The Complete Works. O. Henry

at twelve o’clock tonight. Do not fail.’” Barbara rose and dropped the note in Nevada’s lap. “I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “that I knew. It isn’t like Gilbert. There must be some mistake. Just consider that I am ignorant of it, will you, dear? I must go upstairs now, I have such a headache. I’m sure I don’t understand the note. Perhaps Gilbert has been dining too well, and will explain. Good night!”

      IV

      Nevada tiptoed to the hall, and heard Barbara’s door close upstairs. The bronze clock in the study told the hour of twelve was fifteen minutes away. She ran swiftly to the front door, and let herself out into the snowstorm. Gilbert Warren’s studio was six squares away.

      By aerial ferry the white, silent forces of the storm attacked the city from beyond the sullen East River. Already the snow lay a foot deep on the pavements, the drifts heaping themselves like scaling-ladders against the walls of the besieged town. The Avenue was as quiet as a street in Pompeii. Cabs now and then skimmed past like white-winged gulls over a moonlit ocean; and less frequent motor-cars — sustaining the comparison — hissed through the foaming waves like submarine boats on their jocund, perilous journeys.

      Nevada plunged like a wind-driven storm-petrel on her way. She looked up at the ragged sierras of cloud-capped buildings that rose above the streets, shaded by the night lights and the congealed vapors to gray, drab, ashen, lavender, dun, and cerulean tints. They were so like the wintry mountains of her Western home that she felt a satisfaction such as the hundred-thousand-dollar house had seldom brought her.

      A policeman caused her to waver on a corner, just by his eye and weight.

      “Hello, Mabel!” said he. “Kind of late for you to be out, ain’t it?”

      “I — I am just going to the drug store,” said Nevada, hurrying past him.

      The excuse serves as a passport for the most sophisticated. Does it prove that woman never progresses, or that she sprang from Adam’s rib, full-fledged in intellect and wiles?

      Turning eastward, the direct blast cut down Nevada’s speed one-half. She made zigzag tracks in the snow; but she was as tough as a piñon sapling, and bowed to it as gracefully. Suddenly the studio-building loomed before her, a familiar landmark, like a cliff above some well-remembered cañon. The haunt of business and its hostile neighbor, art, was darkened and silent. The elevator stopped at ten.

      Up eight flights of Stygian stairs Nevada climbed, and rapped firmly at the door numbered “89.” She had been there many times before, with Barbara and Uncle Jerome.

      Gilbert opened the door. He had a crayon pencil in one hand, a green shade over his eyes, and a pipe in his mouth. The pipe dropped to the floor.

      “Am I late?” asked Nevada. “I came as quick as I could. Uncle and me were at the theatre this evening. Here I am, Gilbert!”

      Gilbert did a Pygmalion-and-Galatea act. He changed from a statue of stupefaction to a young man with a problem to tackle. He admitted Nevada, got a whisk-broom, and began to brush the snow from her clothes. A great lamp, with a green shade, hung over an easel, where the artist had been sketching in crayon.

      “You wanted me,” said Nevada simply, “and I came. You said so in your letter. What did you send for me for?”

      “You read my letter?” inquired Gilbert, sparring for wind.

      “Barbara read it to me. I saw it afterward. It said: ‘Come to my studio at twelve tonight, and do not fail.’ I thought you were sick, of course, but you don’t seem to be.”

      “Aha!” said Gilbert irrelevantly. “I’ll tell you why I asked you to come, Nevada. I want you to marry me immediately — tonight. What’s a little snowstorm? Will you do it?”

      “You might have noticed that I would, long ago,” said Nevada. “And I’m rather stuck on the snowstorm idea, myself. I surely would hate one of these flowery church noon-weddings. Gilbert, I didn’t know you had grit enough to propose it this way. Let’s shock ’em — it’s our funeral, ain’t it?”

      “You bet!” said Gilbert. “Where did I hear that expression?” he added to himself. “Wait a minute, Nevada; I want to do a little ‘phoning.”

      He shut himself in a little dressing-room, and called upon the lightnings of the heavens — condensed into unromantic numbers and districts.

      “That you, Jack? You confounded sleepyhead! Yes, wake up; this is me — or I — oh, bother the difference in grammar! I’m going to be married right away. Yes! Wake up your sister — don’t answer me back; bring her along, too — you must! Remind Agnes of the time I saved her from drowning in Lake Ronkonkoma — I know it’s caddish to refer to it, but she must come with you. Yes. Nevada is here, waiting. We’ve been engaged quite a while. Some opposition among the relatives, you know, and we have to pull it off this way. We’re waiting here for you. Don’t let Agnes out-talk you — bring her! You will? Good old boy! I’ll order a carriage to call for you, double-quick time. Confound you, Jack, you’re all right!”

      Gilbert returned to the room where Nevada waited.

      “My old friend, Jack Peyton, and his sister were to have been here at a quarter to twelve,” he explained; “but Jack is so confoundedly slow. I’ve just ‘phoned them to hurry. They’ll be here in a few minutes. I’m the happiest man in the world, Nevada! What did you do with the letter I sent you to-day?”

      “I’ve got it cinched here,” said Nevada, pulling it out from beneath her opera-cloak.

      Gilbert drew the letter from the envelope and looked it over carefully. Then he looked at Nevada thoughtfully.

      “Didn’t you think it rather queer that I should ask you to come to my studio at midnight?” he asked.

      “Why, no,” said Nevada, rounding her eyes. “Not if you needed me. Out West, when a pal sends you a hurry call — ain’t that what you say here? — we get there first and talk about it after the row is over. And it’s usually snowing there, too, when things happen. So I didn’t mind.”

      Gilbert rushed into another room, and came back burdened with overcoats warranted to turn wind, rain, or snow.

      “Put this raincoat on,” he said, holding it for her. “We have a quarter of a mile to go. Old Jack and his sister will be here in a few minutes.” He began to struggle into a heavy coat. “Oh, Nevada,” he said, “just look at the headlines on the front page of that evening paper on the table, will you? It’s about your section of the West, and I know it will interest you.”

      He waited a full minute, pretending to find trouble in the getting on of his overcoat, and then turned. Nevada had not moved. She was looking at him with strange and pensive directness. Her cheeks had a flush on them beyond the color that had been contributed by the wind and snow; but her eyes were steady.

      “I was going to tell you,” she said, “anyhow, before you — before we — before — well, before anything. Dad never gave me a day of schooling. I never learned to read or write a darned word. Now if—”

      Pounding their uncertain way upstairs, the feet of Jack, the somnolent, and Agnes, the grateful, were heard.

      V

      When Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Warren were spinning softly homeward in a closed carriage, after the ceremony, Gilbert said:

      “Nevada, would you really like to know what I wrote you in the letter that you received tonight?”

      “Fire away!” said his bride.

      “Word for word,” said Gilbert, “it was this: ‘My dear Miss Warren — You were right about the flower. It was a hydrangea, and not a lilac.’”

      “All right,” said Nevada. “But let’s forget it. The joke’s on Barbara, anyway!”

Thimble, Thimble