The Day of Days: An Extravaganza

by Louis Joseph Vance

  VII

  AFTERMATH

  "Well," observed Violet generously, "I thought little me was prettywell stage-broke; but I gotta hand it to Otis. He's _some_ actor. Hehad me going from the first snore."

  "Some actor is _right_," affirmed Mr. Bross with conviction, "and someshow, too, if you wanta know. I could sit through it twicet. Say, Icouldn't quit thinkin' what a grand young time I'd start in this oldburg if I could only con this _Kismet_ thing into slippin' me _my_ Dayof Days. Believe me or not, there would be _a_ party."

  "What would you do?" asked Molly Lessing, smiling.

  "Well, the first flop I'd nail down all the coin that was handy, andthen I'd buy me a flock of automobiles--and have a table reserved forme at the Knickerbocker for dinner every night--and...." Imaginationflagged. "Well," he concluded defensively, "I can tell you one thing Iwouldn't do."

  "What?" demanded Violet.

  "I wouldn't let any ward politician like that there _Wazir_, orwhatever them A-rabs called him, kid me into trying to throw a bomb atCharlie Murphy--or anythin' like that. No-oh! Not this infant. That'swhere your friend _Hajj the Beggar's_ foot slipped on him. Up to thenhe had everythin' his own way. If he'd only had sense enough to stall,he'd've wound up in a blaze of glory."

  "But, you bonehead," Violet argued candidly, "he had to. That was hispart: it was written in the play."

  "G'wan. If he'd just stalled round and refused to jump through, theauthor'd 've framed up some other way out. Why--blame it!--he'd've_had_ to!"

  "That will be about all for me," said Violet. "I don't feel strongenough to-night to stand any more of your dramatic criticism. Lead mehome--and please talk baseball all the way."

  With a resentful grunt, Mr. Bross clamped a warm, moist hand round theplump arm of his charmer, and with masterful address propelled herfrom the curb in front of the theatre, where the little party hadpaused, to the northwest corner of Broadway: their progress consistingin a series of frantic rushes broken by abrupt pauses to escapeannihilation in the roaring after-theatre crush of motor-cars. P.Sybarite, moving instinctively to follow, leaped back to the sidewalkbarely in time to save his toes a crushing beneath the tires of ahurtling taxicab.

  He smiled a furtive apology at Molly Lessing, who had demonstratedgreater discretion, and she returned his smile in the friendliestmanner. His head was buzzing--and her eyes were kind. Neither spoke;but for an instant he experienced a breathless sense of sympatheticisolation with her, there on that crowded corner, elbowed andshouldered in the eddy caused by the junction of the outpouringaudience with the midnight tides of wayfarers surging north and south.

  The wonder and the romance of the play were still warm and vital, inhis imagination, infusing his thoughts with a roseate glamour ofunreality, wherein all things were strangely possible. The iridescentimagery of the Arabian Nights of his boyhood (who has forgotten thefascination of those three fat old volumes of crabbed type,illuminated with their hundreds of cramped old wood-cuts?) had in ascant three hours been recreated for him by Knoblauch's fantasticdrama with its splendid investment of scene and costume, its admirablehistrionic interpretation, and the robust yet exquisitely temperedartistry of Otis Skinner. For three hours he had forgotten his lowlyworld, had lived on the high peaks of romance, breathing only theirrare atmosphere that never was on land or sea.

  Difficult he found it now, to divest his thoughts of thatenthrallment, to descend to cold and sober reality, to remember he wasa clerk, his companion a shop-girl, rather than a Prince disguised asCalander esquiring a Princess dedicated to Fatal Enchantment--thatKismet was a quaint fallacy, one with that whimsical conceit of Orientfatalism which assigns to each and every man his Day of Days, whereinhe shall range the skies and plumb the abyss of his Destiny,alternately its lord and its puppet.

  But presently, with an effort, blinking, he pulled his wits together;and a traffic policeman creating a favourable opening, the twoscurried across and plunged into the comparative obscurity of WestThirty-eighth Street: sturdy George and his modest Violet already afull block in advance.

  Discovering this circumstance by the glimmer through the shadows ofViolet's conspicuously striped black-and-white taffeta, P. Sybaritecommented charitably upon their haste.

