Men have a way of greeting which is all their own. It is unlike the
kiss and flutter of women, which may signify frankness or deceit,
generosity or selfishness, some favor to gain, some treachery to
forestall. Men's likes and dislikes are generally visible. The dog
wags his tail, or he warns you away with a growl; there is no
mistaking his attitude. On the other hand, the cat purrs and rubs
against your leg, and when you reach down to smooth her, as likely as
not she gives you a dig for your pains. True, there are always
exceptions to this rule.
With their hands on each other's shoulders, at arm's length they
stood, a likely pair to look at, smiling frankly and joyfully into
each other's eyes. When it is without self-interest, friendship
between man and man is a fine and noble thing. It is known best in the
stress of storms, in the hour of sorrow and adversity. Friendship, to
be perfect, must be without any sense of obligation; for obligation
implies that one or the other is in debt, and the debtor is always
wondering when he will have to pay. Between these two men only the
slightest favors had been exchanged. They had grown up together, one
the son of a rich steel-mill owner, the other the son of a poor
farmer. The one had entered college to the sounding of golden cymbals,
the other had marched in with nothing but courage in his pocket. It is
impossible to describe how these great friendships come about;
generally they begin with some insignificant trifle, soon forgotten.
Warrington had licked Bennington in the boyhood days; why, I doubt
that the Recording Angel himself remembers. So the friendship began
with secret admiration on one side and good-natured toleration on the
other. One day Warrington broke a colt for Bennington, and later
Bennington found a passably good market for Warrington's vegetables.
Friendship, like constancy, finds strange niches. The Bennington
family were not very cordial to the young vegetable grower. On the
mother's side there was a long line of military ancestors. It is
impossible that a cabbage and a uniform should cohere. Warrington's
great-grandsires had won honors in the Revolution, but as this fact
did not make cabbages grow any faster he kept the faded glory to
himself.
In college the two lads were as inseparable as La Mole and Coconnas;
they played on the same teams, rowed on the same crews and danced with
the same girls. The only material difference in their respective
talents lay in one thing: Bennington could not write a respectable
rhyme, and I'm not sure that he wasn't proud of it. It distinguished
him from the other members of his class. As for Warrington, there
wasn't a pretty girl in the whole college town who couldn't boast of
one or more of his impassioned stanzas. And you may be sure that when
Warrington became talked about these self-same halting verses were dug
up from the garret and hung in sundry parlors.
Bennington was handsome, and, but for his father's blood, the idleness
of his forebears would have marked him with effeminateness. His head,
his face, the shape of his hands and feet, these proclaimed the
aristocrat. It was only in the eyes and the broad shoulders that you
recognized the iron-monger's breed. His eyes were as blue as his own
hammered steel; but, like the eyes of the eagle at peace, they were
mild and dreamy and deceptive to casual inspection. In the shops the
men knew all about those eyes and shoulders. They had been fooled
once, but only once. They had felt the iron in the velvet.
"I'm mighty glad to see you, boy," said Warrington, dropping his arms.
"You haven't changed a bit."
"Nor you, Dick; if anything you look younger."
"How many years is it, John?"
"Six or seven; not very long."
"Time never seems long to a man who never has to wait for anything. I
have had to reckon time with hours full of suspense, and those hours
have aged me; perhaps not outwardly, but all the same, I'm an old man,
John."
"Nonsense!"
"When did you cross?"
"About a year ago, when father died. I had given up the English end of
the concern two years before, and was just wandering about the
continent. I was dreadfully disappointed when I learned that you had
visited the shops in ninety-eight. That summer I was in Switzerland.
I had no idea there was going to be war, and never saw a newspaper
till it was nearly over. I should have enlisted. And another year we
passed within two days of each other."
"No!" Bennington exclaimed.
"Yes. It was in Italy, at Sorrento, that I learned of your nearness.
You were off for Amalfi and I had just come from there. For three days
I ran across your name in the hotel registers. I tried to find your
permanent address, but failed. Cook's nor the bankers in Naples knew
anything about you. I tell you what, it was discouraging."
"What luck! I was having all my mail sent direct to Mentone, where I
spent the winter. Say, what do you think?"
