Aladdin & Co.: A Romance of Yankee Magic
foppish; but there was nothing of the exquisite in his erect and
athletic form, or in his piercing eye.
She was ruddily fair, with that luxuriant auburn-brown hair which goes
with eyes of amberish-brown and freckles. These latter she had, I
observed with a renewal of the thought of the country girls and the old
district school. She was slender of waist, full of bust, and, after a
lissome, sylph-like fashion, altogether charming in form. With all her
roundness, she was slight and a little undersized.
So much of her as there was, the young fellow seemed ready to absorb,
regarding her with avid eyes--a gaze which she seldom met. But whenever
he gave his attention to the mahlstick, her eyes sought his countenance
with a look which was almost scrutiny. It was as if some extrinsic force
drew her glance to his face, until the stronger compulsion of her
modesty drove it away at the return of his black orbs. My heart
recognized with a throb the freemasonry into which I had lately been
initiated, and, all unknown to them, I hailed them as members of the
order.
Their conversation came to me in shreds and fragments, which I did not
at all care to hear. I recognized in it those inanities with which youth
busies the lips, leaving the mind at rest, that the interplay of
magnetic discharges from heart to heart may go on uninterruptedly. It is
a beautiful provision of nature, but I did not at that time admire it. I
pitied them. Alice and I had passed through that stage, and into the
phase marked by long and eloquent silences.
"I was brought up to think," I remember to have heard the fair stranger
say, following out, apparently, some subject under discussion between
them, "that the surest way to make a child steal jam is to spy upon him.
I should feel ashamed."
"Quite right," said he, "but in Europe and in the East, and even here in
Chicago, in some circles, it is looked upon as indispensable, you
know."
"In art, at least," she went on, "there is no sex. Whoever can help me
in my work is a companion that I don't need any chaperon to protect me
from. If I wasn't perfectly sure of that, I should give up and go back
home."
"Now, don't draw the line so as to shut me out," he protested. "How can
I help you with your work?"
She looked him steadily in the face now, her intent and questioning
regard shading off into a somewhat arch smile.
"I can't think of any way," said she, "unless it would be by posing for
me."
"There's another way," he answered, "and the only one I'd care about."
She suddenly became absorbed in the contemplation of the paints on her
palette, at which she made little thrusts with a brush; and at last she
queried, doubtfully, "How?"
"I've heard or read," he answered, "that no artist ever rises to the
highest, you know, until after experiencing some great love. I--can't
you think of any other way besides the posing?"
She brought the brush close to her eyes, minutely inspecting its point
for a moment, then seemed to take in his expression with a swift
sweeping glance, resumed the examination of the brush, and finally
looked him in the face again, a little red spot glowing in her cheek,
and a glint of fire in her eye. I was too dense to understand it, but I
felt that there was a trace of resentment in her mien.
"Oh, I don't know about that!" she said. "There may be some other way. I
haven't met all your friends, and you may be the means of introducing me
to the very man."
I did not hear his reply, though I confess I tried to catch it. She
resumed her work of copying one of the paintings. This she did in a
mechanical sort of way, slowly, and with crabbed touches, but with some
success. I thought her lacking in anything like control over the medium
in which she worked; but the results promised rather well. He seemed
annoyed at her sudden accession of industry, and looked sometimes
quizzically at her work, often hungrily at her. Once or twice he touched
her hand as she stepped near him; but she neither reproved him nor
allowed him to retain it.
I felt that I had taken her measure by this time. She was some Western
country girl, well supplied with money, blindly groping toward the
career of an artist. Her accent, her dress, and her occupation told of
her origin and station in life, and of her ambitions. The blindness I
guessed,--partly from the manner of her work, partly from the inherent
probabilities of the case. If the young man had been eliminated from
this problem with which my love-sick imagination was busying itself, I
could have followed her back confidently to some rural neighborhood, and
to a year or two of painting portraits from photographs, and landscapes
from "studies," and exhibiting them at the county fair; the teaching of
some pupils, in an unnecessary but conscientiously thrifty effort to get
back some of the money invested in an "art education" in Chicago; and a
final reversion to type after her marriage with the village lawyer,
doctor or banker, or the owner of the adjoining farm. I was young; but I
had studied people, and had already seen such things happen.
But the young man could not be eliminated. He sat there idly, his every
word and look surcharged with passion. As I wondered how long it would
be until they were as happy as Alice and I, the thought grew upon me
that, however familiar might be the type to which she belonged, he was
unclassified. His accent was Eastern--of New York, I judged. He looked
like the young men in the magazine illustrations--interesting, but
outside my field of observation. And I could not fail to see that girl
must find herself similarly at odds with him. "But," thought I, "love
levels all!" And I freshly interrogated the pictures and statues for
transportation to my own private Elysium, forgetful of my unconscious
neighbors.
My attention was recalled to them, however, by their arrangements for
departure, and a concomitant slightly louder tone in their conversation.