  "If we hurry we might catch up," suggested Molly Lessing.

  "I don't miss 'em much," he admitted, without offering to mend thepace.

  She laughed softly.

  "Are they really in love?"

  "George is," replied P. Sybarite, after taking thought.

  "You mean she isn't?"

  "To blush unseen is Violet's idea of nothing to do--not, at least,when one is a perfect thirty-eight and possesses a good digestion andan infinite capacity for amusement _a la carte_."

  "That is to say--?" the girl prompted.

  "Violet will marry well, if at all."

  "Not Mr. Bross, then?"

  "Nor any other poor man. I don't say she doesn't care for George, butbefore anything serious comes of it he'll have to make good use of hisDay of Days--if _Kismet_ ever sends him one. I hope it will," P.Sybarite added sincerely.

  "You don't believe--really--?"

  "Just now? With all my heart! I'm so full of romantic nonsense I canhardly stick. Nothing is too incredible for me to believe to-night.I'm ready to play _Hajj the Beggar_ to any combination ofimpossibilities _Kismet_ cares to brew in Bagdad-on-the-Hudson!"

  Again the girl laughed quietly to his humour.

  "And since you're a true believer, Mr. Sybarite, tell me, what use_you_ would make of your Day of Days?"

  "I? Oh, I--" Smiling wistfully, he opened deprecatory palms. "Hard tosay.... I'm afraid I should prove a fatuous fool in George's esteemequally with old _Hajj_. I'm sure that, like him, the sunset of my Daywould see me proscribed, a price upon my head."

  "But--why?"

  "I'm afraid I'd try to use my power to right old wrongs."

  After a pause, she asked diffidently: "Your own?"

  "Perhaps.... Yes, my own, certainly.... And perhaps another's, not soold but possibly quite as grievous."

  "Somebody you care for a great deal?"

  Thus tardily made to realise into what perils his fancy was leadinghim, he checked and weighed her question with his answer, gravelyjudgmatical.

  "Perhaps I'd better not say that," he announced, a grin tempering histemerity; "but I'd go far for a friend, somebody who had been kind tome, and--ah--tolerant--if she were in trouble and could use myservices."

  He fancied her glance was quick and sharp and searching; but her voicewhen she spoke was even and lightly attuned to his whimsical mood.

  "Then you're not even sure she--your friend--is in trouble?"

  "I've an intuition: she wouldn't be where she is if she wasn't."

  Her laughter at this absurdity was delightful; whether with him or athim, it was infectious; he echoed it without misgivings.

  "But--seriously--you're not sure, are you, Mr. Sybarite?"

  "Only, Miss Lessing," he said soberly, "of my futile, my painfullyfutile good will."

  She seemed to start to speak, to think better of it, to fall silent insudden, shy constraint. He stole a side-long glance, troubled,wondering if perhaps he had ventured too impudently, pursuing his whimto the point of trespass upon the inviolable confines of her reserve.

  She wore a sweet, grave face, _en profile_; her eyes veiled with longlashes, the haunts of tender shadows; her mouth of gracious lipsunsmiling, a little triste. Compunctions smote him; with his crude andclumsy banter he had contrived to tune her thoughts to sadness. Hewould have given worlds to undo that blunder; to show her that he hadmeant neither a rudeness nor a wish to desecrate her reticence, butonly an indirect assurance of gratitude to her for suffering him andwillingness to serve her within the compass of his poverty-strickenpowers. For in retrospect his invitation assumed the proportions of animportunity, an egregious piece of presumption: so that he could havegroaned to contemplate it.

  He didn't groan, save inwardly; but respec
ted her silence, and heldhis own in humility and mortification of spirit until they were nearthe dooryard of their boarding-house. And even then it was the girlwho loosed his tongue.

  "Why--where are they?" she asked in surprise.

  Startled out of the deeps of self-contempt, P. Sybarite discoveredthat she meant Violet and George, who were nowhere visible.

  "Violet said something about a little supper in her room," explainedthe girl.

  "I know," he replied: "crackers and cheese, beer and badinage: ourhumble pleasures. You'll be bored to extinction--but you'll come,won't you?"

