THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE - 3

Learning from the elevator starter that it was half-past three, Grace faced Fifth Avenue again with a sort of sigh, not of sadness, but of anticipation that was almost too stifling. This—this was the part of the day when she ungirded her mind, set it free, let it wander among the dark woods and bright flowers of her bitter happiness. This—this was the part of the day for which she was so tautened, so wound up that she could hardly wait for the moment of relaxation. All the elements of her day, all the little notes, arranged themselves as accompaniment, as an undercurrent, to this hour from four to five, and she strained toward it as one's ears strain expectantly toward the melodious, recurrent theme of a symphony.

She hurried across town to Broadway. The sunshine glimmered and trembled in an ecstasy of autumn fulfillment. Finding no autumn leaves, each separate ray of sunshine yet put itself to use, twinkling and rippling on the sides of buildings as if to stir each separate mote of the shades of ancient foliage. She felt as if the sun placed a carpet of the cropped fall grass beneath her feet, as if she proceeded, not between lines of stone, but between rows of ordered, wine-red trees, bending to the wind.

These city blocks were becoming specially near to her. Even as her life was rooting itself in them, so they were being buried in her to form part of the soil of nourishing memory. Already she could meet shades of herself going and returning along these streets, going at four o'clock, returning at five. There were shop windows into which she had stared, not knowing what they showed, so as to hide her tears from passers-by, cryptic brownstone houses at which she had turned and glanced so as to conceal an idiotic happiness from the prying eyes of other people. They were like no other shop windows and no other houses on earth, and these streets seemed specially stained for her; they smelled differently, they had a tingling odor.

Before the jazz band of Broadway, with all its tin-pan clamor and hoots, the irregular lines of buildings and billboards forming a perfect continuation of the discord, she marked time impatiently. She had to wait for the traffic to cross to the Astor, and she couldn't wait and, like a true New Yorker, made up her mind at the most inopportune moment and began to dodge between. She didn't hurry. Her feet made the perfect feints and maneuvers for her while she looked at the motor cars aggressively and put up her hand now and then to warn them to beware.

The ladies' room of the Astor was almost like a club-room. Grace often saw the same faces here at the same hour, absorbed like her in the same purpose, pushing their way between other girls at the mirrors, unaware of them almost entirely, as they glued their eyes to their own faces and made them, with a sober, a sacred concentration, clear and fresh and individual for someone, some one person to meet.

A nun before the altar could not have told her beads with more piety than Grace Kline attended to her face. Although it needed little help, there were numerous delicate motions necessary almost to magnetize it into perfection. Her hair had to be done over with the exact slender part at the side, the smooth silken widening over the ears, and a tiny half-bang lying gently under that portion which was brought somewhat over her forehead. When she was ready to draw on her gloves, she bestowed a customary sigh on her hands (they were awkwardly jointed—"washerwoman's hands", she called them), then turned from all angles before the glass.

She would be just in time. Already the first strain of the melody, the note of yearning in loneliness, began to sing in her. It had been a good day, but by herself, the goodness, though she knew it was there, had no words or point. When she had shared it with someone, given it to someone to taste, when she had been able to see by someone else's eyes that it was good, then she would realize its excellence. And now was the time when the note of yearning would draw its answering harmony.

At Forty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, as she crossed, she saw Blake already turning down the block. The line of his shoulders was obstinate, each step unhurried. She walked behind him, smiling, waiting for the moment when she would take a few extra steps and place herself by his side. He would never turn and see her, he never by any chance made extra movements. He was an only child, used to being surrounded by other people's care and thought, and this was apparent even in his gait, that took no account of any other pedestrian, never swerved, as if he were sure the others would notice his direction and clear a path for him. Grace walked just behind his shoulder, almost touching him, and still, as she expected, he was unconscious of her. Her smile grew amused, lenient. She stretched out her hand and put it on his shoulder.

At the same time he stopped and said, "Hello." It was not spoken to her but to a man in a fur-collared coat whom she had not seen approaching. Simultaneously, he glanced at Grace. His face flushed an awkward beet-red, paled. He looked straight at the man, talking to him, seeming as if he did not feel the hand on his shoulder, did not know the girl who so obviously knew him. The man, after the first curious glint in his eyes, pretended not to notice.

For a few seconds Grace stood in confusion on the outskirts of the little circle of intimacy the two made. The pang which these little intimate groupings, in which she had no place, in which she might never have a place, sent through her! The whole world, all its rules and customs, were bent on pushing her outside of them, keeping her there in the cold, while the two men spoke of mutual relatives, drew the warm fibers of their mutual background about them to form a rope beyond which she stood alone, without anything to tie her to the group. Her face was white—but not with anger, for she well knew the ever-present reason which might explain—as she walked around them, into the tearoom, and waited by the door. Sometimes there were people in the place whom she knew—it was frequented by what Mr. Strauss called the theatrical and movie crowd—and whose light, understanding, inquiring consideration she had to bear. The eyes of the woman at the desk admired her. She called, "Hello, Miss Kline." And Grace answered with a certain pity, a certain pride, even in her present state. Dull women like that had nothing better to do than to approve of her and ask for her attention.