"About what?"
"Won five thousand at Monte Carlo in one play."
"Pounds?" exclaimed Bennington.
"Lord, no!--dollars."
"Ah! But of course you went back and lost it?" ironically.
"On the contrary, I've never staked a dollar since. Gambling was never
a habit of mine, though I dare say the moral side of the subject would
not have held me back. Simply, I know that the gambler always loses,
and the banker always wins, in the end. Common sense told me to quit,
and I did. I brought my letter of credit home practically intact."
"You used to play poker," dubiously.
"Poker isn't gambling. It's surreptitiously lending money to your
friends."
"You were always good at definitions," sighed Bennington.
"I understand you've sold your holdings in the English shops?"
"Yes. I was weary of the people and what they called their
conservatism, which is only a phase of stupidity. And then, besides, I
loved the old home up there. I've been living there about a year now."
"It's a pity you couldn't have looked me up before this," Warrington
complained.
Bennington only laughed affectionately.
"Take a look around the room while I get the whisky and soda."
"Don't bother, Dick."
"Boy, I licked you once, and I'll do it again if you don't sit down. A
little extra attention won't hurt; and I'll guarantee the whisky."
Waving his arms toward all the desirable things in the room, he
vanished beyond the curtain.
Bennington looked about leisurely. It was just the kind of room he had
always imagined; it was like the man who occupied it. Simplicity and
taste abounded; the artist and the collector, the poet and the
musician, were everywhere in evidence. He strolled over to the mantel
and took down one of the pictures signed "Kate." He smiled. It was not
an indulgent smile, nor the smile of a man who has stumbled upon
another man's secret. The smile was rather exultant. He leaned against
the mantel and studied the face in its varied expressions. He nodded
approvingly. It was a lovely face; it was more than lovely,--it was
tender and strong. Presently he returned to his chair and sat down,
the photograph still in his hand. And in this position Warrington
found him.
"Ah, you sly dog!" he hailed, setting down the glasses and pouring out
a liberal bumper. "So I've caught you? Well, you're not the only man
who has been conquered by that very photograph." He had half a notion
to go in and bring her out; but then, women are such finicky beings!
Bennington laid aside the photograph, a certain reverence in his
action that in ordinary times would not have escaped Warrington's
notice.
"What's this to be?" asked Bennington, lifting his glass and stirring
the ice.
"Immer und immer, as the German has it," Warrington replied.
"For ever and ever, then!"
And the two lightly touched glasses, with that peculiar gravity which
always accompanies such occasions.
"When a man drinks your health in bad whisky, look out for him; but
this whisky is very good, Dick." Bennington set down his glass and
wiped his lips. "It is very good, indeed."
"Well, how are things up in Herculaneum?" asked Warrington. "You know,
or ought to know, that I get up there only once a year."
"Things are not very well. There's the devil to pay in politics, and
some day I may have a jolly long strike on my hands," grimly. "But I
shall know exactly what to do. That man McQuade owns about all the
town now. He controls congressmen, state senators and assemblymen, and
the majority of the Common Council is his, body and soul. Only
recently he gave the traction company a new right of way. Not a penny
went into the city's purse. And you know these street-railways; they
never pay their taxes. A franchise for ninety-nine years; think of
it!"
"Why don't you men wake up and oust McQuade? I'll tell you right here,
Jack, you have no one to blame but yourself. Scoundrels like McQuade
are always in the minority; but they remain in power simply because
men like you think politics a dirty business and something for an
honest man to keep out of. Run for mayor yourself, if you want clean
politics. Rouse up an independent party."
"Do you know what they call me up there?" Bennington laughed.
"I confess to ignorance."
"Well, the newspapers say covertly that I'm all but a naturalized
Englishman, a snob, when I'm only a recluse, a man who dresses every
night for dinner, who dines instead of eats. There are some things it
is impossible to understand, and one is the interest the newspapers
take in the private affairs of men. If they jumped on me as a
mill-owner, there might be some excuse, but they are always digging me
on the private-citizen side. Every man, in his own house, ought to be
allowed to do as he pleases. They never bothered the governor any,
when he was alive. I believe they were afraid of him."
