“Well,” she said, “will you go with me?”
“I’d like to fust-rate—if you won’t be too much ashamed of me.”
“Then it’s settled, isn’t it? The service begins at a quarter to eleven. We will leave here at half-past ten.”
The captain shaved with extra care that morning, donned spotless linen, including a “stand-up” collar—which he detested—brushed his frock-coat and his hair with great particularity, and gave Edwards his shoes to clean. He would have shined them himself, as he always did at home, but on a former occasion when he asked for the “blackin’ kit,” the butler’s shocked and pained expression led to questions and consequent enlightenment.
He was ready by a quarter after ten, but when his niece knocked at his door she bore a message which surprised and troubled him.
“Mrs. Dunn called,” she said, “to ask me to go to church with her. I told her I had invited you to accompany me. Would you mind if she joined us?”
Her guardian hesitated. “I guess,” he answered, slowly, “it ain’t so much a question of my mindin’ her as she mindin’ me. Doesshewant me to go along?”
“She said she should be delighted.”
“I want to know! Now, Caroline, don’t you think I’d be sort of in the way? Don’t you believe she’d manage to live down her disappointment if I didn’t tag on? You mustn’t feel that you’ve got to be bothered with me because you suggested my goin’, you know.”
“If I had considered it a bother I should not have invited you. If you don’t wish Mrs. Dunn’s company, then you and I will go alone.”
“Oh, land sakes! I wouldn’t have you do that for the world! All right, I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
He gave his hair a final brush, straightened his tie, turned around once more before the mirror, and walked fearfully forth to meet the visitor. For him, the anticipated pleasure of the forenoon had been replaced by uneasy foreboding.
But Mrs. Corcoran Dunn, as she rose creakingly to greet him, was extremely gracious. She was gowned and furred and hatted in a manner which caused the captain to make hasty mental estimate as to cost, but she extended a plump hand, buttoned in a very tight glove, and murmured her gratification.
“I’m so glad you are to accompany us, Captain Warren,” she gushed. “It is a charming winter morning, isn’t it?”
Captain Elisha touched the plump glove with his own big finger tips, and admitted that the morning was “fust-rate.” He was relieved from the embarrassment of further conversation just then by Caroline’s appearance in the library. She, too, was richly dressed.
“Are we all ready?” she asked, brightly. “Then we may as well start.”
“I’m afraid we’re a trifle early, my dear,” said Mrs. Dunn, “but we can stroll about a bit before we go in.”
The captain looked at the library clock. The time was a quarter to eleven.
“Early?” he exclaimed, involuntarily. “Why, I thought Caroline said—”
He stopped, suddenly, realizing that he had spoken aloud. His niece divined his thought and laughed merrily.
“The service does begin now,” she said, “but no one is ever on time.”
“Oh!” ejaculated her uncle, and did not speak again until they were at the door of the church. Then Caroline asked him what he was thinking.
“Nothin’ much,” he answered, gazing at the fashionably garbed throng pouring under the carved stone arch of the entrance; “I was just reorganizin’ my ideas, that’s all. I’ve always sort of thought a plug hat looked lonesome. Now I’ve decided that I’m wearin’ the lonesome kind.”
He marched behind his niece and Mrs. Dunn up the center aisle to the Warren pew. He wrote his housekeeper afterwards that he estimated that aisle to be “upwards of two mile long. And my Sunday shoes had a separate squeak for every inch,” he added.
Once seated, however, and no longer so conspicuous, his common sense and Yankee independence came to hisrescue. He had been in much bigger churches than this one, while abroad during his seagoing years. He knew that his clothes were not fashionably cut, and that, to the people about him, he must appear odd and, perhaps, even ridiculous. But he remembered how odd certain city people appeared while summering at South Denboro. Recollections of pointed comments made by boatmen who had taken these summer sojourners on fishing excursions came to his mind. Well, he had one advantage over such people, at any rate, he knew when he was ridiculous, and they apparently did not.
So, saved from humiliation by his sense of humor, he looked about him with interest. When the procession of choir boys came up the aisle, and Mrs. Dunn explained in a condescending whisper what they were, his answer surprised her a trifle. “Yes,” whispered the captain in reply, “I know. I’ve seen the choir in Saint Peter’s at Rome.”
Only once did he appear greatly astonished. That was when the offering was taken and a certain dignified magnate, whose fame as a king of finance is world-wide, officiated as one of the collectors.
“Heavens and earth!” murmured Captain Elisha, staring wide-eyed at the unmistakable features so often pictured and cartooned in the daily papers; “Caroline—Caroline, am I seein’ things or is that—is that—”
“That is Mr. ——,” whispered his niece. “He is one of the vestrymen here.”
“My soul!” still gazing after the Emperor of Wall Street; “himpassin’ the plate! Well,” with a grim smile, “whoever picked him out for the job has got judgment. Ifhecan’t make a body shell out, nobody can.”
He listened to the sermon, the text of which was fromthe Beatitudes, with outward solemnity, but with a twinkle in his eye. After the benediction, when Caroline asked how he enjoyed it, the cause of the twinkle became apparent.
“Fine!” he declared, with enthusiasm. “He’s a smart preacher, ain’t he! And he knew his congregation. You might not guess they was meek perhaps, but they certainly did look as if they’d inherited the earth.”
He drew a breath of relief as the trio emerged into the open air. He had enjoyed the novel experience, in a way, but now he felt rather like one let out of jail. The quiet luncheon at home with Caroline was a pleasant anticipation.
But Mrs. Corcoran Dunn smashed his anticipation at a blow. She insisted that he and his niece lunch with her.
“You really must, you know,” she declared. “It will be delightful. Just a little family party.”
Captain Elisha looked distressed. “Thank you, ma’am,” he stammered; “it’s awful kind of you, but I wouldn’t feel right to go puttin’ you to all that trouble. Just as much obliged, but I—I’ve got a letter to write, you see.”