"It's just a spectacular show," said he; "no plot or anything of that
sort, you know, but good music and dancing; and when we get tired of it
we can go. We'll have a little supper at Auriccio's afterward, if you'll
be so kind. It's only a step from McVicker's."
"Won't it be pretty late?" she queried.
"Not for Chicago," said he, "and you'll find material for a picture at
Auriccio's about midnight. It's quite like the Latin Quarter,
sometimes."
"I want to see the real Latin Quarter, and no imitation," she answered.
"Oh, I guess I'll go. It'll furnish me with material for a letter to
mamma, however the picture may turn out."
"I'll order supper for the Empress," said he, "and--"
"And for the illustrious Sir John," she added. "But you mustn't call me
that any more. I've been reading her history, and I don't like it. I'm
glad he died on St. Helena, now: I used to feel sorry for him."
"Transfer your pity to the downtrodden Sir John," he replied, "and make
a real living man happy."
They passed out and left me to my dreams. But visions did not return. My
idyl was spoiled. Old-fashioned ideas emerged, and took form in the
plain light of every-day common-sense. I knew the wonderfully gorgeous
spectacle these two young people were going to see at the play that
night, with its lights, its music, its splendidly meretricious
Orientalism. And I knew Auriccio's,--not a disreputable place at all,
perhaps; but free-and-easy, and distinctly Bohemian. I wished that this
little girl, so arrogantly and ignorantly disdainful (as Alice would
have been under the same circumstances) of such European conventions as
the chaperon, so fresh, so young, so full of allurement, so under the
influence of this smooth, dark, and passionate wooer with the vibrant
voice, could be otherwise accompanied on this night of pleasure than by
himself alone.
"It's none of your business," said the voice of that cold-hearted and
slothful spirit which keeps us in our groove, "and you couldn't do
anything, anyhow. Besides, he's abjectly in love with her: would there
be any danger if it were you and your Alice?"
"I'm not at all sure about him or his abjectness," replied my uneasy
conscience. "He knows better than to do this."
"What do you know of either of them?" answered this same Spirit of
Routine. "What signify a few sentences casually overheard? She may be
something quite different; there are strange things in Chicago."
"I'll wager anything," said I hotly, "that she's a good American girl of
the sort I live among and was brought up with! And she may be in
danger."
"If she's that sort of girl," said the Voice, "you may rely upon her to
take care of herself."
"That's pretty nearly true," I admitted.
"Besides," said the Voice illogically, "such things happen every night
in such a city. It's a part of the great tragedy. Don't be Quixotic!"
Here was where the Voice lost its case: for my conscience was stirred
afresh; and I went back to the convention-hall carrying on a joint
debate with myself. Once in the hall, however, I was conscripted into a
war which was raging all through our delegation over the succession in
our membership in the National Committee. I thought no more of the idyl
of the art-gallery until the adjournment for the night.
CHAPTER II.
Still Introductory.
The great throng from the hall surged along the streets in an Amazonian
network of streams, gathering in boiling lakes in the great hotels,
dribbling off into the boarding-house districts in the suburbs, seeping
down into the slimy fens of vice. Again I found myself out of touch with
it all. I gave my companions the slip, and started for my hotel.
All at once it occurred to me that I had not dined, and with the thought
came the remembrance of my pair of lovers, and their supper together.
With a return of the feeling that these were the only people in Chicago
possessing spirits akin to mine, I shaped my course for Auriccio's. My
country dazedness led me astray once or twice, but I found the place,
retreated into the farthest corner, sat down, and ordered supper.
It was not one of the places where the out-of-town visitors were likely
to resort, and it was in fact rather quieter than usual. The few who
were at the tables went out before my meal was served, and for a few
minutes I was alone. Then the Empress and Sir John entered, followed by
half a dozen other playgoers. The two on whom my sentimental interest
was fixed came far down toward my position, attracted by the quietude
which had lured me, and seated themselves at a table in a sort of
alcove, cut off from the main room by columns and palms, secluded enough
for privacy, public enough, perhaps, for propriety. So far as I was
concerned I could see them quite plainly, looking, as I did, from my
gloomy corner toward the light of the restaurant; and I was sufficiently
close to be within easy earshot. I began to have the sensation of
shadowing them, until I recalled the fact that, so far, it had been a
case of their following me.
I thought his manner toward her had changed since the afternoon. There
was now an openness of wooing, an abandonment of reserve in glance and
attitude, which should have admonished her of an approaching crisis in
their affairs. Yet she seemed cooler and more self-possessed than
before. Save for a little flutter in her low laugh, I should have
pronounced her entirely at ease. She looked very sweet and girlish in
her high-necked dress, which helped make up a costume that she seemed to
have selected to subdue and conceal, rather than to display, her charms.
If such was her plan, it went pitifully wrong: his advances went on from
approach to approach, like the last manoeuvres of a successful siege.
"No," I heard her say, as I became conscious that we three were alone
again; "not here! Not at all! Stop!"