An Officer and a Lady (16 page)

“Well,” said Miss Chidden, without looking up, “what are you fooling around here for? Remember, you get back by two o’clock. There’s some rugs to beat.”

“Maria,” said Mr. Chidden calmly, “I want two dollars.”

At that she did look up.

“What for?” she demanded in amazement.

“For a new hat. Look at that!” said Mr. Chidden, holding up the old brown slouch. “It’s a disgrace. And, what’s more, it don’t fit, and it knows it. It’s even ashamed of itself.”

“That’s all right,” replied the lady accusingly, “but you bought it new last year.”

But Mr. Chidden was in no mood for argument. He threw the hat on the floor with a gesture of scorn, and put his foot on it.

“Maria,” he said coldly, “I asked you for two dollars.”

“And I said,” retorted his sister, “or at least I say, which is the same thing, that you shan’t have it. Don’t try to bully me, Robert Chidden. I won’t stand it. Don’t abuse your own sister. You can either wear that hat or go without. Pick it up!”

“Maria—”

“Robert!”

Mr. Chidden surrendered before the gleam of her eye. Fool that he had been, ever to have imagined he could conquer that steely glance! He picked up the hat, walked slowly to the hall, opened the door, and descended the steps to the street.

There he paused, undecided which way to turn. Certainly he did not want to walk to the river. The thing he would have liked most to do was to fight someone, pull his hair, kick him, punch his face; but that, he acknowledged to himself, was an impractical desire. He was a small man physically. He pulled the hat over his head, sighed heavily, and turned down the street to the right.

He walked slowly, aimlessly, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his shoulders stooped in dejection.

“Domineerin’ despot!” he muttered aloud. “A man as is a man wouldn’t stand it. Bob Chidden, you’re a sexual disgrace.”

These and other sundry self-accusations occupied his thoughts till he had nearly reached the end of the block. Suddenly he stopped and turned. Before him was a window bearing the inscription:

M. STURCKE,

Fine Tailoring

Gents’ Suits Sponged and Pressed 50c.

For a minute Mr. Chidden stood and stared at the window, while his face gradually lost its gloom and became luminous with the brilliance of an idea. He took his hands from his pockets, removed the brown slouch hat, and pulled it into some sort of shape.

“My foot!” he exclaimed to himself, as if dazed by the temerity of his own conception. “My foot!”

Then suddenly his eyes brightened with the fire of determination. He pressed his lips firmly together, stepped down to the door of the tailor shop and opened it with a resolute hand.

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Sturcke, looking up from her sewing as he entered.

“How de do, ma’am?” Mr. Chidden, glancing hastily around, observed with relief that the pale-faced young man was not in sight. “Out for a breath of air,” he added, leaning against the counter and looking down at the plump little widow from the corner of one eye.

Mrs. Sturcke smiled pleasantly.

“I’m glad to know you can enjoy it, Mr. Chidden. For me, I don’t ever seem to get the time. More work every day, though I suppose I shouldn’t complain about that yet.”

Mr. Chidden agreed that it was a good thing to have work to do, but hastened to add that it was a great pity that ladies should have no time for recreation.

“Walking,” he declared, “is one of the great pleasures of life. It takes you away from things.”

At this the widow smiled again, and invited Mr. Chidden to be seated. There were two empty chairs in the shop—one near the outer door, two paces from where he stood, and the other behind the counter, near that occupied by Mrs. Sturcke. Mr. Chidden hesitated a moment, then deliberately walked through the aisle to the other side of the counter and seated himself on the second chair.

This was, in fact, an amazing performance. In all the years that Mr. Chidden had been sitting down in the tailor shop, whether to wait for a suit of clothes or merely to chat, he had never chosen any other chair than the one by the outer door. It would appear that Mrs. Sturcke appreciated the significance of his action, for she colored visibly and bent a little closer over her sewing. Mr. Chidden himself appeared to be somewhat embarrassed. He took off his hat and put it on again, then removed it once more and dropped it on the floor.

“Don’t do that, Mr. Chidden,” said the widow, picking up the hat and placing it on the counter. “It’ll get all soiled.”

“Not it,” said Mr. Chidden gloomily, his thoughts reverting to the late unpleasantness with his sister. Then he added hastily: “It’s a bit off in color, but it’s my favorite hat.”

