The Red Book Magazine/Volume 14/Number 6/The Pulse of Spring

T was the first generously warm afternoon of the year, and Timothy Fane, full of delicious seasonable fancies, was leisurely following his long nose up the avenue. The nose, it should be explained, was not a disfigurement, but only long enough to suggest an individuality, and a considerable degree of animal spirits in the wearer. The same idea was further carried out by his leaping blue eyes and lips, tending to curl in the corners. To-day especially, in spite of his Twentieth Century clothes, there was a suggestion of Pan about Timothy—in the quick turns of his head, in his jerky buoyant gait, in the exuberant way he twirled his stick.

The avenue was gorgeous. Over in the direction of New Jersey the sun, delighted with the success of his trial of strength, was surrounding himself with the particular pearly splendor he occasionally affects for the benefit of Manhattan; each of the western streets enclosed a distant shining river-vista; and the summits of the many-windowed Alps, soaring above the shadowy street, were etherealized in the glory of the level, misty sunshine.

Timothy was likewise etherealized. He drew deep breaths of the delicate air, and smiled a little fatuously—as most mortals were smiling—and gazed in the shop windows without much caring what was in them, and whistled a little impromptu of Spring without hearing his own notes. The world was using him kindly, as it customarily uses those who are gifted, not too immoderately, with the attractiveness of the ancient earthly gods. The perfect afternoon capped his most successful season; he could begin to say to himself that he had arrived in the world, and if that were not satisfaction enough for a young man—there was Marjorie. On such an afternoon she would be sure to look for him in the park, he thought, and quickened his steps a little. Successful in business and about to be married—Timothy, in spite of the romantic impression he created, had led the uneventful life of the normal, wholesome youth. But these impressions are nevertheless trustworthy; Timothy had the possibilities, as the afternoon was to show.

Well, then, Timothy was perfectly happy; but as he proceeded up the street the very deliciousness of living on such an afternoon began to rob him of his peace. It was too good; somehow it hurt. The warm air engendered a wildness in his blood, which even the thought of Marjorie was powerless to allay. Marjorie was too gentle and good to understand such a feeling, he thought with a shadow of impatience; and slackening his pace again, he sought in the faces of the beautiful women who passed him for that, whatever it was, which Marjorie lacked. And lo! on this afternoon they all had it!

Gradually it became clear to Timothy what was the matter with him; he yearned for an adventure. Before it was too late; before settling down to a life of undisturbed bliss with Marjorie, he wanted one lawless, unreasonable, godlike adventure, with a memory of laughter to put by against the chills of old age. Once the thing was clear to him, the every-day Timothy was horrified with himself, and determinedly called up the image of Marjorie as he was accustomed to cherish it: but it had strangely faded, and the longing waxed mightily within him for strong color and penetrating perfumes.

A tidy landaulet drew up at the curb in front of him and a lady alighted. A man coming down the street at the moment saluted her, and she smiled. The keyed-up Timothy read volumes in that smile; it was neither forced nor cold; there was nothing in it particularly for the man to whom it was addressed, but much for the pleasure of being alive on such an afternoon. Timothy paused to allow her to cross the sidewalk in front of him, and so got a fair look at her. She did not look at him, but a faint odor of the violets she was wearing drifted back, which to one in Timothy's state of mind was sufficiently maddening. He could not have described her; there was simply the scent of violets and an impression of a woman who had reached the moment of perfect fulfillment, when Time himself pauses, pleased to survey his handiwork, before commencing to undo it. Nor could Timothy have told what she had on; through a splendid panoply of millinery his sharpened senses apprehended the unalterable woman, the dryad of the groves. The last thing before the house door closed on her she cast a wistful glance over the tree-tops towards the western sky.

“She feels it, too,” thought Timothy.

