INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL

There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on

Washington's Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated event.

His glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left

a picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian

Nights; but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed

from the chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women's eyes at the

Astor, where he and young Paskert from St. Regis' had dinner. When they

walked down the aisle of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging

and discord of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of

paint and powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything

enchanted him. The play was "The Little Millionaire," with George M.

Cohan, and there was one stunning young brunette who made him sit with

brimming eyes in the ecstasy of watching her dance.

"Oh--you--wonderful girl,

What a wonderful girl you are--"

sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately.

"All--your--wonderful words

Thrill me through--"

The violins swelled and quavered on the last notes, the girl sank to a

crumpled butterfly on the stage, a great burst of clapping filled the

house. Oh, to fall in love like that, to the languorous magic melody of

such a tune!

The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the 'cellos sighed to the

musical moon, while light adventure and facile froth-like comedy flitted

back and forth in the calcium. Amory was on fire to be an habitui of

roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that--better, that

very girl; whose hair would be drenched with golden moonlight, while at

his elbow sparkling wine was poured by an unintelligible waiter. When

the curtain fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the

people in front of him twisted around and stared and said loud enough

for him to hear:

"What a _remarkable_-looking boy!"

This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem

handsome to the population of New York.

Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former was

the first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice broke in in a

melancholy strain on Amory's musings:

"I'd marry that girl to-night."

There was no need to ask what girl he referred to.

"I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people,"

continued Paskert.

Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of

Paskert. It sounded so mature.

"I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?"

"No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis,

"and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell."

They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music

that eddied out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off like

myriad lights, pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary

excitement. Amory watched them in fascination. He was planning his life.

He was going to live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and

cafe, wearing a dress-suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping

away the dull hours of the forenoon.

"Yes, _sir_, I'd marry that girl to-night!"

*****

HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE

October of his second and last year at St. Regis' was a high point in

Amory's memory. The game with Groton was played from three of a snappy,

exhilarating afternoon far into the crisp autumnal twilight, and Amory

at quarter-back, exhorting in wild despair, making impossible tackles,

calling signals in a voice that had diminished to a hoarse, furious

whisper, yet found time to revel in the blood-stained bandage around his

head, and the straining, glorious heroism of plunging, crashing bodies

and aching limbs. For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of the

November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on

the prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and Horatius, Sir Nigel and

Ted Coy, scraped and stripped into trim and then flung by his own will

into the breach, beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of

cheers... finally bruised and weary, but still elusive, circling an end,

twisting, changing pace, straight-arming... falling behind the Groton

goal with two men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game.

*****

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 682