“Quite right, too,” Mrs. Sturcke assented somewhat vaguely. “I like to see a man make his choice and stick to it. That was my husband’s fault; he never knew what he wanted. Why, if you’d believe me, Mr. Chidden, he’d have some kind of newfangled thing in here every week. Otherwise he would have done well by the business, for he was a good worker.”

“Still, he left you pretty well fixed,” observed Mr. Chidden, glancing round the neat, well-kept shop.

Mrs. Sturcke stared at him as if surprised.

“As to that,” she said finally, “you know well enough how I’m fixed, and your sister does, too. Not that I’ve anything to complain of Miss Chidden.”

“It would be a wonder if you hadn’t,” returned Mr. Chidden, not quite understanding the widow’s reference to his sister. Nor did he care to discuss so unpleasant a topic. “I tell you what, ma’am,” he continued, throwing one leg over the other and sliding forward in his chair, “I have just about decided to leave my sister for good.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sturcke, stopping her sewing to look at him.

“I do say so,” declared Mr. Chidden almost fiercely. “Shall I tell you the truth, ma’am? I am not happy. I am becoming melancholy. Lonely aspirations. I shall leave and go far away.”

“But where would you go?” cried the widow in evident eagerness. In her tone was admiration of the man’s daring, and a note of something else—was it disappointment?

“I don’t know,” rejoined Mr. Chidden somberly. “But what does it matter, so long as I leave this life behind me? What does—”

“Mr. Chidden!” the widow interrupted in a voice of horror. “You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t—make away with yourself?”

Mr. Chidden stared at her blankly for a moment; then his face suddenly filled with comprehension.

“You misunderstand me,” he explained. “Still, I have had the thought. There are some things, ma’am, that are more than enough to drive a man to suicide. A great sorrow—unguarded affections—only to be met with heartlessness and cruelty—” Mr. Chidden paused, overcome with feeling.

“It’s a woman!” cried Mrs. Sturcke, dropping the sewing to the floor in her excitement.

“It is,” agreed Mr. Chidden sadly. “But not my sister,” he added hastily. “Not her. This woman—this heartless creature—is not like my sister. She is beautiful. She is a widow. She is far too beautiful for sanguinary hopes. And now you know who she is.”

“I do not,” declared Mrs. Sturcke. But her voice trembled, and her eyes were downcast.

“Then must I pronounce her name?” demanded Mr. Chidden, who was now pretty well worked up. “You will laugh at me, ma’am. Very well. I cannot control my affections. Unhappy passion! Mrs. Sturcke, the woman is you!”

Never was amorous avowal better delivered, nor with more telling effect. The widow’s face grew red to her throat and ears. She kept her eyes on the floor, after one fleeting glance at the eager face of the impetuous lover.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Chidden,” she said finally. But, hearing the tremble in her voice, Mr. Chidden cocked one eye—is it possible that he was winking to himself?—and leaned forward in his chair. His expression of hopeless despair gave way to an air of jaunty confidence; he reached forward and took the widow’s hand in his own, and held it tight.

“Mrs. Sturcke—Gretta,” he demanded in a voice vibrant with emotion, “am I to suffer longer?”

The widow raised her head, and turned beaming eyes to his.

“I’m sure I don’t want you to suffer,” she declared tremulously. “But, Mr. Chidden—are you sure yet—iss it me?”

Mr. Chidden masterfully took possession of the other hand. “Gretta, dear,” he murmured, “Gretta, call me Robert.”

“Well—Robert—”

“Will you marry me, Gretta?”

“
Ach!
”

Then and there was Mr. Bob Chidden like to have been smothered beneath the caresses of a transport of ecstasy. He was in fact bewildered and astonished, for though he had received more than one amiable smile from the plump little widow, he had not supposed that so violent a passion could have been aroused in her white bosom. It was an ordeal he had not counted on, and he might have been smothered literally but for the timely appearance of the pale-faced young man with the tragic eyes, who stopped short on the threshold at the sight that met his astonished gaze.

“Look out—it iss Leo!” cried the widow, tearing herself loose and retreating to her own chair.

The pale-faced young man passed through the shop to the room in the rear without speaking.

“Come back tonight,” whispered Mrs. Sturcke softly. “He goes home at six o’clock.”

“Tonight at seven. Darling! Happy love!” returned Mr. Chidden, pressing her hand. “You will be waiting for me?”

“Yess, Robert.”