It was manifestly impossible for him to continue gaping at the door through which she had disappeared; Timothy heaved a sigh and wended his way. The sunshine seemed to have paled suddenly, and the faces of the pretty women were robbed of their mysterious allurement. The little landaulet which had brought the unknown lady to her door, continuing on its way, passed him in the street. In turning the next corner something caught on the push cart of a fruit vendor, and spilled his wares in the street. Timothy arrived in time to hear the discussion which ensued. The injured merchant appealed to a policeman, who took down the name of the owner of the vehicle. “Mrs. Yewbrook,” the chauffeur said; the name rang sweetly in Timothy's ears. Without considering the matter at all, he turned on his heel, and retracing his way, mounted the steps up which his dryad had lately fled, and rang the bell.

“Mrs. Yewbrook,” he said to the man.

“What name, sir?”

“Oh, just say the gentleman she is expecting,” said Timothy.

While he waited, Timothy glanced around her drawing-room with interest; the effect of the room was refreshing. The extraordinary thing about those few minutes was, when he came to think about it, the perfect coolness he maintained: the beating of his heart was accelerated no more than enough to put him in a pleasant glow. But he had an odd sensation that the Timothy he had known hitherto was hovering about under the ceiling somewhere, keenly interested in observing the motions of his late tenement on the carpet below. His message to the lady proved effective, for it was only a few minutes before he heard her heels on the polished floor of the hall.

She came in with an eager look which, when she saw Timothy, changed to a flicker of dismay.

“Oh!” she said.

Timothy bowed. “Evidently I have not the happiness to be the gentleman you expected,” he said.

She coolly overlooked the bow.

“What did you mean by your message?” she asked, mildly.

“I meant it in a symbolical sense,” said Timothy quickly. “Isn't everybody expecting somebody? I didn't know any other way to get you here,” he added, more frankly.

“Well, what is it?” she asked with her disconcerting coolness.

It was provoking. Timothy paused for a twinkling to consider her. She was one of those perfectly formed women who convey an idea of slenderness. Her color scheme was one of browns. She had long eyes with a tendency to close partly, which she did not exaggerate, and a pale, clear skin with a faint cast of brown. But no amount of such details would convey her subtle attractiveness, The pure joy of being was in her face; she exhaled it through slightly parted lips with every breath; and her beautiful body seemed to linger over its motions as if reluctant to leave off that pleasure.

“I wanted to know you,” said Timothy boldly.

Her eyebrows went up discouragingly; nevertheless, Timothy thought he saw that beneath which told him his case was not hopeless. It was a small matter to him if she thought his behavior outrageous, so she liked the look of him.

“My name is Timothy Fane,” he continued. “I saw you get out of your motor just now, and I wanted to know you— terribly! Just a few steps up the street I learned your name—it seemed providential. So I came back and asked for you. I could see,” he added craftily, “that you were not the woman to be bound hand and foot by convention, but would judge me for myself.”

There was a mocking light in the partly closed eyes. “Didn't you take a good deal for granted?” she asked. “For instance, my name indicates—”

“You have no husband,” said Timothy, with quiet conviction.

The eyes opened all the way at that.

“A man bowed to you as you got off the motor,” said Timothy. “It was plain that to him you were a Possibility. Every man feels a kind of share in the women of his acquaintance until they are—secured.”

She looked at Timothy uneasily, as if she found something uncanny in the young man's penetration.

“Well, I am to marry again—soon,” she said—defiantly, it almost seemed.

“Of course,” said Timothy.

The flattering inference he managed to convey was that she was never one to be allowed to enjoy single blessedness for long.

“Are you in the habit of making these unconventional calls?” she inquired.

“I never did it before,” said Timothy, “and I don't expect it to occur again.”

“Then to what am I to ascribe the honor—” she began, with the same mocking light as before.

“You know,” said Timothy, meaningly. “You feel it as well as I. It was in your face when you came in the house. The day! And being young!”

She lowered her eyes. “Well, but I don't quite see the use,” she murmured.

This, it will be seen, was skipping a lot in the usual slow process of reaching an understanding.

