadily.

“No,” replied Ingeborg quietly.

He sat up abruptly.

“I think I’ll--lose my job,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have to go away.” He thought that somehow she would understand all that he meant by that, all that he renounced. “If I have to go away somewhere, to get a job,” he went on, “promise not to marry some other fellow!”

“I don’t want to marry any one, Gunnar Jespersen.”

“Just promise to wait!”

“No!” she said; but her voice was not cold now.

“Ingeborg!” he cried. “Do you like me?”

“I don’t know you, Gunnar Jespersen,” said Ingeborg with dignity.

He rose, chilled and hopeless.

“Well,” he said, “I’m going.”

Her clear little voice came to him through the dark:

“Maybe I will like you when I know you, Gunnar Jespersen!”

He spun around. She had risen, and was standing close to him. He put out his hand, but she drew back, and his arm fell to his side. He must not touch her. He must wait. She had given him hope, and that was all.

And it was enough. He had found at last the beloved maiden who must be won. It would be hard, but it was good; it was what he wanted. It was a challenge worthy of him.

“All right!” he said. “You’ll see!”

He ran down the stairs again, and his heart was light now. He was so proud of the little Ingeborg who made him wait!

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

AUGUST, 1927 Vol. XCI NUMBER 3

By the Light of Day

THE STORY OF A MAN WHO WANTED LIFE TO BRING HIM SOMETHING MUCH FINER AND BETTER THAN THE COMMONPLACE THINGS IT BRINGS TO OTHER MEN

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Kirby lay stretched out on the sand, watching the driftwood fire he had built. The flame mounted steadily, this quiet night, sending out over the dark water a trembling path of ruddy light. Now and then a little rain of sparks fell, to die at once in the thick sand; and overhead a young moon swam, clear silver, in a sky without clouds.

He might have been alone on a desert island. Before him lay the calm summer sea, and all about him stretched the flat and empty beach. He liked this blank solitude--indeed, he needed it.

The tiny thread of smoke from his cigarette rose beside the column of smoke from the fire, like a sturdily independent spirit. His thoughts, too, were aloof, detached from the insistent current of other people’s thoughts.

He had received a substantial rise in salary that morning.

“Now you ought to think about getting married,” his sister had said, not for the first time.

He was thinking about it, but in a way that would have dismayed her. She was always introducing him to “nice girls,” and growing a little annoyed with him because of his indifference.

“I don’t see what fault you can find with _her_!” she would say, as if one of the “nice girls” was as good as another; and, in her heart, that was what she did think. She wanted only to see Kirby married and in a home of his own.

He kept his own counsel, for it was no use trying to tell his sister. Let her go on trying to snare him, to capture him, to bind him tight to the life that he so utterly rejected! He had seen it happen to other fellows he knew. He had watched them fall in love, get married, and set up homes of their own, and had seen them grow harassed, preoccupied, sometimes bitter. There was his brother-in-law, for instance, complaining about the bills, talking of giving up his club, guilty and apologetic if he came in late. It was supposed to be comic, all this sort of thing, but Kirby did not see it so.

“If there’s nothing better than that--” he thought.

When he was younger he had been sure that there was something better. In books, in operas, in plays, he had caught the echo of a sublime thing, and he had believed that it was every man’s birthright--a love passionate and honest and beyond measure generous. He had meant to wait for it; but, as he grew older, his faith died.

He did not see any such thing in actual life. He saw, instead, love that began beautifully and honestly, but ended in a suburban home and a thousand ignoble worries; and he would have none of that. If there was nothing better, then he would do without. He was doing well in business, and he would keep on doing better and better, and that would have to be enough.

He threw away his cigarette, clasped his hands under his head, and lay looking at the stars. Here on this beach, as a boy, he had played intensely serious games of Indians and pirates, always with a fire like this. Even now he could recapture something of the old thrill of wonder and expectancy, the feeling he had had that marvelous things were surely going to happen.

Well, they never had. Here he was, twenty-six, and assistant manager of the accounting department of a machine belting company; a quiet, competent young fellow with an air of businesslike reserve that disguised the moods of his exacting and sensitive spirit. He went to the office every day, he worked, he came home, he met those “nice girls.” He talked to them and danced with them, and sometimes made love to them a little, out of politeness; and that was all there was.

