Short Fiction · The Facts In The Curious Case Of H Hyrtl Esq (2/8)

II

The next morning Hugh was hard at work gain. The painting before him was a wonder to behold. It represented a hall, similar to the interior of a temple⁠—one in which fluted columns rose and met the dome; about it ran a gallery, and there, Heliogabalus, a painted boy of fifteen, lounged and laughed; near him were the magi come from afar to witness the nuptials of the Sun and Moon; opposite were musicians, and a little beyond a group of slaves were emptying huge baskets of lilies on the assembled guests beneath. Some of the latter, in flowers up to the waist, were trying to escape, but the door was barred. Others, aided by yellow couches, were trying to scale the wall and reach the gallery above, and on these a steady rain of red and white buds descended. In a corner, an avalanche of roses and violets had fallen, and from it men were struggling, their arms crooked, their eyes dilated. From the dome a glare of sunlight smote the purple draperies, danced on the sea of flowers and put a rainbow in the air. It was very gorgeous, a riot of splendid color, and to Hugh it meant nothing less than an encounter with that gracious lady whose name is Fame.

He was at work then on the sigma of gold on which the little emperor lounged, and that gold he was endeavoring to marry harmoniously with the brass of the trumpets and the crocus of the harps. The night before, on his return after a long tramp through Central Park, he had determined not to look again at the window across the court; for to look was to fall in love, and to fall in love meant “Fame, farewell!” and also “Starvation, welcome!” In spite of which, however, no sooner was his light extinguished than he took a look. Save a single star that glowed and glimmered, there was not a thing to be seen. Thereupon, with all the strength of virtuous resolutions, he had wrapped himself in slumber and dreams of her. And now on this particular morning, he had not tried more than ten or a dozen times to see if she were there.

The sigma was done, its gold properly married with the crocus and brass, and Hugh was about to get to work on a heap of lilies and hyacinths when a fresh incident occurred. Someone was knocking at the door.

“Come in!” Hugh cried, without looking round. It was Mrs. O’Hassadam, he was sure.

But though he heard the door open, he heard nothing that indicated the presence of that lady; no rich, loud greeting and rustle of broom. He turned his head. On the threshold stood a man, very gaunt and sickly, a man who looked as though he had a bad digestion and a worse conscience; he seemed feeble, too, timorous and apologetic. His coat would not have caused envy in the heart of a backwoodsman, and his trousers were elaborately patched. One foot was shod with a slipper, the other with a shoe; both were rusty, and the man himself exhaled an indefinable odor of must and decay. At a glance Hugh recognized the cross old person who, the day before, had shut the opposite window with a bang.

“H’m!” he mused. “He’s going to call me to account for flirting with his daughter. Well, let him. Who’s afraid?”

“We are neighbors, sir,” the old man began, with a stealthy air and a covert look about him.

“Take a seat, I pray you,” said Hugh, politely.

“And being neighbors, I thought I would venture to call.”

“A compliment which does me much honor, and one which I trust you will permit me to repay,” Hugh answered, with a fine flourish. “Be seated, I beg of you.”

“You are a stranger here,” the old man added, thoughtfully; “but I have lived in this house for the past ten years.”

“Dear me!”

“Yes; ten years. I came here when my daughter Jenny was eight years old, and she is just eighteen today. She hasn’t always lived here, though. Until a few months ago she was away at school. She is a good girl, sir.”

To this statement Hugh nodded approvingly.

“It’s dull for her, very. She has no friends of her own age. I have not let her associate with the people hereabouts, and, as for myself, I am not much of a companion for a lass like her. Am I?”

Hugh tried his best to look complimentary. He failed, however, and said nothing. But the old man’s eyes were fixed on the floor and he ran on, unheeding:

“No, I am not, and she hasn’t any relatives, either. I am the last of my race. I am a Sisseton, and my brother Paul was killed at my side in the war. My wife, she died before I came here. So it’s dull for her, you see, very; and this being her birthday and you being a stranger, I just thought I might ask would you spend the evening with us?”

“Why, my dear Mr. Sisseton, nothing on earth, no, absolutely nothing could give me greater pleasure.”

“Well, then, that is settled. There will be some cake, and I don’t promise it, but there may be a glass of sweet wine.”

“I adore cake,” Hugh fairly shouted. “As for wine, I never touch it.”