Mrs. Dunn bore his refusal bravely.
“Very well,” she said, “but Carolinemustcome with me. I told Malcolm I should bring her.”
“Sure! Sartin! Caroline can go, of course.”
But Caroline also declined. Having misjudged her guardian in the matter of the Moriarty family, she was in a repentant mood, and had marked that day on her calendar as one of self-sacrifice.
“No, Captain Warren,” she said, “I shall not go unless you do.”
“Then the captain will come, of course,” declared Mrs. Dunn, with decision. “I’m sure he will not be so selfish as to deprive me—and Malcolm—of your company.”
So, because he did not wish to appear selfish, Captain Elisha admitted that his letter might be written later in the afternoon, accepted the invitation, and braced his spirit for further martyrdom.
It was not as bad as he expected. The Dunns occupied a small, brown-stone house on Fifth Avenue, somewhat old-fashioned, but eminently respectable. The paintings and bronzes were as numerous as those in the Warren apartment, and if the taste shown in their selection was not that of Rodgers Warren, the connoisseur, they made quite as much show, and the effect upon Captain Elisha was the same. The various mortgages on the property were not visible, and the tradesmen’s bills were securely locked in Mrs. Dunn’s desk.
The luncheon itself was elaborate, and there was a butler whose majestic dignity and importance made even Edwards seem plebeian by comparison.
Malcolm was at home when they arrived, irreproachably dressed and languidly non-effusive, as usual. Captain Elisha, as he often said, did not “set much store” by clothes; but there was something about this young man which always made him conscious that his own trousers were a little too short, or his boots too heavy, or something. “I wouldn’tweara necktie like his,” he wrote Abbie, after his first meeting with Malcolm, “but blessed if I don’t wish I couldifI would!”
Caroline, in the course of conversation during the luncheon, mentioned the Moriartys and their sorrow. The captain tried to head her off and to change the subject, but with little success. He was uncomfortable andkept glancing under his brows at Malcolm, with whom, under the circumstances, he could not help sympathizing to an extent. But his sympathy was wasted. The young man did not appear in the slightest degree nervous. The memory of his recent interview with Captain Elisha did not embarrass him, outwardly at least, half as much as it did the captain. He declared that old Pat’s death was beastly hard luck, but accidents were bound to happen. It was a shame, and all that. “If there’s anything the mater and I can do, Caroline, call on us, of course.”
“Yes, do, Caroline,” concurred his mother. “However, one must be philosophic in such cases. It is a mercy that people in their station do not feel grief and loss as we do. Providence, in its wisdom, has limited their susceptibilities as it has their intelligence. Don’t you agree with me, Captain Warren?”
“Sartin!” was the prompt reply. “It’s always a comfort to me, when I go fishin’, to know that the fish ain’t got so much brains as I have. The hook hurts, I presume likely, but they ain’t got the sense to realize what a mean trick’s been played on ’em. The one that’s caught’s dead, and them that are left are too busy hustlin’ for the next meal to waste much time grievin’. That eases my conscience consider’ble.”
Caroline seemed to be the only one who appreciated the sarcasm in this observation. She frowned slightly. Mrs. Corcoran Dunn tolerantly smiled, and her son laughed aloud.
“Say, Admiral,” he commented, “when it comes to philosophy you go some yourself, don’t you?”
“Um-hm. I can be as philosophical about other folk’s troubles as anybody I ever see.” Then, with an involuntary chuckle of admiration at the young gentleman’scoolness, he added, “That is, anybody I ever see afore I come to New York.”
Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again. The captain, noticing his change of purpose and following the direction of his look, saw Mrs. Dunn shake her head in sharp disapproval. He ate the remainder of his salad in silence, but he thought a good deal.
“And now,” said Mrs. Dunn, rising and leading the way to the drawing-room, “we must all go for a motor ride. Everyone rides on Sunday afternoon,” she explained, turning to her male guest.
The distressed look returned to Captain Elisha’s face. His niece saw it, understood, and came to his rescue.
“I think Captain Warren prefers to be excused,” she said, smiling. “He has a prejudice against automobiles.”
“No!” drawled Malcolm, the irrepressible. “Not really? Admiral, I’m surprised! In these days, you know!”
“It ain’t so much the automobiles,” snapped Captain Elisha, irritation getting the better of his discretion, “as ’tis the devilish fools that—”
“Yes? Oh, all right, Mater.”
“That are careless enough to get in the way of them,” finished the captain, with surprising presence of mind. “Still, if Caroline wants to go—”
“I have it!” exclaimed Mrs. Dunn. “The young people shall go, and the others remain at home. Malcolm shall take you for a spin, Caroline, and Captain Warren and I will stay here and wait until you return. We’ll have a family chat, Captain, won’t we? Because,” with a gay laugh, “in a way wearelike one family, you see.”
And, somewhat to Miss Warren’s surprise, her uncleagreed to this proposition. He did not answer immediately, but, when he did, it was with heartiness.
“Why, yes,” he said, “that’s a good idea. That’s fust-rate. You young folks go, and Mrs. Dunn and I’ll wait here till you come back. That’s the way of the world—young folks on the go, and the old folks at home by the fire, hey, Mrs. Dunn?”
The lady addressed did not relish being numbered with “old folks,” but she smiled sweetly, and said she supposed it was. Malcolm telephoned to the garage and to Edwards at the Warren apartment, ordering the butler to deliver his mistress’s auto cap and cloak to the chauffeur, who would call for them. A few minutes later the yellow car rolled up to the door.
In the hall Mrs. Dunn whispered a reassuring word to her departing guest.
“Now enjoy yourself, dear,” she whispered. “Have a nice ride and don’t worry about me. If he—if our encumbrance bores me too much I shall—well, I shall plead a headache and leave him to his own devices. Besides, he isn’t soverydreadful, is he?”
