Temple Bailey - The Gay Cockade

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[Illustration: AND HERE, DAY AFTER DAY, HE SAT ALONE]

THE
GAY COCKADE

BY
TEMPLE BAILEY

AUTHOR OF
THE TRUMPETER SWAN,
THE TIN SOLDIER, Etc.

FRONTISPIECE BY
C.E. CHAMBERS

[Illustration]

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT
1921 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

[Illustration]

Manufacturing
Plant
Camden, N.J.

Made in U.S.A.

The Gay Cockade

For permission to reprint some of the stories in this volume, the author
is indebted to the courtesy of the editors of _Harper's Magazine_,
_Scribner's Magazine_, _Collier's Magazine_, _Ladies' Home Journal_,
_Saturday Evening Post_, _Good Housekeeping_, and _Harper's Bazar_.

Contents

THE GAY COCKADE 7

THE HIDDEN LAND 33

WHITE BIRCHES 84

THE EMPEROR'S GHOST 118

THE RED CANDLE 132

RETURNED GOODS 149

BURNED TOAST 165

PETRONELLA 187

THE CANOPY BED 205

SANDWICH JANE 223

LADY CRUSOE 272

A REBELLIOUS GRANDMOTHER 310

WAIT--FOR PRINCE CHARMING 327

BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 351

THE GAY COCKADE

THE GAY COCKADE

From the moment that Jimmie Harding came into the office, he created an
atmosphere. We were a tired lot. Most of us had been in the government
service for years, and had been ground fine in the mills of departmental
monotony.

But Jimmie was young, and he wore his youth like a gay cockade. He
flaunted it in our faces, and because we were so tired of our dull and
desiccated selves, we borrowed of him, remorselessly, color and
brightness until, gradually, in the light of his reflected glory, we
seemed a little younger, a little less tired, a little less petrified.

In his gay and gallant youth there was, however, a quality which partook
of earlier times. He should, we felt, have worn a feather in his
cap--and a cloak instead of his Norfolk coat. He walked with a little
swagger, and stood with his hand on his hip, as if his palm pressed the
hilt of his sword. If he ever fell in love, we told one another, he
would, without a doubt, sing serenades and apostrophize the moon.

He did fall in love before he had been with us a year. His love-affair
was a romance for the whole office. He came among us every morning
glorified; he left us in the afternoon as a knight enters upon a quest.

He told us about the girl. We pictured her perfectly before we saw her,
as a little thing, with a mop of curled brown hair; an oval face,
pearl-tinted; wide, blue eyes. He dwelt on all her small
perfections--the brows that swept across her forehead in a thin black
line, the transparency of her slender hands, the straight set of her
head on her shoulders, the slight halt in her speech like that of an
enchanting child.

Yet she was not in the least a child. "She holds me up to my best, Miss
Standish," Jimmie told me; "she says I can write."

We knew that Jimmie had written a few things, gay little poems that he
showed us now and then in the magazines. But we had not taken them at
all seriously. Indeed, Jimmie had not taken them seriously himself.

But now he took them seriously. "Elise says that I can do great things.
That I must get out of the Department."

To the rest of us, getting out of the government service would have
seemed a mad adventure. None of us would have had the courage to
consider it. But it seemed a natural thing that Jimmie should fare forth
on the broad highway--a modern D'Artagnan, a youthful Quixote, an Alan
Breck--!

We hated to have him leave. But he had consolation. "Of course you'll
come and see us. We're going back to my old house in Albemarle. It's a
rotten shack, but Elise says it will be a corking place for me to write.
And you'll all come down for week-ends."

We felt, I am sure, that it was good of him to ask us, but none of us
expected that we should ever go. We had a premonition that Elise
wouldn't want the deadwood of Jimmie's former Division. I know that for
myself, I was content to think of Jimmie happy in his old house. But I
never really expected to see it. I had reached the point of expecting
nothing except the day's work, my dinner at the end, a night's sleep,
and the same thing over again in the morning.