And it wasn’t enough. Out here, in the summer night, his restlessness grew intolerable. He wanted so much more--something stirring and lovely, something that would give to his work and his life a fine significance. So much more!

“I’d better go back now,” he thought, and tried to pretend that this was a concession to his sister. But it was not; it was because he had grown too lonely. He got up, and was about to kick out the fire, to scatter it and stamp it out, when, far down the beach, he saw a little white figure coming toward him.

He stood still, curiously intent. He had grown to think that this was his own private territory, for hardly any one else came here, especially after dark; yet here was this little thing coming on resolutely.

It was a girl in a white dress--he could see that now. Her step made no sound upon the sand. There was no breeze to flutter her skirts. She was like a wraith, silent and dim.

Then, to his surprise, she turned directly toward him. There was a rise in the beach here, up from the edge of the sea, and she mounted it briskly.

“Excuse me,” she said, in a serious little voice. “I just wanted to see the time.”

Stretching out her arm toward the fire, she looked at her wrist watch.

“You’ll have to come nearer,” Kirby told her. “I’m sorry, but mine’s stopped.”

But she stood where she was.

“I saw your fire,” she said. “I’ve been watching it as I came along. I do love fires on a beach!”

“Yes?” returned Kirby vaguely.

Her confident and friendly manner disconcerted him. He had never encountered a girl like this. There was something unreal about her, walking out of the dark, up to his fire, and beginning at once to talk to him, as if she knew and trusted him.

“Won’t you sit down for a little while?” he asked, a little doubtfully.

“Thank you,” she answered promptly, and, coming nearer, sat down on the sand, facing the sea.

“She ought to know better,” thought Kirby. “She can’t know what sort of fellow I might be.”

He stood behind her, looking down at her. The firelight behind her threw her slight figure, sitting with her hands clasped about her knees, into sharp relief, but her face he could not see at all.

“Do you know,” she said earnestly, “that pirates used to come here?”

“Pirates?” he echoed.

“Yes!” she said. “I read about it in a book from the library; and last summer I _think_ I found a pirate’s earring. Auntie said it was a curtain ring, but perhaps it wasn’t.”

An odd thrill ran through Kirby. Pirates! Easy to imagine them, on just such a night as this, landing in the cove below the rocks--swarthy, evil men, creeping up inch by inch, with knives between their teeth. They would leap upon him suddenly; there would be a desperate fight in the glare of the fire. Then the pirate chief would carry away the girl, and Kirby, the hero, would somehow escape from his bonds and swim after them, and save her.

She would know exactly how to behave in such circumstances, he felt sure. He felt sure, too, that if he were to suggest that they should “make believe” there were pirates here, she would immediately and seriously agree. She was like a little girl, like some playmate from his lost youth. In some queer way of her own she evoked for him the glamour of childhood--she and her pirate’s earring!

He sat down beside her, and they began to talk. It no longer seemed to him a foolish and imprudent thing that she should have come to him like this. She had the unthinking independence that children have. She would go where she chose, and, if she was startled or distrustful, she would run away.

It made him happy that she should be here, this friendly little thing with her pretty voice.

“The fire’s getting low!” she cried.

Springing up, she gathered an armful of wood to put on it. So did he, and they stood side by side, throwing in the sticks with nice care. The flames leaped up, and he saw her face--a small, pointed face framed in dark hair, which floated in silky threads, and lit up by big, shining dark eyes. It was like a face in a dream, so lovely that it almost took his breath away.

She sat down again, her head a little turned away from the blaze, and he could no longer see her face; but he remembered it. It was there before him in the dark, in all its vivid loveliness. He could not think of her as a playmate now. The magic evocation of childhood was gone; he was a man, and she was a young and beautiful woman. His content, his happiness, had vanished. He was troubled, almost dismayed.

“I’ve never seen any one like her!” he thought. “I didn’t know there _was_ any one like her; and for her to come to me like this!”

After all, wasn’t it what he had been waiting for, just this glimpse of a lovely face, this clear and steady little voice in the dark, this utterly unexpected encounter in the firelight on the lonely beach?

She was still talking to him, with a sort of eagerness, but he scarcely listened now. It seemed to him that her voice had changed. Indeed, he could not hear or see her now. The fire was dying down, and she was no more than a little silhouette against the starlit sky; but in her place there was another--some one very beautiful and almost august, like the young Diana come to earth. The innocence and candor of her were sublime; she was fearless, of course, just as she was beautiful.