Timothy did not neglect his opportunity.

“There are hours of it left!” he urged, plunging directly into the heart of the matter. “Why not make the most of it! There will never be another day quite like this or two people so well attuned to a day as you and I!”

He had progressed so far that she made no pretense of being outraged or even surprised at the linking of the pronouns.

“Anyone would think you were out of your mind,” she murmured weakly.

“But you know I'm not,” said Timothy, “because you feel the same way yourself.”

“But you can't stay here,” she objected.

“That wasn't my idea,” said Timothy, with a smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Come away with me,” he warmly urged. “We will dine at a restaurant few know of, where the tables will be set out of doors for the first time to-night. It is an humble, charming, little place—a bit of the old world transplanted. A few old artists and singers go there; you will have a glimpse of a simple, unaffected kind of life you have never known—and likely you never will know if you don't come. There will be an innocent little celebration to-night; the real thing— from the heart!—a little good music, an extra good dinner—in honor of the Spring!”

“It's impossible,” she murmured.

“It's not impossible,” said Timothy. “And you are coming! What is your name?” he demanded.

In her astonishment at the tone he used, it actually slipped out—“Clorinda.”

He rolled it over his tongue. “Clorinda Yewbrook! It tastes of the Spring!

“Surely you wouldn't send me away,” he went on, “and go back to what you did yesterday and will do again to-morrow at this time! This is a day to be your real self—you are a woman who longs to be herself!”

Again Clorinda looked at him uneasily.

“I can see it!” he said in answer to her unexpressed thought. “If you miss this opportunity you will never cease to regret it. Here's a chance to throw off the petty restrictions that hem you in! We will be honest with each other. We will talk—we will understand without talking! Come!”

Timothy paused.

Clorinda did not speak, but elaborately traced the pattern of the rug with the toe of her boot.

He saw that it was now or never.

“Come just as you are,” he said briskly. “But wear a smaller hat; the one you had on would overpower 'Riquetta. I'll bring you home as early as you like.”

Without a look or a word Clorinda turned and fled from the room.

But Timothy guessed she would come back—and she did—with her hat on.

It was true as Timothy had promised. The moment they embarked in the hansom her spirits soared, and her tongue was unleashed. She chattered like a bird, with little warblings of laughter—she made him look at the children being dragged home from the park; the men on their way up-town welcoming the sight of the trees; the Plaza with its uncouth, picturesque hotels; the endless procession of softly puffing motors; and on either hand, streaming home, the infinitely various people, a multitude of little planets revolving in their own orbits, each with a soul withdrawn and peeping from within. This and more was conveyed in half-sentences, single words, and broken exclamations; to any one but Timothy it would have been incoherent enough, but he, being charged with the same thing, was entranced with her Song of the Town.

By and by they turned into the side street, wherein his restaurant lay, the clopping on the asphalt of their steed's rubber-shod hoofs waking the characteristic echoes of quiet blocks. At the foot of the street the medieval tower of a police court rose athwart the glowing western sky, and in the foreground there was a young tree at the curb decked with emerald pendants. There was not a soul in view.

“Clorinda,” he whispered. “In honor of the Spring!”

She understood, and turned her face to his. Their lips met.

Timothy's memory of that moment is inextricably linked with the scent of the violets she wore in her girdle. It was love etherealized—not love at all so much as mere Youth communing with Youth. He never again experienced a moment of just such poignant, thoughtless bliss—nor did she.

Timothy and Clorinda were facing each other across one of the incredibly small tables placed against the high board fence of 'Riquetta's back yard. There was a strip of broad flag-stones all around the fence, with these tables at intervals, and in the center was the “garden,” ten feet square, producing a fine assortment of artificial palms. From the clothes-lines criss-crossing overhead hung several Japanese lanterns at an altitude that threatened hats, and there were some more in the branches of the single tree in the corner. On the tables between each pair of diners was a fat candle in a saucer, making a little private radius of light, sufficient for each to read the other's face by. With its splashes of color and alluring shadows, the scene was arranged for the pastels of a Degas. The three children, 'T'risita, Guilio, and Pietro, skipped about waiting on the tables, the buxom, smiling 'Riquetta overseeing all. In the hum of quickened talk and fleeting laughter which rose under the Japanese lanterns, it was easy enough to distinguish the note of Spring again.