Yet Jimmie got all of us down, not long after he was married, to what he
called a housewarming. He had inherited a few pleasant acres in
Virginia, and the house was two hundred years old. He had never lived in
it until he came with Elise. It was in rather shocking condition, but
Elise had managed to make it habitable by getting it scrubbed very
clean, and by taking out everything that was not in keeping with the
oldness and quaintness. The resulting effect was bare but beautiful.
There were a great many books, a few oil-portraits, mahogany sideboards
and tables and four-poster beds, candles in sconces and in branched
candlesticks. They were married in April, and when we went down in June
poppies were blowing in the wide grass spaces, and honeysuckle rioting
over the low stone walls. I think we all felt as if we had passed
through purgatory and had entered heaven. I know I did, because this was
the kind of thing of which I had dreamed, and there had been a time when
I, too, had wanted to write.

The room in which Jimmie wrote was in a little detached house, which had
once been the office of his doctor grandfather. He had his typewriter
out there, and a big desk, and from the window in front of his desk he
could look out on green slopes and the distant blue of mountain ridges.

We envied him and told him so.

"Well, I don't know," Jimmie said. "Of course I'll get a lot of work
done. But I'll miss your darling old heads bending over the other
desks."

"You couldn't work, Jimmie," Elise reminded him, "with other people in
the room."

"Perhaps not. Did I tell you old dears that I am going to write a play?"

That was, it seems, what Elise had had in mind for him from the
beginning--a great play!

"She wouldn't even, have a honeymoon"--Jimmie's arm was around her; "she
brought me here, and got this room ready the first thing."

"Well, he mustn't be wasting time," said Elise, "must he? Jimmie's
rather wonderful, isn't he?"

They seemed a pair of babies as they stood there together. Elise had on
a childish one-piece pink frock, with sleeves above the elbow, and an
organdie sash. Yet, intuitively, the truth came to me--she was ages
older than Jimmie in spite of her twenty years to his twenty-four. Here
was no Juliet, flaming to the moon--no mistress whose steed would gallop
by wind-swept roads to midnight trysts. Here was, rather, the cool blood
that had sacrificed a honeymoon--_and, oh, to honeymoon with Jimmie
Harding_!--for the sake of an ambitious future.

She was telling us about it "We can always have a honeymoon, Jimmie and
I. Some day, when he is famous, we'll have it. But now we must not."

"I picked out the place"--Jimmie was eager--"a dip in the hills, and big
pines--And then Elise wouldn't."

We went in to lunch after that. The table was lovely and the food
delicious. There was batter-bread, I remember, and an omelette, and peas
from the garden.

Duncan Street and I talked all the way home of Jimmie and his wife. He
didn't agree with me in the least about Elise. "She'll be the making of
him. Such wives always are."

But I held that he would lose something,--that he would not be the same
Jimmie.

* * * * *

Jimmie wrote plays and plays. In between he wrote pot-boiling books. The
pot-boilers were needed, because none of his plays were accepted. He
used to stop in our office and joke about it.

"If it wasn't for Elise's faith in me, Miss Standish, I should think
myself a poor stick. Of course, I can make money enough with my books
and short stuff to keep things going, but it isn't just money that
either of us is after."

Except when Jimmie came into the office we saw very little of him. Elise
gathered about her the men and women who would count in Jimmie's future.
The week-ends in the still old house drew not a few famous folk who
loathed the commonplaceness of convivial atmospheres. Elise had
old-fashioned flowers in her garden, delectable food, a library of old
books. It was a heavenly change for those who were tired of cocktail
parties, bridge-madness, illicit love-making. I could never be quite
sure whether Elise really loved dignified living for its own sake, or
whether she was sufficiently discriminating to recognize the kind of
bait which would lure the fine souls whose presence gave to her
hospitality the stamp of exclusiveness.

They had a small car, and it was when Jimmie motored up to Washington
that we saw him. He had a fashion of taking us out to lunch, two at a
time. When he asked me, he usually asked Duncan Street. Duncan and I
have worked side by side for twenty-five years. There is nothing in the
least romantic about our friendship, but I should miss him if he were to
die or to resign from office. I have little fear of the latter
contingency. Only death, I feel, will part us.

In our moments of reunion Jimmie always talked a great deal about
himself. The big play was, he said, in the back of his mind. "Elise says
that I can do it," he told us one day over our oysters, "and I am
beginning to think that I can. I say, why can't you old dears in the
office come down for Christmas, and I'll read you what I've written."