  "Why, of course! I counted on it. But--"

  "They must have hurried on to make things ready--Violet to set herroom to rights, George to tote the wash-pitcher to the corner for thebeer. And very likely, pending our arrival, they're lingering at thehead of the stairs for a kiss or two."

  The girl paused at the gate. "Then we needn't hurry," she suggested,smiling.

  "We needn't delay," he countered amiably. "If somebody doesn'tinterrupt 'em before long, George will be too late to get the pitcherfilled. This town shuts up tight at midnight, Saturdays--if you wantto believe everything you hear. So there's no need of being tooindulgent with our infatuated fellow-inmates."

  "But--just a minute, Mr. Sybarite," she insisted.

  "As many as you wish," he laughed. "As a matter of fact, I loathedraught beer."

  "Do be serious," she begged. "I want to thank you."

  He was aware of a proffered hand, slender and fine in a shabby glove;and took it in his own, uneasily conscious of a curious disturbance inhis bosom, of a strange and not unpleasant sense of commingledexpectancy, pleasure, and diffidence (as far as he was able to analyseit--or cared to--at that instant).

  "It was kind of you to come," he said jerkily, in his embarrassment.

  "I enjoyed every moment," she said warmly. "But that wasn't all Imeant when I thanked you."

  His eyebrows climbed with surprise.

  "What else, Miss Lessing?"

  "Your delicacy in letting me know you understood--"

  Disengaging her hand, she broke off with a startled movement, and alow cry of surprise.

  A taxicab, swinging into the street from Eighth Avenue, had boiled upto the curb before the gate, and pausing, discharged a young man in ahurry; witness the facts that he had the door open when halfwaybetween the corner and the house, and was on the running-board beforethe vehicle was fairly at a halt.

  In a stride this one crossed the sidewalk and pulled up, silently,trying to master the temper which was visibly shaking him. Tall,well-proportioned, impressively turned out in evening clothes, hethrust forward a handsome face marred by an evil, twisted mouth, andpeered searchingly at the girl.

  Instinctively she shrank back inside the fence, eyeing him with a lookof fascinated dismay.

  As instinctively P. Sybarite bristled between the two.

  "Well?" he snapped at the intruder.

  An impatient gesture of a hand immaculately gloved in white abolishedhim completely--as far, at least, as the other was concerned.

  "Ah--Miss Lessing, I believe?"

  The voice was strong and musical but poisoned with a malicious triumphthat grated upon the nerves of P. Sybarite; he declined to beabolished.

  "Say the word," he suggested serenely to the girl, "and I'll bundlethis animal back into that taxi and direct the driver to the nearestaccident ward. I'd rather like to, really."

  "Get rid of this microbe," interrupted the other savagely--"unless youwant him buried between glass slides under a microscope."

  The girl turned to P. Sybarite with pleading eyes and imploring hands.

  "If you please, dear Mr. Sybarite," she begged in a tremulous voice:"I'm afraid I must speak alone with this"--there was a barelyperceptible pause--gentleman. If you won't mind waiting a moment--atthe door--?"

  "If it pleases you, Miss Lessing--most certainly." He drew back a stepor two. "But speaking of microbes," he added incisively, "a word ofadvice: don't tease 'em. My bite is deadly: neither Pasteur nor yourfamily veterinary could save you."

  Ignored by the man, but satisfied in his employment of the last word,he strutted back to the brownstone stoop, there to establish himself,out of earshot but within, easy hail.

  Hearing nothing, he made little more of the guarded conference thatbegan on his withdrawal. The man, entering the dooryard, had corneredthe girl in an angle of the fence. He seemed at once insistent,determined, and thoroughly angry; while she exhibited perfectcomposure with some evident contempt and implacable obstinacy.Nevertheless, in a brace of minutes the fellow seemingly brought forthsome telling argument. She wavered and her accents rose in doubt:

  "Is that true?"

  His reply, if inaudible, was as forcible as it was patently anaffirmative.

  "I don't believe you!"

  "You don't dare doubt me."

  This time he was clearly articulate, and betrayed a conviction that hehad won the day: an impression borne out by the evident irresolutionof the girl, prefacing her abrupt surrender.

  "Very well," she said in a tone of resignation.

  "You'll go?"

  "Yes."