"I can explain all that, my boy. Buy your clothes of the local
tailors; get rid of your valet; forget that you have lived in England.
They'll come around to you, then. You may talk as much as you like
about the friendliness between the Englishman and the American. It is
simply a case of two masters who are determined that their dogs shall
be friendly. Let the masters drop out of sight for a moment, and you
will find the dogs at each other's throat. And the masters? The dollar
on this side and the sovereign on the other. There is a good deal of
friendship these days that is based upon three and a half per cent.
Get into politics, my boy."
"Bah! I'd look nice running for mayor, wouldn't I? The newspapers
would howl calamity, and the demagogues would preach that I would soon
impose English wages in the shops, and all that tommyrot. No, thank
you; I'll take trouble as it comes, but I'm not looking for it."
"I see that I shall have to go back there and start the ball myself,"
said Warrington, jesting.
"Why don't you? You are not a rank outsider. The people are proud of
you."
"And always will be, so long as I have sense enough to remain here in
New York," dryly. "But if I lived there ...!"
"You are not always going to live in New York?"
"Not always."
"You've a beautiful old home up there."
"I bought that just to show the people I had the money," laughing.
"They may never forget my cabbages, but they'll forgive them."
"Nevertheless, you ought to return."
"Listen," said Warrington, lifting his hand. They became silent, and
presently the voice of the city came into the room. "I'm afraid I
could not live away from that. How many times have I stopped work to
listen to it! How many inspirations have I drawn from it! It is the
siren's music, I know, but I am no longer afraid of the reefs. Perhaps
I have become enamored with noise; it is quite possible."
"I have lived in London. I thought it was going to be hard to break
away, but it wasn't."
They lighted cigars, and Bennington took up the photograph again.
"A lovely face," was his comment.
"With a heart and a mind even more lovely," supplemented Warrington.
"She is one of the most brilliant women I have ever met, and what is
more, humorous and good-humored. My word for it, she may have equals,
but she has no superiors on this side of the ocean."
Bennington looked up sharply.
"Nothing serious?" he asked gently.
"Serious? No. We are capital friends, but nothing more. There's been
too much comradeship to admit anything like sentimentality. Ah, boy,
you should see her act!"
"I have. I saw her in London last season. She was playing your War of
Women. She appeared to me enchanting. But about these actresses ..."
"I know, I know," interrupted Warrington. "Some of them are bad, but
some of them are the noblest creatures God ever put on earth; and
yonder is one of them. I remember. Often we were both in debt; plays
went wrong; sometimes I helped her out, sometimes she returned the
favor. We were more like two men. Without her help I shouldn't be
where I am to-day. I always read the scenario of a play to her first;
and often we've worked together half a night on one scene. I shall
miss her."
"What! Is she going away?"
"After a fashion. She has retired from the stage."
"Do you believe she means it?" asked Bennington. "You know how
changeable actresses' moods are."
"I think Miss Challoner will never act again. She has always been an
enigma to the majority of the show people. Never any trumpets,
jewelry, petty squabbles, lime-lights, and silks; she never read
criticisms, save those I sent her. Managers had to knock on her
dressing-room door. Oh, I do not say that she is an absolute paragon,
but I do say that she is a good woman, of high ideals, loyal,
generous, frank, and honest. And I have often wondered why the devil I
couldn't fall in love with her myself," moodily.
Bennington was silent for a moment. Finally he said: "How does it feel
to be famous, to have plays produced simultaneously in New York and
London?"
"After the first success there is never anything but hard work. A
failure once in a while acts like a tonic. And sometimes we get an
anonymous letter that refreshes us--a real admirer, who writes from
the heart and doesn't fish for a letter or an autograph in return. I
received one of these only a few days ago, and I want you to read it."
Warrington produced the missive and tossed it into Bennington's hands.
"Read that. It's worth while to get a letter like that one."
Bennington took up the letter, smiling at his friend's enthusiasm. A
single glance at the graceful script, however, changed his expression.
He sat back and stared at Warrington.
"What's the matter?"