Clorinda's small feet were firmly planted on the flagstones in front of her, and Timothy's feet encompassed them. The flickering candle on the table between them cast mysterious changing lights on her face and completed the spell it was working on Timothy. Under the blaze of his admiration her own pleasure seemed obliged to shoot out sidewise from her eyes. At once spontaneous and elusive, she reminded him of a secluded spring with the sun striking down through waving branches. They were busy with the ancient and inexhaustible subject-matter of the talk of couples.

“What is it?” Timothy demanded.

“Love is a duet,” said she. “The man sets the key in which it is to be sung, and the woman accommodates her voice to it as well as she can!”

“Good!” he said. “But like other similes, it wont [sic] bear too close an examination!”

“What would you say?” inquired Clorinda.

“Love is the paddle in the churn of life!”

Clorinda laughed. “Too general!” she said. “There are too many kinds!”

“Of churns?”

“Yes, and of love!”

“Only two kinds of love,” said Timothy. “Greek and Gothic.”

“The usual male view, I believe,” said Clorinda. “You will learn better.”

“But isn't it obvious?” he demanded. “The giddy, talkative kind, and the miserable, dumb kind! The kind that hits you a crack, and the kind that slowly undermines your constitution!”

“Look out!” said Clorinda; “you're confusing two aspects of the same thing!”

“Never!” said Timothy confidently; “oil and vinegar!”

“Which is the better kind?” queried Clorinda, mockingly.

Timothy shrugged. “Unanswerable!” he said. “I think everyone ought to know both kinds, though,” he added.

“But the better kind to marry on, I mean,” she persisted.

“Well, Gothic love is naturally the kind encouraged by the church,” said Timothy.

“Don't you think the same person could feel both kinds at once?” she asked with an innocent air.

Timothy stole a glance to see whether she meant herself or him. But her eyes had discreetly retired from observation. Anyway, he felt it incumbent on him to repudiate the implication of faithlessness.

“Certainly not!” he said.

He was going to give his reasons, when suddenly his face froze into blank astonishment, presently succeeded by a wave of anger, which in turn gave place to obvious confusion. He sharply drew his feet away from Clorinda's, and lowering his head, applied himself assiduously to his plate.

Clorinda quietly took all this in. She was aware that someone had entered the yard, and when she felt she could safely do so, she looked casually around. She saw a tall girl in white with yellow hair. She was very young and had something of a cloistral air, notwithstanding her cheeks were flushed at present, and her eyes shining. Her companion was a clergyman, a personable young man with an engaging air of mixed thoughtfulness and candor. He, too, was infected; he was a little confused, and he gazed at the pretty scene with sidelong, pleased eyes.

At the sight of these newcomers Clorinda's orbs narrowed balefully—it may have been because she detested blondes. She turned to Timothy and sought to revive their conversation. Her voice was pitched half a tone higher, and the chords seemed to be stretched. Timothy was too sunk in his own discomfiture to notice this slight change. Her efforts to arouse him were in vain. Something had pricked the bubble of his audacious gayety and the result was collapse. He was making a great pretense of eating, but Clorinda could see that each mouthful threatened to choke him. He steadfastly refused to raise his head.

Meanwhile, the newcomers seated themselves at the other side of the “garden,” where they were practically hidden from Timothy and Clorinda by the greenery, though they could still be seen with a little craning. Apparently Timothy and Clorinda, themselves, had not been discovered by the other two; the girl was chatting happily and the young clergyman's eyes were bent with a smile on the quaint Italian-English of the menu.

