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

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Ebook has 822 lines and 125227 words, and 17 pages

"If agreeable, sir."

"All right. How does twenty-five hundred strike you for a starter?"

"Fine." And then, "Just what I made last year building freak cottages." Mr. Beeker laughed:

"I know; served my time on them. The young wife brings you a home-made ground plan, providing for hotel accommodations, and wants a roof put over it--bay windows, porte cochere, etc. Cries when she finds your roof will cost more than her cottage. You'll be under Mr. Church, Mr.--"

"Dubignon."

"Good old name. Any advice needed, drop in on me." He shook hands and turned away, but came back and placed a finger on the pictures:

"I say, Church, how about the memorial windows?"

"Yes, I think Mr. Dubignon might help."

"Better give him a free hand on it."

A sudden flush overspread the Southerner's face and his look of gratitude followed the great architect.

But if King looked for sudden fame in New York, he was disappointed. Putting aside his ambition for the time being, he threw himself into the task of developing along the special line he had chosen for a foothold, with the same ardor that had carried him to the front at college, and his work stood all tests, easily. Beeker, Toomer & Church became headquarters for art glass designs in architecture. Presently his salary rose. And then again. And at length he found himself independent. But, to use his own expression, he "got nowhere." The reason was simple; it was a rule of the office that all designs should bear the firm's name only. Church had carefully explained this in the beginning. Church had also seen to it that press notices of their notable work invariably mentioned that Ralph Church was the head of the department responsible for it. King writhed under this system, but he could not budge without financial backing. He was heartily tired of his narrow field. At odd times, in his own living room, he worked on his ambitious dream.

The dream of the young architect was a thirty-five story office building wherein utility was to be combined with beauty without sacrifice of dividend-paying space or money, and without offense to the artistic eye from any point of view. Many architects have wrestled with the same problem and some with brilliant results. Now, by strange coincidence, a thirty-five story office building for Chicago, financed in New York, began to be talked of in building circles. No plans had been asked, no consultation with architects had. A rumor had started and was kicked around as a football. King took the backward trail and patiently followed it into the office of a certain great banker, whose young woman secretary had a friend that served an afternoon paper in reportorial capacity. Here King met his Waterloo; for no man in New York was less accessible than this particular banker, who had once received a "black-hand" letter. Red tape, red-headed office boy, confidential clerks, private secretary, hemmed him in from all but his selected associates. And the banker's offices were full of unsuspected exits. All roads led from his Rome.

King stalled at the red-headed boy--the extreme outer guard.

It was at this stage of his career that he put aside ambition and raced off to Georgia for a few days along the coast. One proved sufficient. He spent that laying holly wreaths on graves under mossy live oaks. Then he betook himself to Macon, to lunch and dine and sup with his old-time S. A. E. friends of Mercer, scene of his earliest college years. He found them in law offices, doctor shops, banks and trade--glad to see him, but busy. Then, bankrupt of emotions, he began to stand on the street corners during their busy hours and watch the people pass.

And, finally, after three days more in his hotel, much boring of friends and many fruitless chases of false rumors, and hours in front of Wesleyan College, he had arrived at the conclusion that he was, after all, a sublime ass. Bearing this added burden, he had taken himself off to New York, in what old-time writers were pleased to call a frame of mind.

But, at the bottom of a formidable array of Christmas greetings piled on his desk by his devoted friend, Terence, the office boy, he found an envelope postmarked "Jacksonville, Fla., Dec. 25." Within was a card, one of the kind sold five for a nickel, bearing these lines:

"I found your card in my bag on my way to Florida. Am keeping it in memory of the only impudence I have ever encountered at the hands of a man. Nevertheless, I am wishing for you a very happy Christmas and New Year. This, I take it, is the proper Christmas spirit.

"Beautiful."

"P. S. Very likely I shall return to New York before Easter."

And for King Dubignon, Christmas came back.

Also for Terence. The tip was five dollars, and an injunction:

"Small boy, note this handwriting! You will perceive that it is more of a jumping than a running hand--well, it belongs on the top of all mail. Understand?"

"I'm on," said Terence with his broadest grin.

"Return to New York," quoted King, self communing; "I should have known from the way she crossed the street she belonged in New York."

"Sir?"

"On your way, Terence; on your way!" but this with a smile.

Lent was well under way and the first Easter displays in show windows when on a Saturday morning, King found a little note perched on the top of his office mail, which read:

"If you will be at the old Delmonico corner near Union Square Saturday at 4 P. M., you may walk with me as far as Twenty-third Street, on condition that you turn back there, and in the meantime ask me no questions. Don't come if the conditions don't suit."

Whence she came, he never knew, but as he stood waiting, she appeared before him, her face radiant, her gentian eyes smiling up to his. He lifted his hat quickly and fell into step with her along the east side of Broadway. Now that the supreme moment had arrived, he raged inwardly that a species of dumbness should have seized upon him. Turning her head away, the girl laughed softly. She had no fears. The subtle instinct of her sex had informed her that it was not a contest between man and girl, but between woman and boy. The discovery pleased her. And then, smiling, she challenged him:

"Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"

King rallied:

"This; you are to marry me, of course. That was arranged in the beginning of all things. The important thing now is to get acquainted." Again the low, sweet laugh and upturned face:

"Sounds like the verdict of a fortune teller. One of your old South Atlantic voodoos been earning a dollar?" He was amazed. It was not to be the last time this girl was to amaze him. She was an amazing girl.

"Why place me at the South Atlantic?"

"Oh my! Innocent! Doesn't everybody know Charleston and Savannah brogue when they hear it?"

"Close. But it was a little further down. Are we so distinct, though?"

"Nobody can imitate it. I've tried. The fraud was apparent. My poor voice sticks. I can't change it."

"God forbid! But--getting back to the wedding--I am in earnest."

"And you don't know even my name!"

"I have name enough for two."

"Nor who I am."

"I know who you will be. That's enough."

"Nor if I am--nice."

"Don't jest."

"Nor my profession. I may be an artist's model, soubrette, chorus lady, paid companion, waitress, manicurist, or lady's maid." She glanced down at her very homely dress.

"I don't care what your profession has been. I can look into your face and see that it has been honorable. It's going to be Mrs. King Dubignon. Look up! I love you, can't you see it?" Her eyes, swimming in light and laughter, met his.

"You absurd boy! Do you always make love this way? Is it the custom--'a little further down' than Charleston and Savannah?"

"I have never before spoken of love to a girl. My lips have never touched a girl's." And then, "I have been waiting for you!"

A deep flush suffused her neck and face, and for the first time she betrayed confusion.

"Don't, please!" she whispered. "It is impossible that any man could love any girl so suddenly. And I don't like to be treated as a silly." King had whirled suddenly and was facing her.

"Impossible? Do you know that it takes all the will power I can exert to keep from snatching you up in my arms? I resist because I don't want to frighten you. What do I care for people, for Broadway? This is the twentieth century! We haven't time to play guitars under windows or sit in the moonlight week after week testing our emotions. We live by faith, move by faith--faith in ourselves, first, because if we are square, that's faith in God; and then by faith in our women. And when they are square, that's trust in God. We don't just meet the women He creates for us; we have known them all along. We just recognize them and take their hands in ours for eternity. My soul has been sitting at the window all my life, waiting, watching. I have found you. Name? family? occupation?--they are hung on human beings as so many garments. I don't know any of yours, but I recognized you at the first glance. You are for me and I for you! And in your heart, you know it!"

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