# The Smart Set/'Ties of Auld Lang Syne'

Extracted from The Smart Set magazine, Jan 1902, pp. 117–119.
“TIES OF AULD LANG SYNE”
By Ethel Watts Mumford
SHE was a handsome, middle-aged woman, with prematurely white hair, and carried herself with a proud self-reliance that was accentuated by the firm contour of her jaw. So much the first glance would have shown you, the second would have revealed eyes softened by tears, a mouth made flexible and human by experience, and if you happen to be a woman, you would have noted her exquisite, tailor-made gown and the richness of her sable collar.
She entered the cable car at Tenth street with the uneasy step of one unaccustomed to such modes of conveyance. Not a seat was vacant and even the available standing room was taken up. An expression half-patient, half-disappointed crossed her aristocratic face, but was rapidly changed to one of strained anxiety as the car bounded and backed up Broadway.
“Madam,” said a voice at her side, “oblige me by taking this seat.”
She turned gratefully toward the speaker, a tall man with iron-gray distinguished bearing and a jaw as determined as her own. Her eyes of velvet-brown met his of steady blue. “Fred! she gasped, letting go the strap to which she had been clinging. The car lurched and she fell into her benefactor's arms.
“Ellen!” he exclaimed, catching her as he steadied himself against the door.
The other passengers looked up, puzzled smiles flitted from face to face. The strangely united couple separated awkwardly; an embarrassed silence ensued and was followed by a conversation even more self-conscious.
“You are looking well,” she observed, distantly, but with a hot flush burning her cheeks.
“Yes,” he answered, pulling at his mustache savagely; “I am quite—I may say perfectly—well. And you?—but it is needless to ask.”
“Thank you, quite well.” She attempted a smile that died painfully, and he hastened to speak again.
“You are in town late this year. I thought—er—you spent your Winters in Santa Barbara——”
“Yes,” she interrupted, “usually. Berkley is there now—he loves the polo and wouldn't miss a game. I stayed later this year to see the Mitchells on their return from Europe. It is—" and she faltered a little—“Dudley well?” The yearning that into her eyes was beyond her control.
“Would you,” he said, hesitatingly, “would you take afternoon tea with me at the Waldorf?—we are almost there. We can talk—er—of Berkley.”
She hesitated a moment and nodded. “Yes—of Berkley and Dudley. I think,” she glanced at the jeweled watch that hung at her belt, “we have time.”
“Thank you,” he said, with grave courtesy.
Stopping the car at the next crossing he assisted her to alight, while the interested passengers stared and commented.
It was growing dark, and a fine snow, the first of the season, was powdering the passing throng and adding its white blear to the growing darkness. With an almost boyish diffidence he offered her his arm, and with a deepening flush she accepted it. A short block brought them to the brilliantly lighted doors of the hotel, and a moment later they had settled themselves before a tiny corner table, surrounded by chattering, tea-drinking throng, interspersed with palms backgrounded by walls of a cool, cream-colored tone, domed in with glass and gold. In spite of her composure the lady's brown eyes traveled anxiously over the occupants of the room. Wonder of wonders! not a woman of her acquaintance was to be seen. Her companion stared about him as if the scene were a novelty.
“Pretty room, this,” he commented.
She started. It seemed strange that he should not know surroundings so familiar to every New Yorker. Then she recalled the many years that had elapsed since she had last seen him—since he had last seen his native land. She launched forth into idle comment, wondering at her frivolity while her heart beat painfully, foolishly against the expensive tailor jacket. When their orders were filled and the obsequious waiter had retired to a distance, silence fell between them.
“”Hm—er—Van Baugh—no, I simply can't call you that, Ellen,” he broke off. “Here is a new picture of Dudley. taken just before I left England.” He drew a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her.
She fairly snatched it and held it gloatingly before her.
“How handsome!” she said, proudly; “he has your eyes.”
“He in very like you, though,” he observed, “and grows more so every day. He reminds me of you in countless little ways, habits and expressions—nameless things that make individuality.”