Clorinda turned to Timothy once more. “Look here!” she said in a new tone.

Timothy raised a pair of gloomy eyes.

“We compacted to be honest with each other,” she continued, “What's the matter?”

Timothy's eyes bolted.

“This girl,” persisted Clorinda. “Who is she?”

“We're engaged to be married,” muttered Timothy.

An odd smile folded the corners of Clorinda's lips; she bit the lower one to keep it from spreading across.

“Well, here's a pretty kettle of fish!” she exclaimed, with a quaver of laughter in her voice.

Timothy did not know with what complete knowledge she spoke.

“And I thought she was so good!” groaned Timothy. “Why, I felt as if I ought to walk on tipetoe [sic] when I came into the room where she was, and I scarcely dared raise my eyes to her face!”

“Gothic adoration, I suppose,” murmured Clorinda.

Timothy was too much engrossed with his wrongs to take notice. “And here she is with another man,” he said angrily, “deceiving me just like an old hand!”

“And you?” queried Clorinda sweetly.

Timothy had the grace to hang his head. “That's different,” he muttered. “I never pretended to be good!”

“True to his sex!” murmured Clorinda.

“You don't understand how bad it is!” he continued. 'This man is a stranger to her. I know everybody she knows, I'll swear she never met him before to-day!”

“But don't worry,” said Clorinda. “He appears to be a clergyman.”

“So much the worse!” said Timothy. “A wolf in sheep's clothing! I'll unmask him! I'll—No!” He groaned, sinking back. “What would she think of me!”

“Oh, brace up!” said Clorinda. “You were bold enough five minutes ago.”

“But I thought she was so good!” said poor Timothy.

Clorinda threw up her hands.

“But what am I to think of the look of it,” he groaned.

Clorinda's eyes snapped.

“Really,” she began, in tones of exasperation, “a man is superb in his inconsistency! If this situation will only teach you and the clergyman over there a lesson it's a good thing it was brought about.”

“Never mind him!”

“Do you suppose a girl enjoys being treated like a stained-glass window?” continued Clorinda. “How ridiculous! When the Spring got into your blood, why didn't you go to her and ask her to come out and gambol with you? Not you; you meant to wait for a spell of bad weather and then enjoy the luxury of remorse at her feet. You're all alike, you men! I've no patience with you! You, with your two kinds of love and your two kinds of women! You left her alone on a Spring day and another man came along—no doubt he'd left his stained glass window till Sunday—and here she is! It serves you right!”

“I've been a fool!” said Timothy miserably.

“Well, here is the chance to recover yourself!” said Clorinda, somewhat mollified by his meekness.

“What should I do?” he anxiously inquired.

Clorinda stared. “And I thought you were a of resource!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I know, but she's so—” began Timothy.

He observed the look in Clorinda's eye and stopped.

“They haven't seen us yet,” said Clorinda briskly, “and her back is towards the door. If you can gain the house without discovery, you can come out again, alone, as if you'd just arrived. Without exactly lying, you can let it be understood that you followed them here, and in the confusion it isn't likely you'll be found out. In any case, take her away from him. Half-measures will never do.”

“But I can't leave you,” objected Timothy.

“I'm all right,” she said. “I'll finish my dinner in peace, and then I'll get a cab. Run along! Surely I don't have to impress upon you the necessity of carrying things with a high hand. All is lost if you let the weakness of your position be seen! And take a pointer from me; scold your angel well and she'll think more of you!”

Timothy, after further protesting that he would not leave Clorinda, prepared to get up.

“Good-by, Timothy,” said Clorinda pleasantly. “Thanks for explaining to me the difference between the two kinds!”

Timothy mumbled his farewells and heat a retreat to 'Riquetta's kitchen. He had an uncomfortable sense that the honors of the scene which he had opened so well, all remained with Clorinda.

