E-text prepared by Al Haines
A Romance
by
HAROLD MacGRATH
New York
Doubleday Page & Company
1905
Copyright, 1899, by
S. S. Mcclure Co.
Copyright, 1899, by
Doubleday and Mcclure Co.
To her, that is to say, to the hand that rocked the cradle.
The first time I met her I was a reporter in the embryonic state andshe was a girl in short dresses. It was in a garden, surrounded byhigh red brick walls which were half hidden by clusters of green vines,and at the base of which nestled earth-beds, radiant with roses andpoppies and peonies and bushes of lavender lilacs, all spilling theirdelicate ambrosia on the mild air of passing May. I stood, straw hatin hand, wondering if I had not stumbled into some sweet prison offlowers which, having run disobedient ways in the past, had been placedhere by Flora, and forever denied their native meadows andwildernesses. And this vision of fresh youth in my path, perhaps shewas some guardian nymph. I was only twenty-two—a most impressionableage. Her hair was like that rare October brown, half dun, half gold;her eyes were cool and restful, like the brown pools one sees in theheart of the forests, and her lips and cheeks cozened the warmvermilion of the rose which lay ever so lightly on the bosom of herwhite dress. Close at hand was a table upon which stood a pitcher oflemonade. She was holding in her hand an empty glass. As my eyesencountered her calm, inquiring gaze, my courage fled precipitately,likewise the object of my errand. There was a pause; diffidence andembarrassment on my side, placidity on hers.
"Well, sir?" said she, in a voice the tone of which implied that shecould readily understand her presence in the garden, but not mine.
As I remember it, I was suddenly seized with a great thirst.
"I should like a glass of your lemonade," I answered, bravely layingdown the only piece of money I possessed.
Her stern lips parted in a smile, and my courage came back cautiously,that is to say, by degrees. She filled a glass for me, and as I gulpedit down I could almost detect the flavor of lemon and sugar.
"It is very good," I volunteered, passing back the glass. I held outmy hand, smiling.
"There isn't any change," coolly.
I flushed painfully. It was fully four miles to Newspaper Row. I wasconscious of a sullen pride. Presently the object of my errandreturned. Somewhat down the path I saw a gentleman reclining in acanvas swing.
"Is that Mr. Wentworth?" I asked.
"Yes. Do you wish to speak to him? Uncle Bob, here is a gentleman whodesires to speak to you."
I approached. "Mr. Wentworth," I began, cracking the straw in my hat,"my name is John Winthrop. I am a reporter. I have called to see ifit is true that you have declined the Italian portfolio."
"It is true," he replied kindly. "There are any number of reasons formy declining it, but I cannot make them public. Is that all?"
"Yes, sir; thank you;" and I backed away.
"Are you a reporter?" asked the girl, as I was about to pass by her.
"Yes, I am."
"Do you draw pictures?"
"No, I do not."
"Do you write novels?"
"No," with a nervous laugh.
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