She raised her eyes to his from the absorbing contemplation of the photograph. “Do you know,” she exclaimed, impulsively, “that's just the way it is with Berkley. He looks like me, but he in you in all the details—it quite startles me. And his voice—often and often when I've heard him speaking outside the room, in the halls and on the veranda, I have fairly jumped, thinking it was you.”
“Strange!” he murmured. “Is he—er—good-looking, a presentable sort of chap? The picture you sent—of course—but——”
Her face lighted up beautifully. “The best and handsomest boy in America! and,” warming to her subject, “you should see him ride; he is so popular, and has such good brain and judgment! He has taken the whole control of the Monticito ranch for the past three years and been splendidly successful! He has only one fault; he is stubborn-like—” In spite of herself there was a little reproach in her voice.
“His mother,” he put in, with a harsh note.
“I was going to say his father,” she answered, the soft lines of her mouth getting the better of her resolute chin; “but I'll say like—his parents.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “You have changed a great deal, Ellen,” he said at last.
“And you?-haven't you changed, too?”
“Yes,” he said, slowly, “yes—I think you would find me not quite—as——”
“Say firm,” she suggested.
“Yes—let's say firm—thank you,” he nodded; “and you certainly——”
“Are not so—" she smiled, almost coquettishly.
“Wilful,” he put in.
“Perhaps—wilful,” she acquiesced.
“I don't mind paying the piper,” he said, apparently at random and after a moment's absorbed contemplation of his companion's slim fingers as they nervously twisted and untwined her old-fashioned gold lorgnette chain, “but the piper is so unreasonable in his charges.”
She laughed outright. “Yes. I've noticed he never asks any of us what we think fair—end, well, I suppose it in our business to make terms in advance.”
He looked up at her admiringly. “You always were a comfort, Ellen, because a fellow didn't have to drive an idea into your head with a drill. On my word, I used to miss that ready wit of yours, particularly in England; that's one reason I stayed there. I felt quite sure I should never marry again.”
“And experience had taught you meaning of single blessedness?” she asked with a touch of sadness in her warm voice.
“I used to think so,” he answered, “but of late years—I have begun to doubt even myself.”
“It would be better if we could reach that stage of wisdom earlier, wouldn't it?” she smiled.
“Has life been kind to you?” he asked, suddenly, changing the subject as he took note of her saddened eyes and the softened curve of the severe lips he remembered so well.
She looked absently at the grounds in her teacup. "Ye—es,“ she answered, hesitatingly; “I have had all the world has to give.”
“I didn't ask you,” he rejoined, “how the world has treated you—I asked has life been kind.”
“Is life ever kind?” she questioned in turn.
“I don't know. I think it might be,” he said. “I'll be frank, though—it's been confounded lonely to me!”
A quick look of understanding flashed from her eyes—the look that comes of common experience. “I know,” she said, and began slowly tipping the contents of her cup from side to side.
“Ellen,” he spoke low, and his voice trembled—“Ellen, let's try it again! It won't be so lonely—and—I am less firm—and you are less wilful—so perhaps——”
She still shook the tea grounds, but with an unsteady hand.
“Well, we might try,” she said, softly.
The sun shone clear on the eucalyptus avenues of Santa Barbara. The blue hills of the Coast range hung unreal as the painted “drop” of a stage scene, and the dusty palms whispered answers to the humming tones of the Pacific.
Berkley Graves drew up his foam-flecked pony before the clubhouse and accosted a trim little Englishman on a trim little mare.
“Say, Champ, old chap, I'm dreadfully sorry, but I can't play in match. The fact is,” and here a brilliant smile lighted up and made lovable his reckless, determined face, “I'm going on to New York to see my father and mother married.”
“Oh, by Jove!” and the neat little Englishman dropped his reins in amazement.
“Been divorced twenty years,” Graves explained.
“Oh, by Jove!” exclaimed the Englishman again. “How charmingly American!”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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