When Blake came in she saw that he would volunteer no excuse. He was as pale as she, ashamed, distant. The note of answering harmony was not there to-day. They were both alone, she outside, he within something. In silence, they sat down at a table in the farthest corner; in silence looked at the china plates and bric-a-brac loading down shelves below the ceiling, at the prints of English hunting scenes and framed old theater programs which covered the walls. They always had tea and toast, the cheapest things on the menu, and their waitress was bringing it without question.

Grace said, feeling along each possible path of approach, "I ought to celebrate. I've got a job—with Harry Strauss."

He answered with little interest. "Harry Strauss. You'll learn a lot of tricks from him. That's good."

So the chief episode of the day, which she had waited for him to taste of, to show her its excellence, was not good after all. What difference did it make to get a job, to do her hair over, to be glanced at on the street? She tried again.

"He told me not to tell anyone I was working for him. Why, do you suppose?"

This time he smiled. "He's pulled a good many raw press stunts. The papers are supposed to be down on him. I hear he works through a man named Al Epstein."

"I'm to meet him to-morrow."

"You start to-morrow?" And now his face was smoothing out of its tight, preoccupied lines. He began to tell her of Harry Strauss's exploits. He had a memory for all kinds of information, liked to sort it in his mind, which was very orderly, and produce it with a faint touch of irony. The anecdotes which he picked up along Broadway lent themselves especially to this irony. They laughed over a story of how Harry Strauss had managed to find his way at night to the electric advertisement of a movie which he was press-agenting and had arranged the letters to form a word that stopped traffic. He had hidden the key which unlocked the entrance office to the sign, so that it was a long time before the letters could be corrected, the crowds below dispersed. The papers had been forced to print accounts of the traffic block and to mention his picture as the cause.

When they had done laughing he was ready to regard her fully for the first time that day.

"You're so lovely to-day, Grace," he said, with his own note of yearning and looked down at his teacup.

"As ever?" she said.

He nodded emphatically and flushed the violent, almost tearful flush of sandy-haired people. It was the signal for the recurrent harmony between them. Now they were close again, now all other fibers had been cut for awhile and only their own fibers remained, growing together. Now they could say anything to each other, what he had been meaning and hating to tell her.

"That was my uncle." He jerked the words out.

Her eyes grew harassed. "Did he—say something? Will he——"

"No, he wouldn't say anything. I—only—well—I didn't——"

"I know." She did know. She had forced herself to understand as quickly as possible that men—that Blake anyhow—were hideously awkward in personal relationships. It saved much pain. Blake might have introduced her as some acquaintance who had come up to him on the street. There was no law against his knowing girls, no law against some girl, in casual amusement, putting her hand on his shoulder. He might have spared her that horrible moment. But, of course, that would never occur to him.

There was another silence. It was, however, a silence which they shared. They were both thinking the same thoughts.

"How are things—at home?" she said softly.

"Same. She's going away next month." He never called his wife by name, and he didn't dare to say "my wife." Grace could say "your wife" sometimes with a bitter emphasis, but it was forbidden to him.

"Home?"

"No. On a visit."

They exchanged a long look.

"Haven't quarreled, by any chance?" inquired Grace, raising her eyebrows in pointed archness.

"We never quarrel," he said with a smile. This was their little joke.

"Have you been working?"

"Bill and I finished one act."

"Oh. That's fine."

She was questioning him with her eyes. He knew what that question meant. Was there any chance—was there—would there—be money? There were hopes connected with the making of money, which smooths over many things, which is a good panacea to apply to other people's heartaches. He turned his teacup round and round in the saucer. Tea slopped over.

"Well," said Grace, "that's fine about your act. You'll finish the play soon, won't you? And, by the way, if I start work to-morrow, I can't tell where I'll be at four. I may be late. Can I call you anywhere?"

"You might call me at Fred's office. I could drop in there around four, and if we miss connections you might leave word."

"I hate to call there. They're not very nice to me." Her eyes pleaded with him. But he looked down and she saw his face hardening into its so familiar sullen lines. Why should she fuss about such a little thing? After all, he remembered that he had a good deal to bear himself. She stretched her arm hastily across and touched his hand, lying by the plate. He returned a hard pressure. Their hands lay one within the other on the table. "All right. Then I'll call you at Fred's around four. And do I see you Saturday?"

"You do," he said.

They got up. Before they rose, she slipped her share of the check into his palm. He flushed again. He hated this. But at the very beginning of their afternoon teas she had insisted and made a habit of it. He couldn't afford to take her to tea every day. He was very poor. Very well, so was she. They would be poor together. The dull woman at the desk nodded and looked after them. Together they walked out, holding their heads somewhat belligerently, in case any acquaintance should see them and think they had no business to be together, and twining their arms one within the other.

They walked slowly down to Sixth Avenue. The final chord with all its fused, attuned, contrasting notes, its gathering of all into one, was sounding in different ways for each of them. They wished it to go on and on. When the final chord dies, the symphony is over, people clatter their seats, the hall grows bare, and ghosts of dead music wail without noise and cling in the air and will not leave go. At the corner he put his arms about her and they kissed each other for a moment. Blake hated embraces on street corners, but there was no other place for them to kiss.