Bennington did not answer, but settled down to his task, reading
carefully and slowly. He did not look for any signature, for he knew
there would be none. He returned the letter, his face sober, but his
eyes dancing.
"Now, what the deuce do you see that is so amusing?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Don't tell me there isn't any romance in the world. But, hang it,
Jack, I'm not worth a letter like that," earnestly.
"Of course not."
"I'm not jesting. I've sown wild oats, and God knows what the harvest
will be. There's a law that exacts payment. Retribution is the only
certain thing in this world."
"Oh, you're no worse than the average man. But the average man is
jolly bad," Bennington added gravely. "But you, Dick; I'm not worrying
about you. Perhaps the writer of that letter sees good in you that you
can't see yourself; good that is in you but of which you are
unconscious. One thing, you have never besmirched the talents God gave
you. Everything you have done has been clean and wholesome--like
yourself."
"I wish I could believe that! But I've had no ties, Jack, none. You
can't keep to a course without a compass. The real good in life, the
good that makes life worth while, is the toil for those you love. I
love nobody, not even myself. But this girl rather woke me up. I began
to look inward, as they say. So far I've not discovered much good. I'd
give a good deal to meet this writer."
"Doubtless you will find her charming."
Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend. "But what I want to know
is, what brought you around here this time o' night? I never knew you
to do anything without a definite purpose."
"That's precisely what I've been waiting for you to lead up to. The
truth is--" Bennington hesitated. His hand, idly trailing over the
desk, came into contact with something smooth and soft. It was a pair
of white kid gloves, a woman's. Absently he drew them through his
hand. He was only half conscious of his action, and he did not observe
Warrington's sudden agitation. "The truth is, I've gone and done it.
I'm going to be married in June, and I want you to be my best man."
Warrington's hand went out impulsively.
"Oh, I felt it in my bones when your card came in," he said,
rearranging the glasses. "Lucky woman! Long life to you, Jack, and
long happiness!"
"Thank you, Dick." (Ceremonial recurrence of drinking a health.)
"Now, out with it. Who is she, and all about her?"
"Dick, I'm genuinely sorry, but I'm still under bond of silence."
"More mysteries!" cried Warrington, with evident discontent.
"Only for a week, when, if you say, we'll have breakfast here in these
very rooms.
"Done. Only I must say you're a bit hard on me to-night.
"I'm sorry."
"Let me see; I'll describe her for you. Beautiful."
"Yes."
"Accomplished."
"Very."
"A woman who will be both wife and comrade."
"Exactly."
"An American."
"In all things."
"You make me envious."
"Why don't you get married yourself?"
"Bah!" Warrington went to the window and looked down upon the street.
Bennington eyed his broad shoulders sympathetically. He looked down at
the limp, smooth skins in his hand, and sat up stiffly. From the
gloves to Warrington and back again to the gloves, his gaze traveled.
With an impulse rather mechanical he raised the gloves to his nose.
Quickly he dropped them on the desk, took up the photograph, rose and
replaced it on the mantel. Hearing him, Warrington turned.
"No, Jack, I doubt if I shall ever be lucky enough to find the one
woman. I've been so busy that I've never had time to hunt for
happiness. And those who hunt for it never find it, and those who wait
for it can not see it standing at their side."
Bennington wandered about, from object to object. Here he picked up a
dagger, there a turquoise in the matrix, and again some inlaid wood
from Sorrento. From these his interest traveled to and lingered over
some celebrated autographs.
"Happiness is a peculiar thing," went on the dramatist. "It is far
less distinctive than fame or fortune. They sometimes knock at your
door, but happiness steals in without warning, and often leaves as
mysteriously as it comes."
Bennington paused to examine a jade cigarette case, which he opened
and closed aimlessly. And there were queer little Japanese ash-trays
that arrested his attention.
"Men like you and me, Jack, never marry unless we love. It is never a
business transaction."
"It is love or nothing," said Bennington, turning his face toward
Warrington. The smile he gave was kindly. "Yes, true happiness can be
sought only in those we love. There is happiness even in loving some
one who does not love you." Bennington repressed a sigh. "But, Dick,
you'll be the best man?"