We were glad to go. There were to be no other guests, and I found out
afterward that Elise rarely invited any of their fashionable friends
down in winter. The place showed off better in summer with the garden,
and the vines hiding all deficiencies.

We arrived in a snow-storm on Christmas Eve, and when we entered the
house there was a roaring fire on the hearth. I hadn't seen a fire like
that for thirty years. You may know how I felt when I knelt down in
front of it and warmed my hands.

The candles in sconces furnished the only other illumination. Elise,
moving about the shadowy room, seemed to draw light to herself. She wore
a flame-colored velvet frock and her curly hair was tucked into a golden
net. I think that she had planned the medieval effect deliberately, and
it was a great success. As she flitted about like a brilliant bird, our
eyes followed her. My eyes, indeed, drank of her, like new wine. I have
always loved color, and my life has been drab.

I spoke of her frock when she showed me my room.

"Oh, do you like it?" she asked. "Jimmie hates to see me in dark things.
He says that when I wear this he can see his heroine."

"Is she like you?"

"Not a bit. She is rather untamed. Jimmie does her very well. She
positively gallops through the play."

"And do you never gallop?"

She shook her head. "It's a good thing that I don't. If I did, Jimmie
would never write. He says that I keep his nose to the grindstone. It
isn't that, but I love him too much to let him squander his talent. If
he had no talent, I should love him without it. But, having it, I must
hold him up to it."

She was very sure of herself, very sure of the rightness of her attitude
toward Jimmie. "I know how great he is," she said, as we went down, "and
other people don't. So I've got to prove it."

* * * * *

It was at dinner that I first noticed a change in Jimmie. It was a
change which was hard to define. Yet I missed something in him--the
enthusiasm, the buoyancy, the almost breathless radiance with which he
had rekindled our dying fires. Yet he looked young enough and happy
enough as he sat at the table in his velvet studio coat, with his crisp,
burnt-gold hair catching the light of the candles. He and his wife were
a handsome pair. His manner to her was perfect. There could be no
question of his adoration.

After dinner we had the tree. It was a young pine set up at one end of
the long dining-room, and lighted in the old fashion by red wax candles.
There were presents on it for all of us. Jimmie gave me an adorably
illustrated _Mother Goose_.

"You are the only other child here, Miss Standish," he said, as he
handed it to me. "I saw this in a book-shop, and couldn't resist it."

We looked over the pictures together. They were enchanting. All the
bells of old London rang out for a wistful Whittington in a ragged
jacket; Bo-Peep in panniers and pink ribbons wailed for her historic
sheep; Mother Hubbard, quaint in a mammoth cap, pursued her fruitless
search for bones. There was, too, an entrancing Boy Blue who wound his
horn, a sturdy darling with his legs planted far apart and distended
rosy cheeks.

"That picture is worth the price of the whole book," said Jimmie, and
hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. "There should be
children in this old house."

I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many
gifts--exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends--a
wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade
with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of
rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball
on a bronze base--all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the
things I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags,
and pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that
whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And Jimmie
wanted these things, but Elise didn't. She was perfectly content with
her elegant trifles.

It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow
everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A
great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold
on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie's writing quarters were
even more attractive in December than in June.

Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort
of prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had
even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. And
here, day after day, he sat alone--as an artist must sit if he is to
achieve--_es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille_.

We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had
a cushion on the floor at Jimmie's feet.

He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at me.
"What do you think of it?"

I had to tell the truth. "It isn't your masterpiece."

He ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous gesture. "I told
Elise that it wasn't."

"But the girl"--Elise's gaze held hot resentment--"is wonderful. Surely
you can see that."

"She doesn't seem quite real."

"Then Jimmie shall make her real." Elise laid her hand lightly on her
husband's shoulder. Her gown and golden net were all flame and sparkle,
but her voice was cold. "He shall make her real."

"No"--it seemed to me that as he spoke Jimmie drew away from her
hand--"I am not going to rewrite it, Elise. I'm tired of it."

"Jimmie!"