He gained the house unseen and, according to instructions, presently returned to the yard. Clorinda, in her place, smiled to see the picture of avenging virtue he made, approaching the unsuspecting Marjorie from behind. Peeping through the greenery, Clorinda saw him stop beside the girl in white and speak to her stiffly. She started to her feet and gazed at Timothy with affrighted eyes, all her innocent gayety gone. Timothy offered her his arm, and she took it mechanically, her eyes never leaving his face. Then Timothy made an elaborate bow to the astonished young clergyman—Clorinda took it he was offering an ironical apology—and carried the blonde girl, who hung her head and never once looked in the direction of her late companion, off through the house.

It was not badly done, Clorinda thought. She sat back in her chair with a little smile of approval.

Satisfying herself that the clergyman had no immediate intention of following them, she first had Pietro clear away the evidences of Timothy's occupation of her table, and then she sent a message to the forsaken young man. He had not stirred from his seat. It was not necessarily that he lacked courage, but Timothy, with his virtuous airs, had put him hopelessly in the wrong.

Meanwhile Timothy, the stern moralist, had called a hansom and deposited his erring Marjorie within amidst a chilling silence. When they got under way he undertook to point out to her the enormity of her transgressions. Marjorie drooped and clung beseechingly to his arm.

“Timothy, dearest, forgive me,” she begged. “It all happened so unexpectedly! It was such a lovely day that I felt by instinct that you would look for me in the park—at our bench—and I went there to wait for you. I was so sure you would come, and would want me to go to dinner with you that I told them I wouldn't be back.”

“Why didn't you telephone?”

“I wanted you to come of your own accord—not because you were sent for. And I waited and waited and you didn't come. And a little boy fell in the lake and Mr. Bowden—”

“The parson!”

“Yes, he's not a bit like a clergyman, really—”

“Well, never mind that.”

“He came running up and we fished the boy out together. And we had to take him to the arsenal where he could dry his clothes. And then Mr. Bowden walked back to the bench with me—and still you didn't come. And we sat and talked—and it was getting late. And—and he said we'd better have something to eat. And he was so nice—and jolly—and a clergyman, Timothy—”

Timothy said nothing.

“And I thought it wouldn't be any harm. Besides—this is the terrible part of it—I was just longing to have some fun! And you always expect me to be so serious—and he didn't, not a bit!”

“Damn!” said 'Timothy.

“Oh, I'm so ashamed. I didn't know I had such dreadful possibilities!”

“Possibilities?” said Timothy, anxiously. “What else happened?”

“I've told you everything,” she said

“You didn't drive down in a cab?” he demanded.

“No, we rode in the elevated,” she said. “Why?”

“Never mind,” said Timothy. “I'll forgive you,” he said magnanimously. “But the next time you feel that way,” he added grimly, “'phone me!”

Ten minutes later a second hansom drove away from 'Riquetta's carrying a pretty woman in brown and a young clergyman. In this case it was the man who pleaded.

“Clorinda, can you ever forgive me!” he was saying. “I don't know what got into me to-day! The sunshine—or what ever it was—filled me with a kind of turbulence—I couldn't work—and I didn't feel as if I ought to come to you when I felt that way. You are so good!”

Clorinda wiggled her shoulders impatiently.

“I thought I could walk it off. I went to the park, but the greenery—the sky—only made me worse. Good Heavens! Clorinda, I was aghast at myself! Every woman attracted me—every pretty one, I mean! And when I saw that girl sitting on a bench—such an appealing picture! And she was inspired by the day, too! And an accident brought us together! Afterwards I lingered. And the recollection of 'Riquetta's haunted me—one of my classmates is always talking about it. And before I well knew it, we were on our way there!”

“Did you go in a hansom?” asked Clorinda.

“No, the elevated,” he replied.

“You are almost human,” said Clorinda.

“What do you mean?” he anxiously inquired.

“Ask me to go to 'Riquetta's next time, and we'll thrash the matter out!”