II
At four o’clock next day he called at Kiki’s house, shy at its splendor.
“What do you suppose I’ve been doing all day,” she said. “Reading the papers—the sporting section. Have you seen this?
David was a lineman. And there was not one Goliath but seven. That’s what they are saying at New Haven today after one of the hardest fought games in the sixty years of the Yale-Harvard series. A one hundred and fifty-nine pound guard stole the spotlight from the fleet backs—
“It can’t be me,” he said lightly, “I weighed a hundred and fifty-seven. And let’s not play that. I came to see you—I spent all morning explaining to someone where I was last night.”
—He must have many girls, she thought. Aloud she said:
“I’m interested in what we talked about at dinner. It’s ridiculous that they don’t pay you money for what you can do.”
“The bowl would be full whether I was there or not—they’ve managed to carry on without me for sixty years.”
“Full for the big games, yes—but not for every game. I’ll bet you’ll make them thousands of dollars extra.”
“Oh no, I’m just one man out of eleven.”
“The papers say you were the whole team.”
“Oh no—it just looks that way because after the first plays I can usually tell where they’re going.”
Then suddenly, to Kiki’s eyes, Rip’s corporeal person began to grow dim, literally to fade away to the end of a long perspective. And she was alone there with Considine who had just walked into the room.
For a moment she was numb, and so controlled by her most intimate instincts that if he had come up to her she would have risen and walked like a stunned fighter into his arms. But the indirect consequences of yesterday decided the matter—he was overwrought and desperate and even more unfit than Kiki to cope with the situation. Not perceiving himself the wild relief that sprang into her eyes he talked words, words that were like bricks, building up a wall between them.
… I’ve got to see you for a minute … everything was such a mess… before I leave for Greece… explain why I was so absurd…
—And as he stood there, blind and fumbling, the expression faded from Kiki’s eyes and hurt and humiliation surged back over her. When he did look at her she was as steely and formidable as her voice.
“This is Mr. Van Kamp… I’m sorry but I can’t see you now— There’s nothing I want to discuss, Alex. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Incredulously he looked at Van Kamp, realizing his presence for the first time. Then, perceiving too late that this was not a matter for words, but rather a struggle against what had been said, he went toward her—and just as quickly she retreated, as if revolted by his proximity. Even Rip bristled slightly and Alex stopped, his half raised arms falling to his side.
“I’ll write you,” he whispered. “This is such an awful mistake.”
“It might have been,” she said. “Please go away.”
He was gone—and for a minute, in the awful reverberating thunder of his absence, she looked toward the door thinking that he had come back, that he couldn’t stop loving her, that she might have forgotten everything in his arms. A great shiver went over her—then she turned to Rip and answered a question he had just asked.
“Yes, that was the man.”
“He looks awful sorry.”
“Let’s not talk about him. I don’t know him any more. Come here, Rip.”
“Here?”
“Don’t put your arms around me. Just sit where I can look at you.” She was like a stifling person come to a window for air. Thinking with grim pleasure how intensely Alex would have disapproved, she said:
“Rip, in Hollywood there are dozens of people your age without half your good looks, making fortunes.”
“You think I ought to go in the movies?”
“No, you ought to stay in college. But you ought to get a great deal of money for this thing you can do better than anyone else—and save it up for the time when other people can do things better than you.”
“You think I’ll end up as a night watchman or something?” He frowned. “I’m not so stupid—I’ve thought of that. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”
“It’s kind of sad, Rip.”
“But of course you can’t be sure of anything. There must be a place in the world for people like me.”
“There is, I’m sure of that—but you ought to start now to build it. I’m going to help you. Don’t worry—I won’t fall in love with you.”
“Oh, you won’t?”
“Certainly not—I’ve been thrown over once and I haven’t faintly recovered—if I ever do.” She moved away from him gently. “Please stop. Don’t you understand that was last night, it wasn’t even me—you don’t even know me, Rip, and maybe you never will.”
III
That winter there were many men for Kiki, but her heart was empty and she paid them off in deflated currency. As if asleep she walked through a February inspection of the colleges, but at New Haven she opened her eyes long enough to search for Rip Van Kamp through the swirling crowd, and not finding him sent him a message to his room. Next day they strolled through a light blinding snow, and his face, statuesque against the winter sky, brought a sudden renewal of delight.
“Where were you last night?” she demanded.
“I haven’t got a white tie and tails.”
“How ridiculous!” she exclaimed impatiently. “But I’ve got my plans for you—gross material ones. I think I’ve found you an angel. Wait till you hear.”
Sitting in his study before a wood fire she told him.
“It’s a man named Gittings, class of 1903, a friend of the family. Well, last month he was staying with us and one day I found him writing something very mysterious that he tucked away when I came in. I had to find out what it was and I did. It was a list of names—Ketcham, Kelley, Kilpatrick, and so forth—and he finally confessed it was a football team made up of old Yale players whose names began with K. He told me that whenever he had a little time to kill he chose a letter of the alphabet and picked a team. I knew right away that we had our man.”
“But even if he got down to the letter V,” said Rip, “I can’t see how—”
“Don’t be dumb—football’s his passion, don’t you see? He’s a little crazy on the subject.”
“He must be.”
“—And he ought to be willing to pay for his fun—I mean pay you.”
“I certainly appreciate your interest.”
“You don’t—you think I’m pretty fresh, but you don’t know all yet: I’ve started the ball rolling. I’ve planted the seed in his mind. I told him you’d been offered a lot of money to go to college out West—”
He jumped to his feet.
“Be calm, Rip. Though I must say Mr. Gittings wasn’t. He stormed around yelling that it was criminal. Finally he asked who the offer was from—but I thought I’d better stop there. Are you angry?”
“Why no—but would you mind telling me why you’re doing all this?”
“I don’t know, Rip—maybe it’s a sort of revenge.”
They walked over the old campus through the early twilight and she stopped where a bracket lamp made a yellow square on the blue snow.
“You’ve got to use intelligent self-interest.” She said, as if to herself, “For one thing it’ll help you get the girl you want, when you decide you want a girl.”
“I’ve never known a girl like you,” he said, “After I left you last fall I couldn’t stop thinking about you, even when you told me it didn’t mean a thing.”
“Did I say that?”
She looked very lovely and he told her about her cheeks.
“So pretty. Very white.”
“So are yours.”
They took a step together out of the light and their faces touched in the frosty darkness.
“Somebody’s waiting for me at the Taft, Rip,” she said. “Come to our house in New York next Saturday afternoon. Mr. Gittings will be there.”
IV
In spite of his alphabetical football teams, Mr. Cedric Gittings was not soft-minded. He was one of the many Americans whose mother had liked Little Lord Fauntleroy and the sportive ideas that obsessed him at fifty were a simple and natural reaction. Every autumn the eleven young men who ran out on the football field of a crisp Saturday represented something very lovely to him that he had not found in life.
He was glad to meet Rip—honored and impressed.
“That was a beautiful game,” he said. “It seems I grabbed the feathers from a lady’s hat and threw them in the air. I think I went after the feathers because when you made that touchdown I felt light as a bird. When we lose it makes me physically sick. Tell me, young man, what’s this about your leaving college?”
Kiki spoke up:
“Rip doesn’t want to leave—it would almost break his heart—but he hasn’t any money. And anyhow, Yale won’t have much of a team next year.”
“Why, of course they will,” exclaimed Mr. Gittings.
Kiki looked hard at Rip who said obediently, “There’s not much in the line.”
“There’s you, man—you’re a line in
