Read Ebook: Just sweethearts: A Christmas love story by Edwards Harry Stillwell

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 822 lines and 125227 words, and 17 pages

JUST SWEETHEARTS

JUST SWEETHEARTS

HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS

PUBLISHED BY

THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY MACON, GEORGIA

JUST SWEETHEARTS

Bathed in the sunshine of one of those perfect days which so often come with Christmas in the South, he stood at the street corner, a light cane across his shoulders supporting his gloved hands, his eyes shifting with ever-changing interest, and a half smile on his swarthy face. It was written all over him that he had no appointments to meet, no duties to discharge; that he was by chance, only, in the moving picture and not of the cast, and that the whole thing, so far as he was concerned, was but a transient show to be enjoyed for its brilliancy of colors and its endless succession of fine Southern faces.

But here was idleness without inertia. Clearly he was one of those rare beings who can radiate energy standing still and convey the impression of impetuous force without motion, a trick of the eyes, a refusal to sag.

Name? Ladies and gentlemen, meet King Dubignon.

King saw her first as she started across Cherry Street from the far corner, a slender figure moving with grace and assurance through the dangerous procession of motor cars, still handled in the South as new toys, and once or twice his lips parted for a warning cry, but she gained the opposite corner with ease and turned straight toward him across Third. Now, of all the throng his alert eyes clung to this approaching figure and began to take note of details--white spats, plain tailor suit, loose blousy waist and flat hat with its little veil of black lace. Soon she was directly in front but her demure gaze was not for him. She was mentally preoccupied. She had thoughts of her own and not having seen the Dubignon eyes and smile she failed to look back after she passed.

The young man released a suspended breath like unto the fervid sigh of a cow settling down to rest, lowered his cane and stood gazing after the receding figure. And not he only, as he noticed with quick jealousy. Every man and woman who met her turned for a second glance. The gentian eyes, radiant face, curved lips parted in a half smile, belonged in an artist's dream; the slender, supple figure borne along on dainty feet, the subtle grace of her moving, line vanishing into line, curve melting into curve, the free, elastic, boyish stride, were combinations notable even in The City of Beautiful Women, as the aborigines call their Macon.

King was an artist and had dreamed. He had lost something out of his dreams and now he had found something to place in one. He followed and saw her vanish into the crowd of a cheap store, an emporium of ten-cent things; and presently his broad shoulders opened up a path there for himself. Down one aisle and up another; and then he found her. She was critically examining lace at ten cents the yard and did not look up as he passed. The purchase of lace of any kind is a tax on all the faculties if one is faithful.

Checkmate? No. Inspiration! He went forward to the turn of the aisle at the show window near the door. It had occurred to him that sooner or later she would pass out. He took his stand in a little bay of space nearby and waited. Time was no object to him at such a crisis.

When he saw her coming again, threading her way through the crowd and almost without contact, he so maneuvered that she drifted naturally into the little bay promptly vacated for her accommodation. Instantly he was standing directly in front, hat in hand, arresting her departure:

"Beautiful, just a moment, please," he said, smiling down, "I saw you crossing the street and followed you here. When you leave I shall not follow again. Listen; what I am asking is that you will take my card and have your father, or somebody, inquire about me of one of the bank cashiers on the corner, and then write me your address, won't you? This isn't regular, I know," he continued with increase of vocal momentum, "but it is necessary--absolutely necessary. I have searched and waited for you all my life, and if I lose you now it may be forever." The girl had drawn back a little and was looking into his face with wonder but without alarm. The Dubignon eyes and smile were irresistible. Nevertheless, now that he had spoken--words altogether different from the formal ones planned--King became self-conscious and troubled. Something jarred. Perhaps it was the twentieth century or the ten-cent store. Besides, he was pointing a piece of cardboard at her in, what must have seemed, a very absurd way. She felt instantly his embarrassment, and women of all ages gain composure when men in their presence lose it. The instinctive response of eyes and lips, vibrant life to impetuous youth, was checked and a tiny, perpendicular line divided her brows:

"Are you quite sane?" she began, her voice reduced almost to a whisper--he thanked God for that. "Stand aside, please, or shall I send for the manager?"

"Perfectly sane," he said, moving aside, but still holding out the card. "You will not send for anyone, because now the way is open. But all the same, I wish, awfully, you would take my card and when you get home decide. Won't you, please? It's just a little, lonesome card," he added, whimsically. The girl hesitated, questioning him with the wonderful gentian eyes, into which, now of a sudden, came a fixed light. A white wonder paled her face for a fleeting instant, and she moved a step nearer. Doubtingly, the gesture clearly an unconscious one, her hand touched his arm.