Kirby did not realize how long he had been silent, when she stopped speaking. Her voice still echoed in his ears, blended with the whisper of the sea. He sat beside her, lost in a reverie.

“This is how it ought to be,” he thought. “This is just right--to have her come to me like this, and for her to _be_ like this!”

He was roused by her getting up.

“I’ll have to be going,” she said.

“No!” said Kirby, rising, too. “Please don’t!”

“But it’s late.”

She turned toward him, and he had another glimpse of her face and her shining, solemn dark eyes.

“Please don’t!” he repeated.

“But, you see, I’ve got to,” she explained. “I promised I’d be home by nine o’clock.”

“I’ll walk home with you.”

“But--” she began. “I--I’d like you to, only--I think you’d better not, please.” Then, as he was silent, she added, in distress: “I’m sorry--really I am,” and held out her hand.

He took it. He might have known, by the clasp of that warm and sturdy little hand, that this was no goddess Diana whose feet were on the hilltops; but he would not know it. His heart beat fast, and his fingers tightened on hers.

“You’ll let me see you again?” he said.

“Oh, yes!” she replied. “Yes, of course! Some other evening--but I’ve got to go now. Good night!”

She tried to draw her hand away, but he held it fast.

“Look here!” he said. “You can’t go like this! I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Emmy--Emmy Richards,” she told him.

“Mine’s Alan Kirby. You’ll let me come to see you?”

“Well, you see,” she said, “I can’t very well. I’m just visiting here.”

“Then meet me somewhere.”

She stood before him with her head bent. The fire was almost out, and it seemed to him that the world had grown dark and very still and a little desolate. It was as if something had gone--some warm and living presence. In his heart he was vaguely aware of what had happened. It was the dear, jolly little playmate who had gone, taking with her the innocent glamour of this hour, driven away by the note of ardor in his voice.

He was sorry and uneasy, but he would not stop.

“Won’t you give me a chance?” he asked. “Let me see you again!”

“I will,” she promised. “I’ll come here again--some other evening--like this!”

He understood very well what she meant. She wanted to recapture the vanished charm, to come again in the same happy and careless way, to talk by the fire again; but he would not have it so.

“Look here!” he said. “Will you let me take you out to dinner to-morrow?”

She did not answer, but stood there with her head averted; and a fear seized him that was like anger.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he said curtly. “If you don’t want to see me again--”

“Well, I--I do!” she cried unsteadily. “Only--”

He would go on.

“Then come to dinner with me to-morrow!”

“Oh, let’s not!” she cried. “I never go out to dinner--with people.”

He smiled to himself at that, yet it hurt him. Poor little playmate, so reluctant to leave her world of make-believe!

“Just with me?” he urged, coming close to her.

“Well, all right!” she said suddenly, with a sort of desperation. “All right, then--I will!”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Pennsylvania Station--Long Island waiting room--at six?”

She drew her hand away.

“All right!” she said again. “Good night!”

“Good night!” he answered.

II

He stood beside what was left of his fire and watched her walking away, a swift, light little figure against so vast a horizon; and he felt very unhappy.

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?” he asked himself angrily. “It’s no crime to ask a girl out to dinner, is it?”

He stamped out the last sparks and set off for his sister’s house. He was surprised, when he drew near, to hear the phonograph still playing. It seemed to him that he had been gone so long, so far!

He crossed the lawn, went up on the veranda, and looked in at the window. They were still dancing in there. He saw that pretty little blond girl in her short, sleeveless white satin frock. There came before him the face of that other girl, seen only for a brief instant in the firelight--that little dark face with shining eyes.

“I love her!” he thought, with a sort of awe. “She’s the girl I’ve always been waiting for. Emmy--little darling, wonderful Emmy--I love her!”

He could not endure to go in, to dance, to speak to any one else. He stayed out there in the dark garden, walking up and down, smoking, cherishing his dear vision.

After awhile the two girls who had been dancing, and whom his sister had invited specially on his account, came out, with two young fellows. Kirby stepped back into the shadow of the trees and waited until they had driven off, until he could no longer hear their gay voices.