“Don’t you, now?” And the old man looked up very sharply at Hugh. “Well, well, I have heard as much. I have heard⁠—But there, never mind. It’s settled, then, is it? We may expect you at eight?”

“To the minute, Mr. Sisseton.”

But he spoke to the walls. The old man had disappeared as in a trap, closing the door noiselessly as he went, and Hugh returned to his lilies.

The work progressed slowly enough after that, for between the canvas and the brush every now and again a face would appear⁠—one that was neither Roman nor Syrian, a bewilderment of yellow hair, blue eyes, kissable lips and a complexion of roses and cream.

“I am in luck,” Hugh decided. And had he not reached the austere age of three-and-twenty I promise you he would have danced for joy.

The afternoon took itself away. At six o’clock Hugh began touching up the dimmed splendor of a pair of patent-leather pumps which he found wrapped in an old newspaper at the bottom of his trunk. He got out his best coat and brushed it carefully; he got out a very large neckcloth, which he tied with the nicety of a geometrician; there was, he discovered, a crease still in his trousers, there was a pair of gloves that still could be worn, and⁠—though you or I would have expected to be cut dead by our best beloved had we dared to wear such a hat as his⁠—when he went out that evening for dinner no nicer, fresher, handsomer young fellow ever strode through Tompkins Square. Nevertheless, at one minute before eight precisely, when this hero of a midspring night rapped on an old man’s door his hand was trembling and he blushed like a girl.

It sounds like a phrase in a novel to say that the room into which he was then ushered was scrupulously neat, but it would take a maker of dainty ballads to describe its sweetness and simplicity. Barring the old man, who would have been a blur on a desert, there was not a thing in it that jarred. Two windows, which looked on the street, were hung with lace, which was imitation, of course, yet brilliantly white, and these curtains were looped to the wall with strips of canary silk that had probably come from a cigar-box. There were four chairs unconventionally arranged. There was one small table on which there was a large cake. There was another on which there was a lamp and a pink shade. On the walls were two colored lithographs, unframed, that were recognizedly supplements of a London weekly. In the air was the scent of innocence, and on one of the chairs, blushing like mad, sat the prettiest little girl in the world.

Hugh distinguished himself at once by tripping over a mat, and so confused was he that when his host mumbled some form of introduction he awkwardly stretched his hand and as awkwardly withdrew it.

“And are you very well, sir?” the young woman inquired, her head held a trifle to one side and in her eyes a manifest delight at finding him more embarrassed than herself.

Hugh declared that he had never felt better in his life. The young woman, in reply to a question which he then addressed, announced that her own health was perfect; the old man, duly interrogated, answered in the same strain, and then all three earnestly discussed the weather. Presently there was cake and lemonade, which Hugh lauded to the skies. Never had he eaten such ambrosia, never had he sipped such nectar; and, in the enthusiasm of the moment, he consented to play poker for imaginary stakes⁠—a game at which, at the expiration of an hour, he had lost not a penny less than two million dollars. At one moment, however, during the progress of the play he had everything in his own favor. A rap had come on the door, and the old man had jumped as though a dog under the table had bitten him on the leg. “Don’t let anyone in,” he beseeched. “Say I have moved; say I am dead. Here, let me get into the other room.” And with that he had risen, his face contracted, shaking in every limb. But already Jenny had gone to the door. It was a mistake, she announced. A visitor for another tenant. Thus reassured, gradually the old man’s calm returned and the game continued. When it was done, there was more ambrosia, more nectar, more small-talk, and, finally, the inevitable good night.

After Hugh had gone, father and daughter sat awhile in silence. Suddenly Jenny jumped to her feet and threw her arms about the old man’s neck.

“My darling papa, I love you!”

But what she meant by that absurd demonstration she did not wait to explain. She was out of the room and in her own in a second.

The old man heard her door close, and, taking the lamp, went to an anjoining chamber. It contained a bed, a chair, a bureau and a trunk. He put the lamp on the bureau and moved the bed. Then, kneeling down, he raised a plank from the floor and extracted a package wrapped in oilskin. This, with tender care, he opened, and drew out a bill of the nation of the value of one thousand dollars. Presently he drew out another of the game denomination, then a third, a fourth, until finally be had counted eighty-seven. And it would have been curious if he had not, for he had gone through the same operation almost seven thousand three hundred times⁠—that is to say, twice a day for nearly ten years.