Mr. Chidden emerged into the sunshine of Twenty-third Street with a springy, youthful step and a heart bounding with happiness. His hat was placed at a perilous angle on one side of his head, his hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and his shoulders swayed from side to side as he walked.

At last freedom! The twenty years’ tyranny was at an end.

What a pleasant place that little shop was, to be sure! Of course, it wasn’t worth much—perhaps six or eight hundred—but the custom was very good. It was two years now since Sturcke had died, and his widow had begun to run the place alone; it really wouldn’t be surprising if she had managed to save up a thousand dollars. Just the right amount to put in a little stock of gents’ furnishings—nothing elaborate, of course.

Suddenly Mr. Chidden stopped and swore at himself. As if it mattered whether the widow had saved up a thousand dollars or a thousand cents! As if it were not enough, and more than enough, that he was at last to escape from the inexorable clutches of his sister Maria! Never again to hear that hated voice raised in command! The joyousness of the thought caused Mr. Chidden to dance about on the sidewalk. He declared to himself that it would be worth it, even if he had to fire Leo and do all the work himself. At least, he would be master. He was humming a little tune under his breath as he turned in at the door of the rooming house.

“Robert!” came his sister’s voice from the kitchen as he entered the hall.

Mr. Chidden descended the stairs with the step of a conqueror, flung the kitchen door open, and stood on the threshold.

“Well?” he inquired insolently.

His sister looked up from a pot she was stirring on the stove, and grunted.

“So you’re back,” she observed. “It’s time. I want you to beat them rugs.”

“All right,” said Mr. Chidden cheerfully.

He went to the closet in the back hall, took therefrom the carpet beater, and returned to the kitchen. For some time he stood in the middle of the room, regarding his sister’s back as she bent over the pot. His expression was an indescribable mixture of triumph and impudence.

“I’ll clean ’em good,” he observed finally, whirling the carpet beater about in the air, “because I may not get another chance at ’em.”

“Now what are you talking about?” came from the pot.

“I say, I may not get another chance at the rugs, because I’m going to leave.”

His sister turned to look at him.

“Leave! Leave where?”

“Leave here. This house. I’m going away, Maria.”

But Maria refused to be at all impressed by this startling information.

“I suppose John D. has given you a million to start in business with,” she observed sarcastically. “Now, you stop talking nonsense and do what I told you. And I don’t want you running off a day or a week, either. I thought you was done with that foolishness. If you do, I won’t let you in when you come back.”

“Don’t
you
worry,” retorted Mr. Chidden. “I won’t come back. It’s different this time. The fact is, as you might say, I’m going to get married.”

His sister whirled around, dropping the spoon in the pot with a splash.

“Married! You!” she exclaimed in a tone of scornful disbelief.

“Yes, married—me!” repeated Mr. Chidden warmly. “Married in every sense of the world. Just because you don’t appreciate your own brother, Maria Chidden, is no sign some others wouldn’t. It’s a little love affair I run into. Amorous passion, my dear. She’s a widow—remarkably beautiful woman—about half as old as you, I should say. Modern romance.
I
can’t help it.”

“Half as old as me! Romance!” cried Miss Maria shrilly, her face flaming, and trembling all over with anger. “Half as old as me, indeed!” she repeated. “Thank
you,
Robert Chidden!” She stopped a moment, choking with indignation; then demanded sternly: “Who is this woman?”

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” observed Mr. Chidden impudently.

“Yes, and what’s more, I’m going to know.”

“Maybe.” Mr. Chidden threw the carpet beater over his shoulder and started for the door. “She’s a lady, and she’s a widow, and that’s all I have to say,” he threw back.

Silence pursued him to the door and a few paces into the court. He had flung four rugs over the line and was picking up the fifth when his sister’s voice, sharp, with a ring in it, came from the kitchen:

“Robert! Is it Gretta Sturcke?”

Mr. Chidden returned to the door, and stood looking in.

“If it is,” he replied truculently, “what about it?”

Then he became silent with wonder at the change that took place in his sister’s face. Her eyes, which had glared with indignation, lost their fire and assumed their normal expression of calm and relentless tyranny; her lips were pressed together in a grim smile of satisfaction; the red flag of agitated displeasure disappeared from her cheeks. Mr. Chidden’s brain entertained the astounding idea that his sister Maria was actually pleased by the information that he was to marry Gretta Sturcke!