Caroline shook her head. “No,” she answered, “he is a good man. I understand him better than I did and—yes, I like him better, too.”
“Oh!... Indeed! Well, good-by, dear. Good-by.”
The yellow car roared as the chauffeur cranked it, then moved off up the crowded avenue. Mrs. Dunn watched it until it was out of sight. Her brows were drawn together, and she seemed puzzled and just a bit disconcerted. However, when she returned to the drawing-room, her gracious smile had returned, and her bland condescension was again in evidence.
Captain Elisha had been standing by the window.She begged him to be seated. He thanked her, but looked dubiously at the Louis XVI chair indicated. She noticed the look.
“Suppose we go into the library,” she said. “It is much less formal. And there is a fire—for usoldfolks,” with a slight accent on the word.
The library was more homelike. Not as many books as at the Warrens’, but a great deal of gilt in the bindings and much carving on the cases. The fire was cheery, and the pair sat down before it in big easy chairs. Mrs. Dunn looked intently at the glowing coals.
Captain Elisha cleared his throat. Mrs. Dunn leaned forward expectantly. The captain coughed and sank back in his chair.
“Yes?” purred the lady. “You were about to say?”
“Me? Oh, no, I didn’t say anything.”
Another period of silence. Mrs. Dunn’s foot tapped the rug impatiently. She wished him to begin the conversation, and he would not. At length, in desperation, she began it herself.
“I suppose you find New York rather different from—er—North—er—”
“From South Denboro? Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you like the city life?”
“Well, I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Not as well as you do that of the country, doubtless.”
“Well, you see, I ain’t had so much of it.”
“No, of course not. It does so depend upon what one is accustomed to. Now I fancy I should be perfectly desperate in your village.”
One corner of Captain Elisha’s mouth curled upward.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he admitted.
“Desperately lonely, I mean.”
“Yes’m. I judged that was what you meant. Still, folks can be lonesome in New York.”
“Perhaps. But really I don’t see how. With all the whirl and the crowds and the glorious excitement. The feeling that one is at the very heart, the center of everything!”
“Yes. If you belong to the machinery, I s’pose it’s all right. But if you’ve been leanin’ over the rail, lookin’ on, and get pushed in unexpected, maybe you don’t care so much about bein’ nigh the center.”
“Then why stay there? Why not get out?”
“If you’re caught in the wheels, gettin’ out’s somethin’ of a job.”
“But, as I understand it, Captain Warren—I may be misinformed, for, of course, I haven’t been unduly curious concerning your family affairs—asIunderstand it, you were not obliged to remain among the—among the wheels, as you call them. You could have gotten out quite easily, couldn’t you?”
“I presume likely I could. But, you see, ma’am, I had a feelin’ that I’d ought to stay.”
Mrs. Dunn laughed lightly. “Ah me!” she exclaimed; “you felt it your duty, I suppose. Oh, you New England Puritans!”
She shook her head in playful mockery. Then she added, “But, at all events, it cannot be so very disagreeable—now. I have no doubt it was—well, not comfortable for you at first. Steve and Caroline were quite impossible—really quite furious. Your sudden appearance in the capacity of guardian was too much for them. They were sure you must be a perfect ogre, Captain. I had to use all my eloquence to convince them they would not be devoured alive. But now—what a change! Why, already Caroline accepts you as—well,almost like an old friend, like myself. In the last few days this change in her attitude is quite marked. Whathaveyou done? Are you a wizard? Do tell me!”
This appeal, delivered with eloquence and most engaging play of brow and eye, should have been irresistible. Unfortunately the captain did not appear to have heard it. Leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees, he was gazing into the fire. And when he spoke, it was as if he were thinking aloud.
“I s’pose ’tis a sort of disease, this duty business,” he mused. “And most diseases ain’t cheerful visitations. Still a feller ought not to growl about it in public. I always did hate for a man to be goin’ about forever complainin’ of his sufferin’s—whether they was from duty or rheumatiz.”
Mrs. Dunn’s lips snapped shut. She pressed them together impatiently. Evidently her questions, and their diplomatic prelude, had been unheard and wasted. However, she did not intend to be sidetracked or discouraged.
“One should not prate of one’s duty, of course,” she agreed. “Not that you do—far from it. But, as I was saying, our dear Caroline has—”
“Thank you, ma’am. I hope I don’t groan too loud. Do you know, I believe climate has a bearin’ on duty, same as it has on rheumatics. I s’pose you city folks”—and there was almost contempt in the words—“are sort of Christian Science, and figger it’s an ‘error’—hey? Somethin’ to be forgot.”
The lady resented the interruption, and the contempt nettled her.
“Not at all!” she retorted. “We city dwellers have our duties, also.”
“Is that a fact? I want to know!”
“Certainly it is a fact,” tartly. “I have my duties and many of them.”
“Um! So? Well, I s’pose you do feel you must dress just so, and live just so, and do just such and such things. If you call those duties, why—”
“I do. What else are they, pray?”
Mrs. Dunn was finding it difficult to keep her temper. To be catechised in this contemptuously lofty manner by one to whom she considered herself so immensely superior, was too much. She forgot the careful plan of campaign which she had intended to follow in this interview, and now interrupted in her turn. And Captain Elisha, who also was something of a strategist, smiled at the fire.
“We do have our social duties, our duties to society,” snapped the widow, hotly. “They are necessary ones. Having been born—or risen to—a certain circle, we recognize the responsibilities attached to it. Wearecareful with whom we associate; we have to be. As for dress, we dress as others of our friends do.”
“And maybe a little better, if you can, hey?”
“If we can—yes. I presume—” with crushing irony—“dress in South Denboro counts but little.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you ever went to sewin’ circle,” with a chuckle. “Still, compared to the folks at your meetin’-house this morning, our congregation would look like a flock of blackbirds alongside of a cage full of Birds of Paradise. But most of us—the women folks especial—dress as well as we can.”