"Depend upon me. What do you say to this day week for breakfast here?"
"That will be wholly agreeable to me."
Bennington's cigar had gone out. He leaned upon the desk and took his
light from the chimney. Men who have traveled widely never waste
matches.
"Can't you bunk here for the night? There's plenty of room," said
Warrington.
"Impossible, Dick. I leave at midnight for home. I must be there
to-morrow morning. I'm afraid of trouble in the shops. The unions are
determined to push me to the limit of my patience."
"Why the deuce don't you get rid of the shops?"
"They're the handiwork of my father, and I'm proud to follow his
steps." Bennington's eyes were no longer at peace; they sparkled with
defiance. "Half-past ten!" suddenly. "I must be going. My luggage is
still at the hotel. God bless you, Dick!"
Their hands met once again.
"You know, jack, that I love you best of all men."
"You are sure there is no woman?"
Warrington laughed easily. "Ah, if there was a woman! I expect to be
lonely some day."
Bennington put on his hat and gloves, and Warrington followed him into
the hall. Once the prospective bridegroom paused, as if he had left
something unsaid; but he seemed to think the better of silence, and
went on.
"Tuesday morning, then?"
"Tuesday morning. Good night."
"Good night, and luck attend you."
The door closed, and Warrington went slowly back to his desk, his mind
filled with pleasant recollections of youth. He re-read the letter,
studied it thoroughly, in hopes that there might be an anagram. There
was nothing he could see, and he put it away, rather annoyed. He
arranged the sheets and notes of the scenario, marshaled the scattered
pencils, and was putting the glasses on the tray, when a sound in the
doorway caused him to lift his head. One of the glasses tumbled over
and rolled across the desk, leaving a trail of water which found its
level among the ash-trays.
"It is quite evident that you forgot me," said the woman, a faint
mirthless smile stirring her lips. "It was very close in there, and I
could hear nothing." She placed a hand on her forehead, swayed, and
closed her eyes for a second.
"You are faint!" he cried, springing toward her.
"It is nothing," she replied, with a repelling gesture. "John
Bennington, was it not?"
"Yes." His eyes grew round with wonder.
"I was going to keep it secret as long as I could, but I see it is
useless. He is the man I have promised to marry." Her voice had a
singular quietness.
Warrington retreated to his desk, leaning heavily against it.
"Bennington? You are going to marry John Bennington?" dully.
"Yes."
He sat down abruptly and stared at her with the expression of one who
is suddenly confronted by some Medusa's head, as if in the straggling
wisps of hair that escaped from beneath her hat he saw the writhing
serpents. She was going to marry John Bennington!
She stepped quickly up to the desk and began to scatter things about.
Her hands shook, she breathed rapidly, her delicate nostrils dilating
the while.
"Look out!" he warned, at her side the same instant. "Your hat is
burning!" He smothered the incipient flame between his palms.
"Never mind the hat. My gloves, Dick, my gloves! I left them here on
the desk."
"Your gloves?" Then immediately he recollected that he had seen them
in Bennington's hands, but he was positive that the gloves meant
nothing to Bennington. He had picked them up just as he would have
picked up a paper-cutter, a pencil, a match-box, if any of these had
been within reach of his nervous fingers. Most men who are at times
mentally embarrassed find relief in touching small inanimate objects.
So he said reassuringly: "Don't let a pair of gloves worry you, girl."
"He bought them for me this morning," a break in her voice. "I MUST
find them!"
The situation assumed altogether a different angle. There was a hint
of tragedy in her eyes. More trivial things than a forgotten pair of
gloves have brought about death and division. Together they renewed
the search. They sifted the manuscripts, the books, the magazines,
burrowed into the drawers; and sometimes their hands touched, but they
neither noticed nor felt the contact. Warrington even dropped to his
knees and hunted under the desk, all the while "Jack Bennington, Jack
Bennington!" drumming in his ears. The search was useless. The gloves
were nowhere to be found. He stood up irresolute, dismayed and
anxious, keenly alive to her misery and to the inferences his best
friend might draw. The desk stood between them, but their faces were
within two spans of the hand.
"I can't find them."
"They are gone!" she whispered.