"I'm tired of it--"

"Finish it, and then you'll be free--"

"Shall I ever be free?" He stood up and turned his head from side to
side, as if he sought some way of escape. "Shall I ever be free? I
sometimes think that you and I will stick to this old house until we
grow as dry as dust. I want to live, Elise! I want to live--!"

* * * * *

But Elise was not ready to let Jimmie live. To her, Jimmie the artist was
more than Jimmie the lover. I may have been unjust, but she seemed to me
a sort of mental vampire, who was sucking Jimmie's youth. Duncan Street
snorted when I told him what I thought. Elise was a pretty woman, and a
pretty woman in the eyes of men can do no wrong.

"You'll see," I said, "what she'll do to him."

The situation was to me astounding. Here was Life holding out its hands
to Elise, glory of youth demanding glorious response, and she,
incredibly, holding back. In spite of my gray hair and stiff figure, I
am of the galloping kind, and my soul followed Jimmie Harding's in its
quest for freedom.

But there was one thing that Elise could not do. She could not make
Jimmie rewrite his play. "I'll come to it some day," he said, "but not
yet. In the meantime I'll see what I can do with books."

He did a great deal with books, so that he wrote several best-sellers.
This eased the financial situation and they might have had more time for
things. But Elise still kept him at it. She wanted to be the wife of a
great man.

Yet as the years went on, Duncan and I began to wonder if her hopes
would be realized. Jimmie wrote and wrote. He was successful in a
commercial sense, but fame did not come to him. There was gray in his
burnt-gold hair; his shoulders acquired a scholarly droop, and he wore
glasses on a black ribbon. It was when he put on glasses that I began to
feel a thousand years old. Yet always when he was away from me I thought
of him as the Jimmie whose youth had shone with blinding radiance.

His constancy to Duncan and to me began to take on a rather pathetic
quality. The others in the office drifted gradually out of his life.
Some of them died, some of them resigned, some of them worked on, plump
or wizened parodies of their former selves. I was stouter than ever, and
stiffer, and the top of Duncan's head was a shining cone. And the one
interesting thing in our otherwise dreary days was Jimmie.

"You're such darling old dears," was his pleasant way of putting it.

But Duncan dug up the truth for me. "We knew him before he wrote. He
gets back to that when he is with us."

I had grown to hate Elise. It was not a pleasant emotion, and I am not
sure that she really deserved it. But Duncan hated her, too. "You're
right," he said one day when we had lunched with Jimmie; "she's sucked
him dry." Jimmie had been unusually silent. He had laughed little. He
had tapped the table with his finger, and had kept his eyes on his
finger. He had been absent-minded. "She has sucked him dry," said
Duncan, with great heat.

But she hadn't. That was the surprising thing. Just as we were all
giving up hope of Jimmie's proving himself something more than a hack,
he did the great thing and the wonderful thing that years ago Elise had
prophesied. His play, "The Gay Cockade," was accepted by a New York
manager, and after the first night the world went wild about it.

I had helped Jimmie with the name. I had spoken once of youth as a gay
cockade. "That's a corking title," Jimmie had said, and had written it
in his note-book.

When his play was put in rehearsal, Duncan and I were there to see. We
took our month's leave, traveled to New York, and stayed at an
old-fashioned boarding-house in Washington Square. Every day we went to
the theatre. Elise was always there, looking younger than ever in the
sables bought with Jimmie's advance royalty, and with various gowns and
hats which were the by-products of his best-sellers.

The part of the heroine of "The Gay Cockade" was taken by Ursula Simms.
She was, as those of you who have seen her know, a Rosalind come to
life. With an almost boyish frankness she combined feminine witchery.
She had glowing red hair, a voice that was gay and fresh, a temper that
was hot. She galloped through the play as Jimmie had meant that she
should gallop in that first poor draft which he had read to us in
Albemarle, and it was when I saw Ursula in rehearsal that I realized
what Jimmie had done--he had embodied in his heroine all the youth that
he had lost--she stood for everything that Elise had stolen from
him--for the wildness, the impetuosity, the passion which swept away
prudence and went neck to nothing to fulfilment.