“As well as you can!” triumphantly. “There! you see? And you live as well as you can, don’t you?”
“If you mean style, why, we don’t set as much store by it as you do.”
“Nonsense! We are obliged to be,” with a slightshudder at the vulgarism, “stylish. If we should lapse, if we should become shabby and behind the fashion or live in that way, people would wonder and believe it was because we could not afford to do otherwise.”
“Well, s’pose they did, you’d know better yourselves. Can’t you be independent?”
“No. Not unless you are very, very rich; then it might be considered an eccentricity. Independence is a costly luxury, and few can afford it.”
“But suppose you can’t afford the other thing?”
“Then we must pretend we can. Oh, youdon’tunderstand! Somuchdepends upon a proper appearance. Everything depends upon it—one’s future, one’s children’s future—everything.”
“Humph!” with the same irritating smile, “I should think that might mean some plannin’. And plans, the best of ’em, are likely to go wrong. You talk about the children in your—in what you call your ‘circle.’ How can you plan what they’ll do? You might when they was little, perhaps; but when they grow up it’s different.”
“It is not. Itcan’tbe! And, if they have been properly reared and understand their responsibilities, they plan with you.”
“Land sakes! You mean—why, s’pose they take a notion to get married? I’m an old bach, of course, but the average young girl or feller is subject to that sort of ailment, ’cordin’ to the records. S’pose one of your circle’s daughters gets to keepin’ company with a chap who’s outside the ring? A promisin’, nice boy enough, but poor, and a rank outsider? Mean to say she sha’n’t marry him if she wants to.”
“Certainly! That sort of marriage is never a happy one, unless, of course, the girl is wealthy enough not to care. And even then it is not advisable. All their customsand habits of thought are different. No! Emphatically, no! And the girl, if she is sensible and well reared, as I have said, will understand it is impossible.”
“My soul and body! Then you mean to tell me that shemustlook out for some chap in her crowd? If she ain’t got but just enough to keep inside the circle—this grand whirlamagig you’re tellin’ me about—if she’s pretendin’ up to the limit of her income or over, then it’s her duty, and her ma and pa’s duty, to set her cap for a man who’s nigher the center pole in the tent and go right after him? Do you tell me that? That’s a note, I must say!”
Mrs. Dunn’s foot beat a lively tattoo on the rug. “I don’t know what you mean by a ‘note,’” she commented, with majestic indignation. “I have not lived in South Denboro, and perhaps my understanding of English is defective. But marriages among cultivated people,societypeople, intelligent, ambitious people are, or should be, the result of thought and planning. Others are impossible!”
“How about this thing we read so much about in novels?—Love, I believe they call it.”
“Love! Love is well enough, but it does not, of itself, pay for proper clothes, or a proper establishment, or seats at the opera, or any of the practical, necessary things of modern life. You can’t keep up a presentable appearance onlove! If I had a daughter who lacked the brains to understand what I had taught her, that is, her duty as a member of good society, and talked of making a love match, I would.... But there! You can’t understand, I suppose.”
She rose and shook the wrinkles from her gown. Captain Elisha straightened in his chair. “Why, yes, ma’am,” he drawled, quietly; “yes, ma’am, I guess I understand fust-rate.”
And suddenly Mrs. Dunn also understood. Her face, which had grown almost too red for one attached to a member of polite society, grew redder still. She turned away and walked to the window.
“What nonsense we’ve been talking!” she said, after a moment’s silence. “I don’t see what led us into this silly discussion. Malcolm and your niece must be having a delightful ride. I almost wish I had gone with them.”
She did wish it, devoutly. Captain Elisha still remained by the fire.
“Automobiles are great things for hustlin’ around in,” he observed. “Pity they’re such dangerous playthings. Yet I s’pose they’re one of the necessities of up-to-date folks, same as you said, Mrs. Dunn.”
“Surely,” she asked coldly, “you don’t condemn automobiles, Captain Warren? What would you—return to stage coaches?”
“Not a mite! But I was thinkin’ of that poor Moriarty man.”
“His death was due to an accident. And accidents,” she turned and looked directly at him, “when they involve financial damages, may be paid for.”
The captain nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“And when arrangements for such payment is made,honorablepeople—at least, in the circle of which you and I have been speaking—consider the matter settled and do not refer to it again, either among themselves—or elsewhere.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded again. She did know; Malcolm, evidently, had told her. “Yes, ma’am. That’s the way any decent person would feel—and act—if such a thing happened—even if they hailed from South Denboro.”
He pushed back his chair and stood up. She continuedto look him over, much as if she were taking a mental inventory of his character, or revising an old one.
“I hope,” she said, lightly, but with deliberation, “our little argument and—er—slight disagreement concerning—er—duty will not make us enemies, Captain Warren.”
“Enemies! Land sakes, no! I respect anybody’s havin’ opinions and not bein’ afraid to give ’em. And I think I can understand some of how you feel. Maybe if I was anchored here on Fifth Avenue, same as you are, instead of bein’ blown in by an unexpected no’theaster, I’d be feelin’ the same way. It’s all accordin’, as I’ve said so often. Enemies? No, indeed!”
She laughed again. “I’m so glad!” she said. “Malcolm declares he’d be quite afraid of me—as an enemy. He seems to think I possess some mysterious and quite diabolical talent for making my un-friends uncomfortable, and declares he would compromise rather than fight me at any time. Of course it’s ridiculous—just one of his jokes—and I’m really harmless and very much afraid. That’s why I want you and me to be friends, Captain Warren.”
“Sure!” Captain Elisha nodded emphatically. “That’s what I want, too.”
But that evening, immediately after his return to the apartment, when—Caroline having gone to her own room to remove her wraps—he and the butler were alone, he characteristically unburdened his mind.
“Mr. Warren, sir,” said Edwards, “a young gentleman left a note here for you this afternoon. The elevator man gave it to me, sir. It’s on your dressing table, sir.”
The captain’s answer had nothing whatever to do with the note. He had been thinking of other things.
“Commodore,” he said, “I’ve got the answer.”
“To the note? Already, sir? I didn’t know you’d seen it.”
“I ain’t. I’ve got the answer to the conundrum. It’s Mother!”
“Mother, sir? I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“I do. The answer’s Mother. Sonny don’t count, though he may think he does. But Mother’s the whole team and the dog under the wagon. And, Commodore, we’ve got to trot some if we want to keep ahead of that team! Don’t you forget it!”
He went to his room, leaving the bewildered butler to retire to the kitchen, where he informed the cook that the old man was off his head worse than common to-night.
“Blessed if he don’t think he’s a trotting horse!” said Edwards.
The note on the dining room table proved, to the captain’s delight, to be from James Pearson. It was brief and to the point.
“Why don’t you come and see me?” wrote the young man. “I’ve been expecting you, and you promised to come. Have you forgotten my address? If so, here it is. I expect to be in all day to-morrow.”
The consequence of this was that eleven o’clock the next day found Captain Elisha pulling the bell at a brick house in a long brick block on a West Side street. The block had evidently been, in its time, the homes of well-to-do people, but now it was rather dingy and gone to seed. Across the street the first floors were, for the most part, small shops, and in the windows above them doctors’ signs alternated with those of modistes, manicure artists, and milliners.
The captain had come a roundabout way, stopping in at the Moriarty flat, where he found Mrs. Moriarty in a curious state of woe and tearful pride. “Oh, what will I do, sir?” she moaned. “When I think he’s gone, it seems as if I’d die, too. But, thanks to you and Miss Warren—Mary make it up to her!—my Pat’ll have the finest funeral since the Guinny saloon man was buried. Ah, if he could have lived to see it, he’d have died content!”
The pull at the boarding-house bell was answered by a rather slatternly maid, who informed the visitor that she guessed Mr. Pearson was in; he ’most always wasaround lunch time. So Captain Elisha waited in a typical boarding-house parlor, before a grate with no fire in it and surrounded by walnut and plush furniture, until Pearson himself came hurrying downstairs.
“Say, you’re a brick, Captain Warren!” he declared, as they shook hands. “I hoped you’d come to-day. Why haven’t you before?”
The captain explained his having mislaid the address.
“Oh, was that it? Then I’m glad I reminded you. Rather a cheeky thing to do, but I’ve been a reporter, and nerve is necessary in that profession. I began to be afraid living among the blue-bloods had had its effect, and you were getting finicky as to your acquaintances.”
“You didn’t believe any such thing.”
“Didn’t I? Well, perhaps I didn’t. Come up to my room. I think we can just about squeeze in, if you don’t mind sitting close.”
Pearson’s room was on the third flight, at the front of the house. Through the window one saw the upper half of the buildings opposite, and above them a stretch of sky. The bed was a small brass and iron affair, but the rest of the furniture was of good quality, the chairs were easy and comfortable, and the walls were thickly hung with photographs, framed drawings, and prints.
“I put those up to cover the wall paper,” explained the host. “I don’t offer them as an art collection, but as a screen. Sit down. Put your coat on the bed. Shall I close the window? I usually keep the upper half open to let out the pipe smoke. Otherwise I might not be able to navigate without fog signals.”
His visitor chuckled, followed directions with his coat and hat, and sat down. Pearson took the chair by the small flat-topped desk.
“How about that window?” he asked. “Shall I shut it?”
“No, no! We’ll be warm enough, I guess. You’ve got steam heat, I see.”
“You mean you hear. Those pipes make noise enough to wake the dead. At first I thought I couldn’t sleep because of the racket they made. Now I doubt if I could without it. Would you consider a cigar, Captain?”
“Hum! I don’t usually stop to consider. But I tell you, Jim—just now you said something about a pipe. I’ve got mine aboard, but I ain’t dared to smoke it since I left South Denboro. If you wouldn’t mind—”
“Not a bit. Tobacco in this jar on the desk. I keep a temporary supply in my jacket pocket. Matches? Here you are! What do you think of my—er—stateroom?”
“Think it makes nice, snug quarters,” was the prompt answer.
“Humph! Snug is a good word. Much like living in an omnibus, but it answers the purpose. I furnished it myself, except for the bed. The original bureau had pictures of cauliflowers painted on each drawer front. Mrs. Hepton—my landlady—was convinced that they were roses. I told her she might be right, but, at all events, looking at them made me hungry. Perhaps she noticed the effect on my appetite and was willing for me to substitute.”
The captain laughed. Then, pointing, he asked: “What’s that handbill?”
The “handbill” was a fair-sized poster announcing the production at the “Eureka Opera House” of the “Thrilling Comedy-Drama, The Golden Gods.” Pearson looked at it, made a face, and shook his head.
“That,” he said, “is my combined crusher and comforter. It is the announcement of the first, and next to the last, performance of a play I wrote in my calf days. The ‘Eureka Opera House’ is—or was, if the ‘gods’ weren’t too much for it—located at Daybury, Illinois. I keep that bill to prevent my conceit getting away with me. Also, when I get discouraged over my novel, it reminds me that, however bad the yarn may turn out to be, I have committed worse crimes.”
This led to the captain’s asking about the novel and how it was progressing. His companion admitted having made some progress, more in the line of revision than anything else. He had remodeled his hero somewhat, in accordance with his new friend’s suggestions during their interview at the Warren apartment, and had introduced other characters, portrait sketches from memory of persons whom he had known in his boyhood days in the Maine town. He read a few chapters aloud, and Captain Elisha waxed almost enthusiastic over them.
Then followed a long discussion over a point of seamanship, the handling of a bark in a gale. It developed that the young author’s knowledge of saltwater strategy was extensive and correct in the main, though somewhat theoretical. That of his critic was based upon practice and hard experience. He cited this skipper and that as examples, and carried them through no’theasters off Hatteras and typhoons in the Indian Ocean. The room, in spite of the open window, grew thick with pipe smoke, and the argument was punctuated by thumps on the desk and chair arms, and illustrated by diagrams drawn by the captain’s forefinger on the side of the dresser. The effects of oil on breaking rollers, the use of a “sea-anchor” over the side to “holdher to it,” whether or not a man was justified in abandoning his ship under certain given circumstances, these were debated pro and con. Always Pearson’s “Uncle Jim” was held up as the final authority, the paragon of sea captains, by the visitor, and, while his host pretended to agree, with modest reservations, in this estimate of his relative, he was more and more certain that his hero was bound to become a youthful edition of Elisha Warren himself—and he thanked the fates which had brought this fine, able, old-school mariner to his door.
At length, Captain Elisha, having worked “Uncle Jim” into a safe harbor after a hundred mile cruise under jury jig, with all hands watch and watch at the pumps, leaned forward in triumph to refill his pipe. Having done so, his eyes remained fixed upon a photograph standing, partially hidden by a leather collar box, upon the dresser. He looked at it intently, then rose and took it in his hand.
“Well, I swan!” he exclaimed. “Either what my head’s been the fullest of lately has struck to my eyesight, or else—why, say, Jim, that’s Caroline, ain’t it?”
Pearson colored and seemed embarrassed. “Yes,” he answered, “that is Miss Warren.”
“Humph! Good likeness, too! But what kind of rig has she got on? I’ve seen her wear a good many dresses—seems to have a different one for every day, pretty nigh—but I never saw her in anything like that. Looks sort of outlandish; like one of them foreign girls at Geneva—or Leghorn, say.”
“Yes. That is an Italian peasant costume. Miss Warren wore it at a fancy dress ball a year ago.”
“Want to know! I-talian peasant, hey! Fifth Avenuepeasant with diamonds in her hair. Becomin’ to her, ain’t it.”
“I thought so.”
“Yup. She looks prettyenough! But she don’t need diamonds nor hand-organ clothes to make her pretty.”
Then, looking up from the photograph, he asked, “Give you this picture, did she?”
His friend’s embarrassment increased. “No,” he answered shortly. Then, after an instant’s hesitation. “That ball was given by the Astorbilts and was one of the most swagger affairs of the season. ThePlanet—the paper with which I was connected—issues a Sunday supplement of half-tone reproductions of photographs. One page was given up to pictures of the ball and the costumes worn there.”
“I see. Astonishin’ how folks do like to get their faces into print. I used to know an old woman—Aunt Hepsibah Tucker, her name was—she’s dead now. The pride of Aunt Hepsy’s heart was that she took nineteen bottles of ‘Balm of Burdock Tea’ and the tea folks printed her picture as a testimonial that she lived through it. Ho, ho! And society big-bugs appear to have the same cravin’.”
“Some of them do. But that of your niece was obtained by our society reporter from the photographer who took it. Bribery and corruption, of course. Miss Warren would have been at least surprised to see it in our supplement. I fancied she might not care for so much publicity and suppressed it.”
“Um-hm. Well, I guess you did right. I’ll thank you for her. By the way, I told Caroline where I was cal’latin’ to go this mornin’, and she wished to be remembered to you.”
Pearson seemed pleased, but he made no comment. Captain Elisha blew a smoke ring from his pipe.
“And say, Jim,” he added, embarrassed in his turn, “I hope you won’t think I’m interferin’ in your affairs, but are you still set against comin’ up to where I live? I know you said you had a reason, but are you sure it’s a good one?”
He waited for an answer but none came. Pearson was gazing out of the window. The captain looked at his watch and rose.
“I guess I’ll have to be goin’,” he said. “It’s after twelve now.”
His host swung around in his chair. “Sit down, Captain,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I saw you, and I’m not sure about that reason. I believe I’ll ask your advice. It is a delicate matter, and it involves your brother. You may see it as he did, and, if so, our friendship ends, I suppose. But I’m going to risk it.
“Mr. Rodgers Warren and I,” he went on, “were well acquainted during the latter part of my newspaper work. I was financial man on thePlanet, and some articles I wrote took your brother’s fancy. At all events, he wrote me concerning them in highly complimentary terms and asked me to call and see him at his office. I did so and—well, we became very friendly, so much so that he invited me to his house. I dined there several times, was invited to call often, and—I enjoyed it. You see, I had few friends in the city, outside my journalistic acquaintances, and I suppose I was flattered by Mr. Warren’s kindness and the fancy he seemed to have taken to me. And I liked Miss Warren—no one could help that—and I believed she liked me.”
“She does like you,” interrupted his companion, with surprise. “Caroline’s a good girl.”
“Yes, she is. However, she isn’t in this story, except as a side-issue. At this time my ambitions were for a newspaper career, and I thought I was succeeding. And her father’s marked interest and the things he said to me promised more than an ordinary success. He was a well known man on the street, and influential. So my head began to swell, and I dreamed—a lot of foolishness. And then—”
He paused, put down his empty pipe, and sighed.
“Well, then,” he continued, “came the upset. I judged from what you said at our previous conversation, Captain, that you were well enough acquainted with Wall Street to know that queer operations take place there. Did you read about the South Shore Trolley business?”
Captain Elisha considered. “Why, yes,” he said, slowly, “seem’s if I did. One of those consolidations with ‘holdin’ companies’ and franchises and extensions and water by the hogshead. Wa’n’t that it? I remember now; the Boston papers had considerable about it, and I presume likely the New York ones had more. One of those all-accordin’-to-law swindles that sprout same as toadstools in a dark place, but die out if the light’s turned on too sudden. This one didn’t come to nothin’ but a bad smell, if I remember right.”
“You do. And I suppose I’m responsible for the smell. I got wind of the thing, investigated, found out something of what was going on, and printed a preliminary story in thePlanet. It caused a sensation.”
He paused once more. Captain Elisha, for the sake of saying something, observed, “I shouldn’t wonder.”
“It certainly did. And the morning on which it appeared,Mr. Rodgers Warren ’phoned me. He wished to see me at once. I went down to his office. Captain, I dislike to tell you this. Mr. Warren was your brother.”
“I know he was. And I’m his executor. Both those reasons make me ’specially anxious to have you tell me the truth. Heave ahead now, to oblige me.”
“Well, I found him very polite and cordial, at first. He said that a ridiculous and sensational story concerning the Trolley Combine had appeared in thePlanet, and he would like to have me contradict it and suppress further falsehoods of the kind. I told him I couldn’t do that, because the story was true. I had written it myself. He was angry, and I could see that he was holding himself in by main strength. I went on to explain that it was the duty of an honest paper, as I saw it, to expose such trespass upon the people’s rights. He asked me if I knew who was behind the scheme. I said I knew some of the backers. They were pretty big men, too. Then he informed me that he himself was deeply interested.
“I was knocked off my feet by that, you can imagine. And, to be frank, Captain, if I had known it at first I’m not sure that I, personally, would have taken the matter up. Yet I might; I can’t tell. But now that I had done it and discovered what I had, I couldn’t give it up. I must go on and learn more. And I knew enough already to be certain that the more I learned the more I should write and have published. It was one of those things which had to be made public—if a fellow had a conscience about him and a pride in the decency of his profession.
“All this was going through my head as I sat there in his private office. And he took my surprise and hesitationas symptoms of wavering and went at me, hard. Of course I knew, he said, that the operation was absolutely within the law. I did, but that didn’t make it more honest or moral or just. He went on to say that in large financial deals of this nature petty scruples must be lost sight of. Good of the business, rights of stockholders, all that sort of stuff; he rang the changes. All the papers cared for was sensation; to imperil the fortune of widows and orphans whose savings were invested in the South Shore Stock, for the sake of sensation, was a crime. He should have known better than to say that to me; it is such an ancient, worn-out platitude.”
“I know. I’ve been to political meetin’s. The widows and orphans are always hangin’ on the success of the Republican party—or the Democratic, whichever way you vote. The amount of tears shed over their investments by fellers you wouldn’t trust with a brass five-cent piece, is somethin’ amazin’. Go on; I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Then he switched to a more personal appeal. He said he had taken a fancy to me; had liked me from the very beginning. He recognized my unusual genius at first sight and had gone as far as to make plans bearing directly on my future. He was associated with men of wealth and business sagacity. Large deals, of which the Trolley Combine was but one, were on foot. He and his friends needed a representative on the press—a publicity agent, so to speak. Some of the greatest corporations employed men of that kind, and the salaries paid were large and the opportunities afforded greater still. Well, that’s true enough. I know writers who are doing just that thing and getting rich at it. I suppose they’ve squared their consciences somehowand are willing to write lies and misleading articles for what there is in it. I can’t, that’s all; I’m not built that way, and I told him so.
“It ended in an open break. He reminded me of the favors he had done me. He had treated me almost like a son, had introduced me to his family, entertaining me at his table. Where was my gratitude? That was another bad break on his part, for it made me mad. I told him I had not asked to be adopted or fed by him; if I had supposed his kindness had an ulterior motive, I would have seen him at the devil before I accepted a favor. My career as a financial visitor was ended. Get out of his office! I got. But the Trolley Combine did not go through. ThePlanetand the other papers kept up the fight and—and the widows and orphans are bankrupt, I presume.”
Captain Elisha’s pipe had gone out long since. He absently rubbed the warm bowl between his palms.
“Humph!” he muttered. “So ’Bije was deep in that business, was he?”
“He was. Very deep indeed, I found out afterwards. And, I declare, I almost pitied him at the time. He acted as if his whole fortune was staked on the gamble. His hands shook, and the perspiration stood on his forehead as he talked. I felt as if I had been the means of ruining him. But of course, I hadn’t. He lived for some time after that, and, I understand, died a rich man.”
“Yes. He left what I’d call a heap of money. My nephew and niece don’t seem to think so, but I do.”
“So you see, Captain, why I stopped calling on the Warrens, and why I did not accept Miss Warren’s invitation.”
“I see.... I see.... And yet I don’tknow. ’Bije may have took to you for business reasons, but the children didn’t. They liked you for yourself. Caroline as much as said so. And their father never told ’em a word about the row, neither. Of course you couldn’t have called when he was alive, but he’s gone, and I’m—well, I’m sort of temporary skipper there now. AndIwant you to come.”
“But if Miss Warren did know? She should know, I think.”
“I ain’t sure that she should. I guess there’s consider’ble in her pa’s life she ain’t acquainted with. And she’s as straight and honest and upright as a schooner’s fo’mast. You did nothin’ to be ’shamed of. It’s the other way ’round, ’cordin’ to my notion. But leave her out of it now. I’ve sacrificed some few things to take the job I’ve got at present, but I can’t afford to sacrifice my friends. I count on you as a friend, and I want you to come and seeme. Will you?”
“I don’t know, Captain Warren. I must think it over a while, I guess.”
“All right—think. But the invitation stands—myinvitation. And, if you want to shift responsibility, shift it on to me. Some day, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell Caroline and Stevie the whole story. But I want them to know you and the world—and me—a little better first. ’Cordin’ to my notion, they need education just along that line. They’ve got teachers in other branches, but.... There! I’vegotto be goin’. There’s the dinner bell now.”
The string of Japanese gongs, hung in the lower hall, sounded sonorously. Captain Elisha reached for his coat and hat, but Pearson caught his arm.
“No, you don’t!” he declared. “You’re going to stay and have lunch with me—here. If you say no, Ishall believe it is because you are afraid of a boarding-house meal.”
His guest protested, but the protests were overruled, and he and his host went down to the dining room. The captain whispered as they entered, “Land sakes, Jim, this takes me back home. It’s pretty nigh a twin to the dinin’ room at the Centre House in South Denboro.”
All boarding-house dining rooms bear a family likeness, so the comment was not far wrong. A long table, rows of chairs on each side, ancient and honorable pictures on the walls, the landlady presiding majestically over the teapot, the boarders’ napkins in rings—all the familiar landmarks were present.
Most of the male “regulars” were in business about the city and therefore lunched elsewhere, but the females were in evidence. Pearson introduced his guest. The captain met Mrs. Hepton, the landlady, plump, gray-haired, and graciously hospitable. She did not look at all like a business woman, but appearances are not always to be trusted; Mrs. Hepton had learned not to trust them—also delinquent boarders, too far. He met Miss Sherborne, whose coiffure did not match in spots, but whose voice, so he learned afterward, had been “cultivated abroad.” Miss Sherborne gave music lessons. Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles also claimed his attention and held it, principally because of the faded richness of her apparel. Mrs. Ruggles was a widow, suffering from financial reverses; the contrast between her present mode of living and the grandeur of the past formed her principal topic of conversation.
There were half a dozen others, including an artist whose aversion to barbers was proclaimed by the luxuriantlength of his locks, a quiet old gentleman who kept the second-hand book store two doors below; his wife, a neat, trim little body; and Mr. and Mrs. C. Dickens, no less.
Mr. Dickens was bald, an affliction which he tried to conceal by brushing the hair at the sides of his head across the desert at the top. He shaved his cheeks and wore a beard and mustache. Mrs. Dickens addressed him as “C.,” and handed him the sauce bottle, the bread, or whatever she imagined he desired, as if she were offering sacrifice to an idol.
She sat next to Captain Elisha and imparted information concerning her lord and master in whispers, during the intervals between offerings.
“My husband will be pleased to meet you, Captain Warren,” she murmured. “Any friend of Mr. Pearson is certain to be an acquisition. Mr. Pearson and my husband are congenial spirits; they are members of the same profession.”
“I want to know, ma’am.”
“Yes. What is it, ‘C.’ dear? Oh, the butter! Margaret—” to the waitress—“Mr. Dickens wishes another butter-ball. Yes, Captain Warren, Mr. Dickens is an author. Haven’t you noticed the—er—resemblance? It is considered quite remarkable.”
Captain Elisha looked puzzled. “Why,” he said, “I hadn’t noticed it ’special. Jim’s—Mr. Pearson’s—eyes and his are some the same color, but—”
“Oh, no! not the resemblance to Mr. Pearson. I didn’t meanthat. The resemblance to his more famous namesake. Surely you notice itnow.”
The captain shook his head. “I—I’m afraid I’m thick-headed, ma’am,” he admitted. “I’m out of soundin’s.”
“But the nose, and his beard, and his manner. Don’t they remind you of the English Dickens?”
“O-oh!” Captain Elisha inspected the great man with interest. He had a vague memory of a portrait in a volume of “Pickwick” at home. “Oh, I see! Yes, yes.”
“Of course you see! Everyone does. Mr. Dickens often says—it is one of his favorite jokes—that while other men must choose a profession, his was chosen for him by fate. How, with such a name, could he do anything except write?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. But names are risky pilots, ain’t they? I’ve run against a consider’ble number of Solomons, but there wa’n’t one of ’em that carried more’n a deckload of wisdom. They christened me Elisha, but I can’t even prophesy the weather with sartinty enough to bet. However, I daresay in your husband’s case it’s all right.”
The lady had turned away, and he was afraid he might have offended her. The fear was groundless; she was merely offering another sacrifice, the sugar this time.
“Yes?” she asked, turning, “you were saying—”
“Why—er—nothin’ of account. I cal’late the C. stands for Charles, then.”
“No-o. Mr. Dickens’s Christian name is Cornelius; but don’t mention it before him, he is very sensitive on that point.”
The Dickenses “tickled” the captain exceedingly, and, after the meal was over, he spoke of them to Pearson.
“Say,” he said, “you’re in notorious company, ain’t you, Jim? What has Cornelius Charles turned out so far, in the way of masterpieces?”
Pearson laughed. “I believe he is employed by asubscription house,” he replied. “Doing hack work on an encyclopedia. A great collection of freaks, aren’t they, Captain Warren?”
“Kind of. But that old book-shop man and his wife seem nice folks. And, as for freaks, the average boardin’ house, city or country, seems to draw ’em like flies. I guess most anybody would get queer if they boarded all the time.”
“Perhaps so. Or, if they weren’t queer, they wouldn’t board permanently from choice. There are two or three good fellows who dine and breakfast here. The food isn’t bad, considering the price.”
“No, it ain’t. Tasted more like home than any meal I’ve had for a good while. I’m afraid I never was cut out for swell livin’.”
Mrs. Hepton approached them as they stood in the hall. She wished to know if Mr. Pearson’s friend was thinking of finding lodgings. Because Mr. Saks—the artist’s name—was giving up the second floor back in a fortnight, and it was a very pleasant room. “We should be delighted to add you to our little circle, Captain Warren.”
Pearson told her that his companion was already lodged, and she said good-by and left them. The captain smiled broadly.
“Everything in New York seems to be circles,” he declared. “Well, Jim, you come up and circulate with me, first chance you get. I’m dependin’ on you to call, remember.”
The young man was still doubtful.
“I’ll see,” he said. “I can’t promise yet—perhaps I will.”
“You will—after you’ve thought it out to a finish. And come soon. I’m gettin’ interested in that secondedition of your Uncle Jim, and I want to keep along with him as fast as you write. Good-by. Much obliged for the dinner—there I go again!—luncheon, I mean.”