He compared these girls with Emmy. _She_ wore no paint or powder; he had not seen her dancing in a hot and brilliant room. She belonged to another world--a world of sea and open sky and firelight. She was a creature with the free, fearless innocence of the Golden Age.

“I love her so!” he thought.

Nearly all of that long summer night he walked there in the garden, profoundly stirred by the great thing that had overtaken him. Before him was always the vision of her lovely face, filling his heart with tenderness and a troubled delight.

“I’m not good enough for her,” he thought.

Without realizing it, he began to forget that he had smiled to himself at the dear, funny things she had said, to forget what a little young thing she was. What was in his mind now was a sort of goddess, beautifully kind, but austere and aloof--a woman to be worshiped. His humility was honest and fine and touching, but it was cruel, because there was no goddess girl like that. There was only little Emmy Richards, who was nineteen, and altogether human and liable to error.

He let himself into the house quietly, so that no one heard him. He did not want to talk to any one.

When he came downstairs the next morning, he was still anxious for silence, but his sister was not disposed to humor him.

“Where did you go last night?” she demanded.

How was he to answer that? He had gone into an enchanted world, and he had found his beloved!

“I took a walk along the beach,” he said, briefly.

“A walk!” she cried. “You come here to visit me, and I ask people in to meet you, and you go off, without a word, and take a walk! I never heard of anything so selfish and hateful!”

Her indignation took him by surprise. It seemed to him the most preposterous thing that she should blame him for being with Emmy.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though he really wasn’t, and his sister knew it; but, looking at him, she saw that he was tired and troubled, and she held her tongue.

* * * * *

Kirby’s work suffered that day because of his preoccupation with the problem of the evening before him. He was determined to offer something at least a little worthy of her. He had taken other girls out to dinner, but this was beyond measure different.

At last he thought of a restaurant he had seen advertised--a quiet, dignified place; and he went there, engaged a table, and ordered a wonderful little dinner. All the rest of the day he imagined how it was going to be, he and Emmy sitting at that table, softly lit by candles. He knew what he was going to say to her, and how she would look at him, with her shining, solemn eyes.

He came early to the waiting room and walked up and down, restless and anxious.

“She didn’t want to come,” he thought. “Perhaps she didn’t like me.”

A pretty girl sitting on one of the benches smiled at him, but he looked past her. Ten minutes late now! Of course, other girls were usually late, but Emmy was different--utterly different. He remembered her now with a sort of amazement--the innocent beauty of her face, the almost incredible charm of her dear friendliness.

“No one like her!” he thought.

And that was true. There was not, and never could be, any girl like the one that he, in his ardent, imperious young heart, had invented.

Suppose she didn’t come at all?

“I’ll find her!” he thought. “I know her name, and I’ll find her. I won’t lose her!”

He glanced around the waiting room again, and again he met the eyes of the pretty girl who had smiled at him before. No denying that she was pretty, but he was sternly uninterested. Let her smile!

This time, though, she rose from her seat, and made a step in his direction.

“She’ll ask me some question about a train,” thought Kirby.

He was a good-looking young fellow, and this sort of thing had happened to him before. At another time he might perhaps have been a little less severe. She was very pretty--a tall, slender girl in a very short frock, with a red hat pulled down over one eye. Her piquant little face was rouged and powdered. Kirby might have seen a sort of debonair charm about her, if he had not had in his heart the image of another face, so honest, so unspoiled, so very different!

He walked the length of the room, and when he came back he passed quite close to her. She smiled again--a tremulous, miserable, forlorn little smile. He stopped and stared at her.

“Look here!” he said. “_You’re_ not--are _you_--Miss Richards?”

“Yes, I am,” she replied in a defiant and unsteady voice.

He could not speak for a moment, so bitter was his disappointment. She was not rare and wonderful; she was only a pretty, silly, painted little thing, like thousands of others.

“If only she hadn’t come!” he thought. “If only I’d never seen her again! Then I could have gone on--”

He realized, however, that he had invited her to meet him, and that in common decency he must not let her see how he felt; so he smiled as politely as he could.

“Didn’t recognize you at first,” he said. “I’m sorry!”

That was all he could manage for the moment. She, too, was silent, with a set, strained smile on her lips.

“We can’t stand here like this,” he thought. “I’ve asked her to dinner!”