  He moved aside, to give her way through the gate. But she hung back,with a glance for P. Sybarite.

  "One moment, please," she said: "I must leave a message."

  "Nonsense--!"

  She showed displeasure in the lift of her chin. "I think I'm my ownmistress--as yet."

  He growled indistinguishably.

  "You have my promise," she cut him short coldly. "Wait for me." Andshe turned back to the house.

  Wondering, P. Sybarite went to meet her. Impulsively she gave him herhand a second time; with as little reflection, he took it in both hisown.

  "Is there nothing I can do?"

  Her voice was broken: "I don't know. I must go--it's imperative....Could you--?... I wonder!"

  "Anything you ask," he asserted confidently.

  Hesitating briefly, in a tone little above a whisper: "I must go," sherepeated. "I can't refuse. But--alone. Do you understand--?"

  "You mean--without him?" P. Sybarite nodded toward the man fuming inthe gateway.

  "Yes. If you could suggest something to detain him long enough for meto get into the cab and say one word to the chauffeur--"

  The chest of P. Sybarite swelled.

  "Leave it to me," he said with fine simplicity.

  "Molly!" cried the man at the gate.

  "Don't answer," P. Sybarite advised: "if you don't, he'll losepatience and come to fetch you. And then--"

  "But I'm afraid he may--"

  "_Molly!_"

  "Don't you fear for me: God's good to the Irish."

  "MOLLY!"

  "Do be quiet," suggested P. Sybarite, not altogether civilly.

  The other started as if slapped.

  "What's that?" he barked in a rage.

  "I said, hold your tongue."

  "The devil you did!" With a snort the man strode in to the stoop. "Doyou know who you're talking to?" he demanded wrathfully, towering overP. Sybarite, momentarily forgetful of the girl.

  Stepping aside, as if in alarm, she moved behind the fellow, anddarted through the gate.

  "I don't," P. Sybarite admitted amiably; "but your nose annoys me."

  He fixed that feature with an irritating glare.

  "You impudent puppy!" stormed the other. "Who are you?"

  "Who--me?" echoed P. Sybarite in surprise. (The girl was nowinstructing the chauffeur.) "Why," he drawled, "I'm the guy that putthe point in disappointment. Sure you've heard of _me_?"

  At the curb, the door of the taxicab closed with a slam.Simultaneously the drone of the motor thickened to a rumble. The manwith the twisted mouth turned just in time to see it drawing away.

  "_Hi!_" he cried in surprise and dismay.

  But the taxi didn't pause; to the contrary, it stretched out towardNinth Avenue at a quickening pace.

  With profanity appreciating the fact tha
t he had been tricked, hepicked up his heels in pursuit. But P. Sybarite had not finished withhim. Deftly plucking the man back by the tail of his full-skirtedopera coat, he succeeded in arresting his flight before it was fairlystarted.

  "Here!" he protested. "What's your hurry?"

  With a vicious snarl, the man turned and snatched at his cloak. But P.Sybarite adhered tenaciously to the coat.

  "We were discussing your nose--"

  At discretion, he interrupted himself to duck beneath the swing of apowerful fist. And this last, failing to find a mark, threw its owneroff his balance. Tripping awkwardly over the low curbing of thedooryard walk, he reeled and went a-sprawl on his knees, while his hatfell off and (such is the impish habit of toppers) rolled and boundedseveral feet away.

  Releasing the cloak, P. Sybarite withdrew to a respectful remove andheld himself coolly alert against reprisals that never came. The otherpicked himself up quickly, cast about for the taxicab, discovered itswiftly making off--already twenty yards distant--and with a howl ofrage bounded through the gate and gave chase at the top of his speed.

  Gravely, P. Sybarite retrieved the hat and followed to the curbing.

  "Hey!" he shouted after the fast retreating figure--"here's your_hat_!"

  But he wasted breath. The taxicab was nearing Ninth Avenue, itspursuer sprinting bravely a hundred feet to the rear, and as hewatched, both turned the northern corner and vanished like shapes ofdream.

  Sighing, P. Sybarite went back to the stoop and sat down to considerthe state of his soul (which was vain-glorious) and the condition ofthe hat (which was soiled, rumpled, and disreputable).