"Have I ever seen you before? Do you know my name?" He shook his head, smiling happily. She watched the smile with open interest.

"Think again!" she urged, earnestly. He was deeply troubled. He wished that he might say he had met her as a summer girl somewhere, but he could not. What he did say was:

"It may strike you as absurd, but I have only seen you in a dream--a long dream!" She smiled over this and with sudden decision took the card, dropping it into her shopping bag.

"You are not to follow. You promised!"

"Cross my heart! I shall remain here fifteen minutes. Can you vanish back into your sunbeam in fifteen minutes?"

"Completely." Her little laugh was the finest thing he had ever heard. She smiled up into his face and passed out.

Fifteen minutes later, having, with the aid of a little lady of blonde accomplishments, selected a dozen pairs of crimson and green socks and paid for them, he looked at his watch.

"My dear," he said, "I've changed my mind. There's really no room in my grip for this bundle. Christmas is at hand--kindly hand them to Mother, with my best wishes."

"And I have no mother, and I never saw him before!" she said to the floorwalker, hysterically. "And red and green socks!"

"Easy mash," he laughed, "he'll be back. Exchange for something else." She opened a tiny vanity box and powdered her nose. It was ammunition wasted.

Fate is a merry jade, at times. Half way to Jacksonville in a Pullman next day a young woman with gentian eyes, who had time and again searched her handbag, opened a package of cheap lace to finish dressing a Christmas doll, and a card dropped out. It bore the inscription, "King Dubignon." Underneath was penciled the information that he was associated with Beeker, Toomer & Church, Architects, New York, and to this was added, "Hotel Dempsey, Macon, three days." Fate's little jest was the concealment of the card in a fold of the paper wrapper for twenty-four hours.

When King Dubignon left Cornell and some seven hundred who had labored with him through several years of architecture and watercolor, he bore with him the consciousness that final examples of his work, left there, had not been excelled, and the memory of many friendly assurances that his place was waiting for him out in the great world. That he construed these assurances too literally was the fault of his temperament, and so, perfectly natural. Home yearning pulled him back to his beloved South for the initial plunge, and it was not long before his name in gilt invited the confidence of the good people of Macon, who had castles in the air.

The field proved narrow and depressing for one of his profession and temperament. The seven-room cottage of many colors seemed the limit of popular imagination at that time.

This, for a young man who was bursting with ideas, and who dreamed of thirty-live story buildings and marble palaces printing graceful lines against skies of blue! The years that slipped held some minor triumphs, but he classed them as time wasted.

Then a provincial board turned down his modern school building for a combination barn, silo and garage, designed by somebody's nephew, and the proverbial straw was on the celebrated camel's back.

It was a spring day when the camel's spine collapsed. Birds were building homes for themselves, and wonderful flowers were solving, without human aid, marvels of form and color, and voices were calling to him across years unborn. Ah, those voices! He placed a foot under the corner of his drawing table and wrecked it against the wall.

Three days later he was in New York, that Mecca of ambitious young Southerners, and at the door of Beeker, Toomer & Church, esteemed by him and many another as the great city's leading architects. Mr. Church, the junior partner, heard his application. A little smile hovered about the man's thin lips, and a slight movement of the lines leading southeast and southwest from the nostrils expressed a cynical weariness.

"On an average," said he with an air of calculation, "we have applications from Cornell men at the rate of six a week. And there are others!" He waved a hand feebly toward a vista of rooms with bending forms therein. "We can't always keep the crowd we have busy."

"I know all about that," said King coolly, "but perhaps you need a man in this special line--art glass, stained glass windows?" He opened a portfolio and laid some designs before the architect.

Now, while no artist listens with patience to business argument, none refuses to listen to pictures. Mr. Church looked, carelessly at first, then with a distinct show of interest. The sheets slipped rapidly through his hands and he shot a swift glance at his visitor.

"These yours?"

"Yes." Mr. Church pressed a button somewhere, his eyes still on the designs. A little gate opened.

"Come in," he said.

And King Dubignon stood at the threshold of his career.

Back in the junior partner's office the designs were more carefully examined.

"Very creditable," was the grudging admission; "it so happens that we may be able to use a man in this line--temporarily. Be seated." He disappeared. When he returned he was accompanied by a stout man of perhaps forty-five, prompt of manner and with a face that seemed to have been carved from tinted marble after a Greek model. This one, with quick eye, examined the designs, which he handled as an expert handles Sevres.

"Excellent! Yours?"

"Yes," said King.

"Where are you from?"

"Georgia."

"Learn this down there?"

"Partly, and partly at Cornell."

"Nothing finer ever in this office, Church. You want to work with us, I suppose?" This to King.

"If agreeable, sir."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet