CHAPTER XVISCRATCH ONE ON BULGAROO
I'd strolled into the front office in my shirt sleeves, and was leanin' against the gym door listenin' to Pinckney and his friend slangin' each other—and, believe me, it's a wonderful gift to be able to throw the harpoon refined and polite that way!
"Larry," says Pinckney, lookin' him over reproachful, "you are hopeless. You merely cumber the earth."
"Having made an art of being useless," says Larry, "you should be an excellent judge."
"You think you flatter me," says Pinckney; "but you don't. I live my life as it comes. You are botching yours."
"Hear, hear!" says Larry. "The butterfly sermonizes!"
"Insect yourself!" says Pinckney.
"My word!" says Larry. "Chucking entomology at me too! Well, have it that I'm a grasshopper. My legs are long enough."
"It's your ears that are long, Larry," says Pinckney.
"There you go, mixing the metaphor!" says Larry. "So I'm an ass, eh?"
"The word strikes me as beautifully descriptive," says Pinckney.
"Excuse me," says I, breakin' in, "but is this to a finish? If it is, I'll send out for some throat troches."
Larry grins and settles himself back easy in my desk chair. Great lad, this Mr. T. Lawrence Bolan! All he needs is a cape coat and a sugar-loaf hat with a silver buckle to be a stage Irishman. One of these tall, loose-hinged, awkward-gaited chaps, with wavy red hair the color of a new copper pan, also a chin dimple and a crooked mouth. By rights he should have been homely. Maybe he was too; but somehow, with that twisty smile of his workin', and them gray-blue eyes twinklin' at you, the word couldn't be said.
"Look at him, Shorty!" says Pinckney. "Six feet of futile clay; a waster of time, money, and opportunity."
"The three gifts that a fool tries to save and a wise man spends with a free hand," says Larry. "Give me a cigarette."
"How much, now, did you lose to that crowd of bridge sharks last night?" demands Pinckney, passin' over a gold case.
"Not my self-respect, anyway," says Larry. "Was I to pass cowardly with a hundred aces in hand? And I had the fun of making that Boomer-Day person quit bidding on eight hearts. How she did glare as she doubled me!"
"Set you six hundred, I hear," says Pinckney. "At a quarter the point that's no cheap fun."
"Who asks for cheap fun?" says Larry. "I paid the shot, didn't I?"
"And now?" asks Pinckney.
Larry shrugs his shoulders. "The usual thing," says he; "only it happens a little earlier in the month. I'm flat broke, of course."
"Then why in the name of all folly will you not borrow a couple of hundred from me?" demands Pinckney.
"Would I pay it back?" says Larry. "No, I would not. So it would be begging, or stealing? You see how awkward that makes it, old chap?"
"But, deuce take it! what are you to do for the next three weeks, you know?" insists Pinckney.
"Disappear," says Larry, wavin' his cigarette jaunty, "and then—
"The haunts that knew him onceNo more shall know.The halls where once he trodWith stately tread—er—Tum-ti-iddity—As the dead—
or words, my dear Pinckney, much to that effect. My next remittance should be here by the third."
"When you'll reappear and do it all over again," says Pinckney.
"In which you're quite wrong," says Larry. "Not that I am bitten by remorse; but I weary of your game. It's a bit stupid, you know,—your mad rushing about here and there, plays, dinners, dances, week-ends. You're mostly a good sort; but you've no poise, no repose. Kittens chasing your tails! It leaves no chance to dream dreams."
"Listen," says Pinckney, "to that superior being, the lordly Briton, utter his usual piffle! I suppose you'd like to marry, settle down on a hundred-acre estate nine miles from nowhere, and do the country gentleman?"
"It would be the making of me," says Larry, "and I could be reasonably happy at it."
"Then why not do it?" demands Pinckney.
"On a thousand pounds a year?" says Larry. "Go to!"
"The fact remains," says Pinckney, "that you have for an uncle the Earl of Kerrymull."
"And that I'm his best hated nephew, paid to keep out of his sight," comes back Larry.
"But you are where an Earl-uncle counts for most," suggests Pinckney. "By judicious choice of a father-in-law——"
"Rot!" breaks in Larry. "Am I a cheap adventurer in a third-rate melodrama? Waster I may be; but no dowry hunter."
"As though you could not like, for herself alone, any one of the half-dozen pretty girls who are foolish enough to be crazy over you," says Pinckney.
"As though I'd be blighter enough to let myself fall in love with any of the sweet dears!" says Larry. "I'm in my thirties, Man."
"There's widows aplenty," hints Pinckney.
"Bless 'em all!" says Larry. "I'd not load one of them with a wild, impecunious Irishman like myself."
"Then what?" says Pinckney. "Also where, and whither?"
"Bulgaroo," says Larry, wavin' vague into space.
"Is that a form of self-destruction?" asks Pinckney.
"Almost," says Larry. "It's the nearest town to Sir Horace Vaughn's No. 6 sheep ranch. Quaint little spot, Bulgaroo; chiefly corrugated iron villas and kangaroo scrub, two hundred-odd miles back from Sidney. I'm due there at the end of next month."
"My regards to the Bulgaroovians," says I.
"Is this just a whim of yours, or a crazy plan?" says Pinckney.
"Both," says Larry. "No. 6 is where I went to do penance when the Earl and I had our grand smashup. Eighteen months I put in before he settled an allowance on me. They'll give me another foreman's job. I'll stay three years this time, saving pay and remittance drafts, and at the end I'll have hoarded enough to buy an interest, or a ranch of my own. That's the theory. Actually, I shall probablytake an amazing thirst into Bulgaroo about once a month, buy vile champagne at the Queen's Arms, and otherwise disport myself like a true sheepherder. The finis will not sound pretty."
Pinckney stares at him puzzled for a minute, and then turns to me. "Shorty," says he, "you're a Celt. What do you make of him?"
"My guess is that there's a skirt in the background," says I.
"Oh-ho!" says Pinckney.
"Touched!" says Larry.
Pinckney aims the cigarette case at him, remarkin' savage, "The story or your life. Come, now!"
Larry springs that wistful, twisty smile of his and goes on. "It happened here, eight years ago, as I was on my way to No. 6. I'd picked up a beastly fever somewhere, and I knew not a soul in your blessed city. So I wabbled into a hospital and let them tuck me away in a cot. Now grin, blast you! Yes, she was one of the day nurses, Katie McDevitt. No raving beauty, you know. Ah, but the starry bright eyes of her, the tender touch of her soft hand, and the quick wits under her white cap! It wasn't just the mushy sentiment of a convalescent, either. Three grand weeks afterwards I waited around, going walks with her in the park, taking her on foolish steamer rides, sending her flowers, notes, candy. We were rare spoons, and she was as good as she waswitty. There was an idyl for you! Then, when I woke up one day—why, I ran away without a word! What else could I do? I was bound for an Australian sheep ranch. And there I went. Since then not a whisper of her. By now it's quite likely she's the wife of some lucky dog of a doctor, and never gives me a thought. So why shouldn't I go back?"
"Because, you crack-brained Irishman," says Pinckney, "when you're not maundering over some such idiocy as this, you're the most entertaining good-for-nothing that ever graced a dinner table or spread the joy of life through a dull drawing room. Come home with me for the week-end, anyway."
"I'll not," says Larry. "I'm a pauper."
"Will you go with Shorty, then?" says Pinckney. "At times he's as absurd as yourself."
"He's not asked me," says Larry.
"My tongue's drippin' with it," says I. "I had an own cousin come over from Kerrymull. You'll be welcome."
"Done!" says Larry. "And for board and lodging I'll sing you Ballyshone after dinner."
So he did too, and if you've ever heard it well sung, you'll know the lump I had in my throat as I listened. Also I had him tell Sadie about Katie McDevitt; and when he'd made friends with little Sully and the dog we could have kept him for a year and a day.
But that Sunday afternoon, while we wasswingin' out of the front gates for a walk, we stops to let a limousine whizz by, and we gets a glimpse of a woman's face through the windows.
"Lord love you, McCabe!" says Larry, grippin' me by the arm, "but who was that?"
"In the car?" says I. "No one but Mrs. Sam Steele."
"Mrs., did you say?" says he.
"The rich widow," says I, "that lives in the big house over on the Shore Drive." I pointed it out.
"A widow!" says he. "Thanks be! Shorty, she's the one!"
"Not your Miss McDevitt?" says I.
"No other," says he. "I'd swear it!"
"Then you're nutty in the head, Mr. Larry Bolan," says I; "for I've known her these two years, and never heard of her being an ex-nurse."
"She might not care to boast of it," says he. "Rich, did you say?"
"Near a million, they say," says I; "which don't fit in with the nurse idea, does it?"
"I couldn't mistake Katie McDevitt," says he, waggin' his head mulish. "But who was this Steele beggar?"
"She moved here after plantin' him West somewhere," says I. "One of the big lumber crowd, I've heard. Sadie can tell you more."
"Thanks," says he; "but I'll have it from Katie herself. Take me there."
"Eh?" says I. "On a chance shot? I'd look well, wouldn't I?"
"But you must," says he. "Now!"
"Come off!" says I. "You with only a glance at her! Besides, she's one of these stiff, distant parties that keeps to herself."
"McCabe," says he, "I mean to talk with her within the hour if I have to smash in her front door and wring a butler's neck."
There's a thrill in his voice as he says it, and from all I know of Larry Bolan there's no stoppin' him. We started off.
The nearer we got to the big house, though, the battier the enterprise seemed to me. First off, I'd been nursin' a dislike for Mrs. Steele ever since I'd overheard a little séance between her and one of the outside men. She'd caught him smugglin' home a few measly vegetables from her big garden, and after tongue lashin' him lively she fires him on the spot—him a poor Dago with a big fam'ly. Then there'd been tales told by the butcher, the plumber, and half a dozen others, all goin' to show she was a lady tightwad, or worse.
So I'd sized her up as a cold, hard proposition. And when I work up feelin's like that I'm apt to show 'em. I couldn't help thinkin' but maybe I had. Here I was, though, cartin' a strange gent up to her front door, on his guess that he's her long lost Romeo.
"Ah, be good, Larry!" says I. "Let's call it off."
He shakes his head stubborn.
"All right," says I; "but take it from me we're about to pull down trouble. What's the plan?"
He thinks, as long as I know the lady, I'd better send in my name and then break it to her easy. So, while I'm waitin' in the reception hall, he kicks his heels impatient against the veranda rail outside.
Rather a classy lookin' party, Mrs. Steele is as she shows up in a stunnin' house gown,—good lines, fine complexion, and all that. Takes mighty good care of herself, so Sadie says, with two French maids to help. She don't stint herself that way. And the little streak of early gray through her front hair gives her sort of a distinguished look. There's nothin' friendly, though, about the straight, tight-lipped mouth, or the surprised look in her eyes as she discovers me standin' there.
"Mr. McCabe?" says she.
"You see," says I, grinnin' foolish, "there's a chap outside who—who has a batty idea he used to know you."
"Really?" says she, narrowin' her eyes a bit.
"Bolan's the name, Ma'am," I goes on, "Larry Bolan."
It wa'n't much,—just a quiver, a little lift of the shoulders, a bunchin' of the fingers. Then she bites her lip and gets a grip on herself. "Well?" says she. "What of it?"
"Why," says I, "he—he wants to have a talk with you. Course, though, if you don't know him, or don't remember, all you got to do——"
"Yes, yes!" she breaks in. "I understand. Wait!"
A couple of minutes she stands there, never makin' a crack or givin' any sign, except that the toe of one slipper taps the rug restless. Then she gives her decision. "You may bring him in," says she.
"How about sendin' him?" I suggests.
"No, not alone," says she. "I want you to stay."
So I steps to the door. "Larry," says I, "you're called on the carpet; but for the love of soup don't pull any of that old sweetheart stuff reckless! The signs ain't right."
And a fat lot of notice he takes of my advice. Trust Larry! He pushes in eager ahead of me, marches straight to where she is, gives her one mushy, admirin' look, and the next thing I know he has reached for one of her hands and is kissin' it as graceful and romantic as James K. Hackett doin' a Zenda stunt.
Gave Mrs. Steele some jolt, that play did; for it's plain she was fixin' to frost him at the start. But it's all over before she has time to draw a breath, and he has let her fingers slip through his caressin'.
"Katie!" says he.
She flushes and stiffens up. "Silly as ever, I see," says she.
"More so," says he. "But it's only seeing you again that brings on the attack. Katie, you're glorious!"
"Please!" says she, protestin'. "I've rather outgrown my liking for sentimental speeches. Tell me, why do you hunt me up like this, after so long?"
"Can you ask?" says he. "Look! No—in my eyes, Katie."
And, say, with things gettin' that gummy, I was beginnin' to feel like a cold boiled potato served accidental with the pie.
"Excuse me," says I, "but maybe I'd better wait in the next room."
"Not at all," says Mrs. Steele, real crisp and businesslike. "It will be only for a moment, while Mr. Bolan states very briefly his exact purpose in coming here."
Larry bows. "To see once more the girl he could not forget," says he.
"Humph!" says she, curlin' her upper lip. "Very pretty, I suppose. But let me assure you that foolish young person ceased to exist several years ago."
"She lives for me—here," says Larry, placin' one hand on his left vest pocket.
Mrs. Steele indulges in a thin little cold-storage laugh that sounds almost as pleasant as tappin' a gas pipe. "What a sudden revival of an old, worn-out affection!" saysshe. "When did you first hear I was a widow?"
"Less than an hour ago," says Larry.
"Did they say I was rich, or poor?" she goes on sarcastic.
"Katie!" says he gaspy. "Surely you—you can't think——"
"It's what I ask them all," says she, "domestic and imported. Naturally I am a little suspicious when they declare passionate love at the first or second meeting; for, in spite of what my maids tell me, my mirror insists that I'm not ravishingly beautiful. So I've begun to suspect that perhaps my money may be the attraction. And I'm not in the market for a husband, you know."
"Bing-g-g!" says I under my breath.
As for Larry Bolan, it leaves him with his chin down. For, after all, he ain't one of your walrus-hided gents. As a matter of fact, he's as sensitive as they come, and she couldn't have handed it out rougher.
"My dear lady," says he, "you are pleased to be cruel. Perhaps, though, it's only my due. I admit that I'm only a poor pensioner posing as a gentleman. But within a month I shall be on my way to bury myself on the other side of the world. Meanwhile, I see you pass. Could I help wanting a few kind words of yours to take with me?"
"If that is really all, Mr. Bolan," says she, "I would advise you to outlive your nonsense,as I've outlived mine. Try paying your tailor with kind words."
"Katie," says he, with a sob in his voice, "you—you've broken the heart of me. Come, McCabe, we will go."
She stands watchin' us, smilin' cynical, until we're almost through the door; and then—well, it's a sigh that comes out explosive. She starts as if she meant to dash after us, and then stops with her arms out.
"Larry!" says she, almost in a whisper.
It pulls him up, and he stares at her a minute over his shoulder. "It's no use, Katie," says he. "What's turned you hard and cold I don't know; but you can't unsay what's been said. And it hurt—bitter."
"Oh, I know, I know!" says she. "But you must hear what it was that changed me from the girl you knew. Money, Larry, the money for which I married. As for the man—oh, I suppose he was no worse than the rest; only he taught me to love a dollar more than anything else in earth or heaven. He'd wrung all of his from a grudging world with his bare hands,—starved and slaved and plotted for it, in mean ways, against mean men; then fought to hold it. And he knew to a penny's worth what every dollar he spent should buy for him. Among other things, he bought me. Sixty-odd he was; I barely twenty. Why call it differently? I was fool enough, too, to think I was a lucky girl. Ah, what a fool! Seven years of fear andhate! It's an awful thing, Larry, to live so long with hate in you for one at your side. But he—he never knew."
She leaves off, squeezin' one hand in the other until the ends of the fingers went white, her chest heavin', her eyes stary. Larry watches her without a word.
"Tell me," says she after a bit, "why you ran away that time and left me to—to make such a mess of things. Why?"
"For the same reason that I'm going away again now," says he. "I've a thousand pounds a year, and not sense enough to keep myself on it, let alone a wife. So it's good-by, Katie."
Then the weeps came, open eyed; but she didn't try to hide 'em. "Oh, oh!" she moans. "But I was so lonely then, and—and I'm so lonely now!"
Them few drops of brine turned the trick. "Ah, Katie McDevitt!" says he. "If I could bring back the old Katie! By the soul of me, but I will? You never heard of my old uncle, did you? Come with me to him, and see me make it up; for I can't leave you this way, Katie, I just can't!"
"Larry!" says she, and with that they goes to a fond clinch.
"Help!" says I, and slides through the door.
When I gets home Sadie wants to know what I've done with Mr. Bolan.
"Towed him up to Hymen's gate," says I,"and left him bein' yanked through by Mrs. Sam Steele."
"Wha-a-at?" says she. "Of all persons! And when did that start, I'd like to know?"
"Eight years back," says I. "She was Katie the nurse, and this is their second act. Anyway, he ducks Bulgaroo by it."
CHAPTER XVIIBAYARD DUCKS HIS PAST
First place, Swifty Joe should have let the subject drop. Anyway, he needn't have come paradin' into the front office in his gym suit to show me his nutty theory of how Young Disko landed that knockout on the Australian in the breakaway.
"Turn over!" says I. "You're on your back! He couldn't have done anything of the kind."
"Couldn't, eh?" growls Swifty. "Ahr-r-r-r chee! Couldn't give him the shoulder on the jaw! Ain't I seen it done? Say, lemme show you——"
"Show nothing!" says I. "I'm tellin' you it was a right hook the kid put him out with, from chancery. Now see!"
With that I sheds my coat, gets Swifty's neck in the crook of my left elbow, swings him round for a side hip-lock, and bends his head forward.
"Now, you South Brooklyn kike," I goes on, maybe more realistic than I meant, "I got you right, ain't I? And all I got to do is push in a half-arm jolt like this, and——"
Well, then I looks up. Neither of us has noticed her come in, hadn't even heard the knob turn; but standin' there in the middle of the room and starin' straight at us is a perfectly good female lady.
That don't half tell it, either. She's all lady, from the tips of her double-A pumps to the little gray wing peekin' over the top of her dingy gray bonnet. One of these slim, dainty, graceful built parties, with white, lacy stuff at her wrists and throat, and the rest of her costume all gray: not the puckered-waist, half-masted skirt effects all the women are wearin' now. I can't say what year's model it was, or how far back; but it's a style that seems just fitted to her: maybe one that she's invented herself. Around thirty-five, I should judge she was, from the little streak of gray runnin' through her front hair.
What got me, though, was the calm, remote, superior look that she's givin' us. She don't seem nervous or panicky at all, like most women would, breakin' in on a roughhouse scene like that. She don't even stare reprovin', but stands there watchin' us as serene as if we wa'n't anything more'n pictures on a movie sheet. And there we was, holdin' the pose; me with my right all bunched for action, and Swifty with his face to the mat. Seemed minutes we was clinched there, and everything so still you could hear Swifty's heavy breathin' all over the room.
Course I was waitin' for some remarks from her. You'd most think they was due, wouldn't you? It's my private office, remember, and she's sort of crashed in unannounced. If any explainin' was done, it was up to her to start it. And waitin' for what don't come is apt to get on your nerves.
"Eh?" I throws over my shoulder at her.
Her straight eyebrows kind of humps in the middle—that's all.
"Did you say anything?" I goes on.
"No," says she. If she'd smiled sort of faint, or even glared stern at us, it wouldn't have been so bad. But she just presses her lips together—thin, narrow-gage lips, they was—and goes on givin' us that distant, unconcerned look.
Meanwhile Swifty, with his face bent towards the floor, ain't gettin' any view at all, and is only guessin' what's happenin'. He squirms impatient.
"Say, Shorty," he grumbles, "I got a few bones in me neck, remember. Break, can't you?"
And as I loosens my hold he straightens up, only to get the full benefit of that placid, ladylike lookover.
"Ahr-r-r chee!" says he, glancin' disgusted at me. Then he starts gettin' rosy in the ears, like he always does when there's fluffs around, and after one more hasty look he bolts back into the gym.
The strange lady watches this move like she has everything else, only she shrugs her shoulders a bit. What she meant by that I couldn't make out. I was gettin' to the point where I didn't care so much, either.
"Well, Ma'am?" says I.
"Poor fellow!" says she. "I am glad he escaped that brutal blow."
"Are you?" says I. "Well, don't waste too much sympathy on him; for I was only demonstratin' how——"
"You might offer me a chair," she breaks in sort of casual.
"Why—er—sure!" says I, and before I knew it I was jumpin' to drag one up.
She settles into it without even a nod of thanks.
"You see," I goes on, "he's my assistant, and I was tryin' to show him how——"
"It's rather stuffy here," observes the lady. "Couldn't you open a window?"
It's more an order than anything else; but I hops over and shoves the sash wide open.
"That's too much," says she. "It causes a draft."
So I shuts it halfway. Then I gets her a glass of water. "Anything else you'd like?" says I, tryin' to be sarcastic. "The mornin' paper, or——"
"Where is Mr. Steele?" she demands.
"Oh!" says I, gettin' a little light on the mystery. "J. Bayard, you mean?"
"Of course," says she. "He was not at his hotel, and as this was the other address I was given I expected to find him here."
"Huh!" says I. "Gave you this number, did he? Well, you see, this is my Physical Culture Studio, and while he's apt to be here off and on, it ain't his——"
"Just such a place as I might have anticipated finding Bayard in," says she, glancin' around the front office at the portraits in ring costume and so on. "Quite!"
"Let's see," says I, "you are—er——"
"I am Mrs. Lee Hollister," says she, "of Richmond, Virginyah."
"I might have suspicioned that last," says I, "by the way you——"
But she don't give me a show to register any little slam I might have thought of puttin' over. She's the kind that conducts a conversation accordin' to her own rules, and she never hesitates to cut in.
"I want to know what there is about this will of Mr. Gordon's," she demands. "Some absurd legacy, I presume; at least, my solicitor, Colonel Henderson, seemed to think so. I suppose you've heard of Colonel Britt Henderson?"
"Not a whisper," says I, as defiant as I know how.
She expresses her opinion of such ignorance with a little lift of her pointed chin. "Colonel Henderson," she goes on, "is perhaps theablest and most brilliant attorney in Virginyah. He is connected with the best families in the State."
"Never heard of anybody from down there that wa'n't," says I. "And while I ain't disputin' him, mind you, his guess about this bein' a legacy is——"
"Will Mr. Steele be in soon?" she asks crisp.
"Might," says I, "and then again he mightn't."
"It's rather rude of him to keep me waiting," says she.
"Maybe if you'd sent word ahead," I suggests, "he'd been on hand. But now you've come all this way——"
"You don't suppose," breaks in Mrs. Hollister, "that I came north just for that? Not at all. It was to select a design for the memorial window I am having placed in our church, in memory of poor, dear Professor Hollister. My late husband, you know; and a most noble, talented, courtly gentleman he was too."
"Ye-e-es'm," says I.
"What are those objects on the wall?" says she, shiftin' sudden.
"Boxin' gloves, Ma'am," says I. "That's the pair of mitts that won me the championship, back in——"
"Has Mr. Steele become a pugilist, too?" she asks.
"Not so you'd notice it," says I.
"Hm-m-m-m!" says she, tappin' the toe of one of her pumps and gazin' around critical.
Not that she takes any notice of me. Honest, if I'd been a yellow pup tied in the corner, she couldn't have been more offhand. I was gettin' warm in the neck by the minute too, and in three more shakes I'd been cuttin' loose with the acid remarks, when the door opens and in blows J. Bayard Steele. I sighs relieved when I sees him too.
"Oh!" says he, gettin' a back view of her. "I beg pardon. I—er——" Then she turns and faces him. "Alice!" he gasps.
"My dear Bayard!" she protests. "Please let's not have any scene. It was all so long ago, and I'm sure you must have gotten over that."
"But how—why—er——" he goes on.
"You wrote to Mrs. Lee Hollister, didn't you?" she demands. "I am Mrs. Hollister."
Another gasp from Steele. "You?" says he. "Then you—you——"
"To be sure I married," says she. "And Professor Hollister was one of the truest, noblest Southern gentlemen who ever lived. I have mourned his loss for nearly ten years, and—— But don't stand there twiddling your hat in that absurd fashion! You may sit, if you like. Get Mr. Steele a chair, will you?"
I'd jumped and done it too, before I had time to think.
"Now what is this about Mr. Gordon's will?" says she.
Well, between us, whenever she'd let us get in a word, we managed to sketch out the idea.
"You see," says Steele, "Pyramid Gordon wished to make what reparation he could for any injustice he might have done during the course of his business career. He left a list of names, among them being this, 'the widow of Professor Lee Hollister.' Now possibly Gordon, in some way——"
"He did," breaks in Mrs. Hollister. "My husband had issued an elaborate and exhaustive geological report on a certain district. It had attracted wide attention. He was to have been appointed State Geologist, when suddenly this Mr. Gordon appeared and began his unwarranted campaign of abuse and opposition. Something about some coal and iron deposits, I believe it was, on land which he was trying to sell to an English syndicate. Professor Hollister's report failed to mention any such deposits. As a matter of fact they did not exist. But Mr. Gordon summoned experts of his own, who attacked my husband's statements. The professor declined to enter into a public controversy. His dignity would not permit him. Underhanded influence was brought to bear on the Governor, and the appointment was given to another. But time has shown. Discredited and beaten though he seemed to be, my husband was right. The Gordon lands proved valueless.Those in which Professor Hollister invested his savings were rich in minerals."
"Ah!" says Steele. "Quite like Pyramid. And it has been left to us, Mrs. Hollister, to recompense, if we may, the bitterness of that——"
"Please!" says the lady. "Professor Hollister was not an embittered man. Such methods were beneath his contempt. He merely withdrew from public life. As for recompense—surely you would not think of asking me to accept it from such a source! Never! Besides, I have more than enough. Several years ago I disposed of our mineral holdings, bought back the old Hollister mansion, and I am now living there in as much comfort as poor Lee could have wished me to enjoy. What could Gordon's money add to that?"
If I'd been J. Bayard, hanged if I wouldn't called it quits right there! But he's gettin' so chesty over this job of sunshine distributer that there's no holdin' him in.
"Surely, Alice," he insists, "there must be some way in which I, as—er—an old friend, might——"
Mrs. Hollister cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "You don't understand," says she. "I am no longer the vain, frivolous young girl whom you knew that winter in Chicago. My first season, that was. I was being lavishly entertained. I suppose I became dazzled by it all,—the attention, the new scenes, the manymen I met. I've no doubt I behaved very silly. But now—well, I have realized all my social ambitions. Now I am devoting my life to the memory of my sainted husband, to charity, to our dear church."
I gawps curious over at J. Bayard to see what comeback he has to this dose of mush, and finds him starin' foolish at her.
"There is only one thing——" she begins.
"Yes?" says Steele, kind of faint. "Something in which we might——"
"I am interested in a group of girls," says she, "factory girls; one of our Guild Mission classes, you know. They have been anxious to have some dances. Now I am strongly opposed to the modern dances, all of them. True, I've seen very little, almost nothing. So I decided that, in order to convince myself that I am right, I might as well, while I am in New York—well—er——"
"I get you," I puts in. "You want to watch the real thing pulled—the fox trot, and the new polkas, and so on. Eh?"
"Not for my own personal amusement," corrects Mrs. Hollister. "I am sure I shall be bored, perhaps shocked; but then I shall be better able to warn my girls."
"The old gag!" says I. "I know what would fit your case,—a late dinner at the Maison Maxixe. Eh, Steele?" and I tips him the knowin' wink.
"Why—er—yes," says J. Bayard. "I presumeMr. McCabe is correct. And I am sure we should be delighted to have Mrs. Hollister as our guest."
"We!" I gasps under my breath. Say, the nerve of him! But before I can think up any previous date the lady has accepted.
"I have heard of the place," says she. "I am quite willing to endure an evening there. I am wondering, though, if I should not be rather conspicuous. You see, I brought with me none but simple gowns such as this, and perhaps the contrast——"
"You'd be about as prominent at the Maxixe in that outfit," says I, "as a one-legged albino at a coon cakewalk. Besides, they don't let you in there unless you're in full evenin'. Course, there's other joints where——"
"No," says she. "Let it be the Maison Maxixe, if that is the worst. And for once too I may as well submit myself to the horrors of the new fashions. I will order a costume to-day, and I can be ready for my plunge into Gotham vanities by—let me see—we will say Saturday night. I am at the Lady Louise. You may call for me there about eight. Good-by. Don't be late, Gentlemen." And with that she does the abrupt flit, leavin' us gawpin' at each other stupid.
"Much obliged, Steele," says I, "for ringin' me in on this nutty reunion of yours. Say, J. B., you got a head like a tack, you have! Have a heart, can't you?"
"My dear Shorty," says he, "permit me to point out that it was you who suggested taking her to——"
"Because you was sittin' there like a gump," says I. "Only helpin' you out, that's all. And I'm goin' to look nice, ain't I, trailin' into a place like that with you and this—say, just where does the lady fit into your past, anyway? Never heard you mention her, did I?"
"Naturally not," says he. "One doesn't boast of having been thrown over."
"Eh?" says I. "You was engaged—toher?"
He nods and gazes sentimental at the ceilin'. "My one genuine romance," says he. "I suppose she wasn't really the radiant beauty I imagined; but she was charming, vivacious, fascinating. It was a bad case of love at first sight. At eleven o'clock that evening, I remember, I took her in to supper. At twelve I was leading her into a palm-sheltered nook, and the next thing I knew I had taken her in my arms and—well, the usual thing. No one could have made a more complete ass of himself. She should have boxed my ears. She didn't. The engagement lasted all of one week."
"Then you recovered from the attack?" says I.
"No," says he. "She had discovered another, several others. She told me quite casually that she really hadn't meant it; and wasn't I, after all, rather a wild young man? Iassured her that if I wasn't wild I should be after that. She only shrugged her shoulders. So I gave her up. The others did too. And she went back to Richmond, it seems, and married a sainted geologist; while I—well, I never did get over it, quite. Silly, of course; but when I met other girls later I—I remembered, that's all."
"Which accounts for you bein' a bach so long, does it?" says I. "Well, it's never too late. Here's your chance once more. At the Maison Maxixe you can pull any kind of romance, stale or recent, and nobody'll care a hoot. I'll duck the dinner, and you can——"
"No, no!" protests J. Bayard. "I—er—I wouldn't take her to dinner alone for worlds. Really!" he waves his hands almost tragic.
"Why not?" says I. "Thought you hadn't got over it."
"Oh, but I have," insists Steele, "thoroughly."
"Must have been lately then," says I.
"To-day—just now," says he. "I never dreamed she would develop into—er—a woman like that,—the way she looks at you, you know."
"You don't need to describe it," says I. "That wa'n't a marker to the way she looked at Swifty and me. But wait! We'll hand her a jolt Saturday night."
Steele groans. "I wish I could—— By George!" he explodes. "I'd forgotten Major Ben Cutter."
"What about him?" says I.
"An old friend," says J. Bayard. "He's landing Saturday, from Santa Marta. I haven't seen him for years,—been down there running a banana plantation, you know. He cabled up, and I'd promised to take him around that evening, dinner at the club, and——"
"Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" says I. "No old-friend alibi goes in this case."
"But, Shorty," he protests, "how can I——"
"You can lug him along, can't you?" says I. "Make it a four-cornered affair. The more the merrier."
"He's such a diffident, shy chap, though," goes on Steele, "and after five years in the bush——"
"Oh, a dose of Mrs. Hollister will do him good," says I. "She won't mind. She'll be bein' bored. Just 'phone her and explain. And remind her when she's gettin' her costume that this ain't any church sociable we're attendin'."
Honest, I was more leery on that point than about anything else; for you know how giddy they doll up at them joints, and while her taste in stained glass windows might be strictly up to date, when it comes to flossin' up for the Maison Maxixe—well, no gray-and-white, back-number regalia would do there. If we wa'n't shut out, we'd be guyed to death.
So about seven-thirty Saturday night I wassome chilly in the ankles. I'd called for J. Bayard at his hotel, and he'd shown up with the Major. No figment of the imagination, either, the Major. He's a big, husky, rich-colored party that's some imposin' and decorative in open-faced togs; quiet and shy actin', though, just as Steele had said. I sort of took to him, and we swaps friendly greetin's.
"All aboard now," says I, "and we'll collect our widow."
Which seems to startle the Major more or less. "I say, Bayard," he puts in, "you didn't tell me she was a widow, you know. Perhaps, after all, I'd best not——"
"Ah, she ain't the net-wieldin' kind," says I soothin'. "She'll tell you all about her dear departed and the memorial window. About as gay as Trinity Church on Ash Wednesday, she is. Come along."
Can you blame him, then, for glancin' reproachful at me when he sees what answers our call at the Lady Louise a few minutes later? I lets go of a few gasps myself; while J. Bayard—well, he just stares at her with his mouth open.
For, take it from me, Mrs. Hollister had connected! Uh-huh! Not with any last fall outfit, nor yesterday's. About day after to-morrow's, I should call it. And if there wa'n't zipp and scream to it, then I'm shortsighted in the eyes. My guess is that it's a mixture of the last word in Byzantine effects, with a Cleopatra girdleand a Martha Washington polonaise. Anyway, if there ain't much above the waist line but gauze and strips of fur, there's plenty of flare below, as far as the ankles. Lucky she'd invested in a generous fur-lined wrap to go with it, or I wouldn't have stirred a step until we'd draped her in a rug or something. I ain't sayin' much about the feather affair clamped around her head in place of a hat; only it reminds me of an Indian war bonnet that's been through a hard blow.
"Well, Bayard," says she, floatin' up to us wabbly on her high heels, "you see I'm ready."
"Ye-e-es," says Steele draggy. And while I pushes the Major to the front almost by main strength, J. Bayard presents him.
After that, though—say, I don't know when I've seen two parties indulge in such a long and earnest look at each other as Major Ben and Mrs. Hollister did then. While the Major flushes rosy and hardly has a word to say for himself, he just naturally glues his lamps to her and don't let 'em roam. Believe me too, she was some giddy picture! Wa'n't such a bad looker, you know, in her other rig; but in this zippy regalia—well, I got to admit that she's some ripe pippin. Her big brown eyes is sparklin', she's smilin' coy as she looks the Major up and down, and the next thing we know blamed if she ain't cuddled right up to him and remarked kittenish:
"You dear man! I'm going to let you take me out to the cab."
Well, that was the programme from then on. It was the Major and Mrs. Hollister first, with me and J. Bayard trailin' on behind. We'd had some debate beforehand as to whether this should be a dry dinner or not, endin' by Steele announcin' he was goin' to take a chance on Martinis anyhow. Does she shy at the appetizer? Say, she was clinkin' glasses with the Major before J. Bayard has a chance to reach for his. Same way with the fizz that J. B. has put in a hurry order for.
"Bored to death, ain't she?" I remarks behind my hand.
And before the fillet of sole was served the Major had unlimbered his conversation works, and that pair was havin' about the chattiest time of any couple in the place, with me and J. Bayard stranded on the side lines.
"Do you know, my dear Major," we hears her announce about nine-fifteen, as she toys with a three-dollar portion of roast pheasant, "I had no idea New York could be like this. Then there are the theaters, the opera. I believe I shall stay up for the rest of the season."
"Good!" says the Major. "I shall stay too."
Half an hour later, while he was showin' her how to burn brandy on her demitasse, I nudges Steele.
"Say," I whispers, "me for a spot where I ain't formin' a crowd!"
Steele takes a hasty glance at 'em. "I—I'm with you," says he.
"What!" says I. "Goin' to hand him over to her?"
He nods. "Well," says I, "I guess that'll pass for a kind deed."
"Also somewhat of a generous one," says he, exhibitin' the footin' of the dinner bill he's just settled for.
I don't think they noticed, either of 'em, when we did our sneak. Once outside, J. Bayard takes a long breath, like he was relieved at havin' shifted something. Then he sort of sighs.
"Poor old Ben!" says he.
"Gwan!" says I. "You never can tell. Maybe he'll like playin' the devoted slave act for the rest of his life. Besides, she's on a new tack. The Major's quite a husk too. I'll bet he don't qualify for any memorial window. Not him!"