Indeed, the whole play partook of the madness of youth. It bubbled over.
Everybody galloped to a rollicking measure. We laughed until we cried.
But there was more than laughter in it. There was the melancholy which
belongs to tender years set in exquisite contrast to the prevailing
mirth.

Jimmie had a great deal to do with the rehearsals. Several times he
challenged Ursula's reading of the part.

"You must not give your kisses with such ease," he told her upon one
occasion; "the girl in the play has never been kissed."

She shrugged her shoulders and ignored him. Again he remonstrated.
"She's frank and free," he said. "Make her that. Make her that. Men must
fight for her favors."

She came to it at last, helped by that Rosalind-like quality in herself.
She was young, as he had wanted Elise to be, clean-hearted,
joyous--girlhood at its best.

Gradually Jimmie ceased to suggest. He would sit beside us in the
dimness of the empty auditorium, and watch her as if he drank her in.
Now and then he would laugh a little, and say, under his breath: "How
did I ever write it? How did it ever happen?"

Elise, on the other side of him, said, at last, "I knew you could do it,
Jimmie."

"You thought I could do great things. You never knew I could do--this--"

It was toward the end of the month that Duncan said to me one night as
we rode home on the top of a 'bus, "You don't suppose that he--"

"Elise thinks it," I said. "It's waking her up."

Elise and Jimmie had been married fifteen years, and had never had a
honeymoon, not in the sense that Jimmie wanted it--an adventure in
romance, to some spot where they could forget the world of work, the
world of sordid things, the world that was making Jimmie old. Every
summer Jimmie had asked for it, and always Elise had said, "Wait."

But now it was Elise who began to plan. "When your play is produced,
we'll run away somewhere. Do you remember the place you always talked
about--up in the hills?"

He looked at her through his round glasses. "I can't get away from
this"--he waved his hand toward the stage.

"If it's a success you can, Jimmie."

"It will be a success. Ursula Simms is a wonder. Look at her, Elise.
Look at her!"

Duncan and I could look at nothing else. As many times as I had seen her
in the part, I came to it always eagerly. It was her great scene--where
the girl, breaking free from all that has bound her, takes the hand of
her vagabond lover and goes forth, leaving behind wealth and a marriage
of distinction, that she may wander across the moors and down on the
sands, with the wild wind in her face, the stars for a canopy!

It tugged at our hearts. It would tug, we knew, at the heart of any
audience. It was the human nature in us all which responded. Not one of
us but would have broken bonds. Oh, youth, youth! Is there anything like
it in the whole wide world?

I do not think that it tugged at the heart of Elise. Her heart was not
like that. It was a stay-at-home heart. A workaday-world heart. Elise
would never under any circumstance have gone forth with a vagabond on a
wild night.

But here was Ursula doing it every day. On the evening of the first
dress-rehearsal she wore clothes that showed her sense of fitness. As if
in casting off conventional restraints, she renounced conventional
attire; she came down to her lover wrapped in a cloak of the deep-purple
bloom of the heather of the moor, and there was a pheasant's feather in
her cap.

"_May you never regret it, my dear, my dear_," said the lover on the
stage.

"_I shall love you for a million years_," said Ursula, and we felt that
she would, and that love was eternal, and that any woman might have it
if she would put her hand in her lover's and run away with him on a
wild night!

And it was the genius of Jimmie Harding that made us feel that the thing
could be done. He sat forward in his chair, his arms on the back of the
seat in front of him. "Jove!" he kept saying under his breath. "It's the
real thing. It's the real thing--"

When the scene was over, he went on the stage and stood by Ursula. Elise
from her seat watched them. Ursula had taken off the cap with the
pheasant's feather. Her glorious hair shone like copper, her hand was on
her hip, her little swagger matched the swagger that we remembered in
the old Jimmie. I wondered if Elise remembered.

* * * * *

I am not sure what made Ursula care for Jimmie Harding. He was no longer
a figure for romance. But she did care. It was, perhaps, that she saw in
him the fundamental things which belonged to both of them, and which did
not belong to Elise.

As the days went on I was sorry for Elise. I should never have believed
that I could be sorry, but I was. Jimmie was always punctiliously polite
to her. But he was only that.

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