Bertram’s Discovery

Brownish-gold leaves dropped lightly from the trees along the avenue and fluttered amiably about the walk in the early evening breeze--amiably, at least, as it seemed to Bertram Cartwright, who was strolling among them. At that precise moment, however, Bertram Cartwright might have thought a train wreck amiable. A pleased smile was spreading across his face as he recalled the words just spoken to him--the first compliment he had ever received.

Now, it wasn't that Bertram was a particularly wicked person, or that people had been ungenerous toward him. It was simply that until this day no one had taken much notice of him at all. Except, of course, his mother. And she had been too reserved too waste her breath on praises.

"Good work today, Bertram," Mr. Bassett had said in his usual, brisk way, "You are truly an asset to this establishment."

"'You are truly an asset'..." Bertram said softly to himself, rolling the words on his tongue with a sense of unaccustomed pleasure. He scooped a number of leaves onto the top of his shoe and kicked them as high in the air as he could--which wasn't very high. But the kicker thereof didn't notice or care, as he was busy smiling hugely at the sky, hands thrust exuberantly into his pockets.

He had just let out a mirthful, almost incredulous, "Ha, ha!" when he saw her, from the corner of his upturned right eye, bent over her large handbag across the street. She must have heard him--she was the only other person on the avenue--but she wasn't looking at him. She was never looking at him. "No matter," he said aloud, and turned to wave at her. Not even her perpetual cold shoulder act would dampen his spirits today. Today was his day. And Laurel was his girl.

The woman across the street lifted her head momentarily from her fumbling occupation to confirm the identity of the man across the street. She then dropped it again, rather deliberately, and continued her search. Bertram only smiled and shouted, "That's my girl! Haven't you one kind word for me, Laurel Dear?" Laurel Dear extracted a jangling ring of keys from her handbag and proceeded to turn her back on Bertram and begin trying keys in the lock on the shop door by which she had been standing. Bertram was unswayed. After all, hadn't he taken this kind of treatment for years with exceptional gallantry? And wasn't he entitled to a loving look from his girl on this special day? He strolled over to her, a wide grin on his face, hands still in his pockets.

"My--"

"If you say one thing to me about your mother I will run away ."

"I was only going to s--"

"One word, Bertram Cartwright."

"Alright." He gazed at her back, her small, white hands clumsily trying to force keys into the lock. "I only wanted to tell you how lovely you look today, so like...so lovely." And she really was, too. Her golden-brown hair was so smooth and shiny, her skin so pale, her dress so becoming--apple green--and falling in soft folds over her slender figure. His mother had looked like that when she was young. He had a picture. "Are you going to turn around and say hello, Laurie? Can't a fellow have a look at his best girl's face?"

She did turn around then, and her large blue eyes--so like his mother's--were focused to one side on the walk, flashing with an indignation that he had never seen in his mother's. Come to think of it had she ever been indignant? Had he ever seen her happy? Sad?

"Mr. Cartwright. I'll have you know that I am not--"

But it was really too late for her. His eyes had fallen upon her rosy face, the dark fringe of her lashes sweeping downward, her delicate neck, the curves of her delicious arms as they emerged from her dress. And he was kissing her. Kissing her with his whole heart and all the extra rapture of the day that was in him. And the best part was that as he leaned toward her--just before he closed his eyes and their lips met--he had detected a slight fluttering of her eyelashes. Mother had told him what that meant.

"Bertram," she had said,"I'm going to tell you this because it may do you some good someday. There is a secret among women that most men never discover. Your father never did. Now, a woman--no matter who she is--cannot possibly resist fluttering her eyelashes a bit just before the man she is to marry kisses her for the first time. I don't know why it is. It is simply a law, I suppose." And with that she had turned and gone into her bedroom and shut the door. Bertram had not really known what to make of it--as was the case with most of the little things his mother told him in that plain, regular voice. She had once told him she hoped he'd grow up to be an Oval.

But now he thought he finally understood. And if it wasn't such a rude question, and you had asked them about it, I'm sure both of the participants in that kiss would have told you that there was about it an element of possession not usually manifest in an ordinary kiss--though Laurel would not have known why and Bertram would not have known any ordinary kisses to compare it to.

The key ring had jingled and jangled to the walk, but Laurel was still in possession of her handbag, and the moment Bertram pulled away she drew it back and swatted him with it--swatted him with more heartiness than would be expected from such a slight girl. Bertram was knocked back a few awkward steps into the street, his big, brown shoes crackling on big, brown leaves.

"You--are the most abominable--brute--I have ever known!" Laurel's eyes were round and she was out of breath. Bertram stared blankly at her for a moment, the joy seemingly wiped from his face. But he had seen the eyelashes flutter--Mother had said--they had fluttered, hadn't they? At length he supposed it didn't matter. She hated him--now more than ever. Mother must have been wrong--and now what had he done?

He muttered a dazed apology and turned away from her to recross the street, reflecting numbly that he didn't suppose he'd ever been given a tongue-lashing before. Mother had been too reserved for that, and he had never really known any one else. Not even Laurel. He had only dreamed about her. He dragged his feet noisily through the leaves and turned for one last glance at his beloved.

She hadn't moved, as far as he could tell. The key ring still rested silently on the walk among the fluttering leaves, the handbag was still clutched in one white fist. She was staring at him. She was staring at him--and suddenly the world didn't seem such a bad place after all.