Every city has its Fifth Avenue. That which we can not have as our own
we strive to imitate. Animal and vegetable life simply reproduces
itself; humanity does more than that, it imitates. Williams Street was
the Fifth Avenue of Herculaneum. It was broad, handsome, and climbed a
hill of easy incline. It was a street of which any city might be
justly proud. Only two or three houses jarred the artistic sense.
These were built by men who grew rich so suddenly and unexpectedly
that their sense of the grotesque became abnormal. It is an
interesting fact to note that the children of this class become
immediately seized with a species of insanity, an insanity which urges
them on the one hand to buy newspapers with dollar-bills, and on the
other to treat their parents with scant respect. Sudden riches have,
it would seem, but two generations: the parent who accumulates and the
son who spends.
The Warrington home (manor was applied to but few houses in town)
stood back from the street two hundred feet or more, on a beautiful
natural terrace. The lawn was wide and crisp and green, and the oak
trees were the envy of many. The house itself had been built by one of
the early settlers, and Warrington had admired it since boyhood. It
was of wood, white, with green blinds and wide verandas, pillared
after the colonial style. Warrington had purchased it on a bank
foreclosure, and rather cheaply, considering the location. The
interior was simple but rich. The great fireplace was made of old
Roman bricks; there were exquisite paintings and marbles and rugs and
china, and books and books. Very few persons in Herculaneum had been
inside, but these few circulated the report that the old house had the
handsomest interior in town. Straightway Warrington's income became
four times as large as it really was.
The old aunt and the "girl" kept the house scrupulously clean, for
there was no knowing when Richard might take it into his head to come
home. The "girl's" husband took care of the stables and exercised the
horses. And all went very well.
Warrington seldom went to church. It was not because he was without
belief; there was a strong leaven of faith underlying his cynicism.
Frankly, sermons bored him. It was so easy for his imaginative mind to
reach out and take the thought from the preacher's mouth almost before
he uttered it. Thus, there was never any suspense, and suspense in
sermons, as in books and plays, is the only thing that holds captive
our interest.
So he stayed at home and read the Sunday papers. That part not devoted
to society and foreign news was given up wholly to local politics.
Both the Democratic and Republican parties were in bad odor. In the
Common Council they were giving away street-railway franchises;
gambling-dens flourished undisturbed, and saloons closed only when
some member of the saloon-keeper's family died. The anti-gambling
league had succeeded in suppressing the slot machines for a fortnight;
this was the only triumph virtue could mark down for herself. There
were reformers in plenty, but their inordinate love of publicity
ruined the effectiveness of their work. A brass band will not move the
criminal half so quickly as a sudden pull at the scruff of his neck.
So the evil-doer lay low, or borrowed the most convenient halo and
posed as a deeply-wronged man. Warrington, as he read, smiled in
contempt. They had only one real man in town, scoundrel though he was.
There are certain phases of villainy that compel our admiration, and
the villainy of McQuade was of this order. The newspapers were
evidently subsidized, for their clamor was half-hearted and
hypocritical. Once or twice Warrington felt a sudden longing to take
off his coat and get into the fight; but the impulse was transitory.
He realized that he loved ease and comfort too well.
Finally he tossed aside the sheets and signaled to the dog. It was a
bull terrier, old and scarred, and unchanging in his affections. He
loved this master of his, even if he saw him but once a year. They
understood each other perfectly. He was a peace-loving animal, but he
was a fighter at times--like his master. He had a beautiful head,
broad punishing jaws, and, for all his age, he had not run to fat,
which is the ignominious end of all athletes, men or dogs.
"Old boy, this is a jolly bad world."
Jove wagged his stump of a tail.
"We should all be thieves if it were not for publicity and jail."
Jove coughed deprecatingly. Perhaps he recollected purloined haunches
of aforetime.
"Sometimes I've half a mind to pack up and light out to the woods, and
never look at a human being again."
Jove thought this would be fine; his tail said so.
"But I'm like a man at a good play; I've simply got to stay and see
how it ends, for the great Dramatist has me guessing."
Warrington stared into the kind brown eyes and pulled the ragged ears.
There was a kind of guilt in the old dog's eyes, for dogs have
consciences. If only he dared tell his master! There was somebody else
now. True, this somebody else would never take the master's place; but
what was a poor dog to do when he was lonesome and never laid eyes on
his master for months and months? Nobody paid much attention to him in
this house when the master was away. He respected aunty (who had the
spinster's foolish aversion for dogs and the incomprehensible
affection for cats!) and for this reason never molested her
supercilious Angora cat. Could he be blamed if he sought (and found)
elsewhere affection and confidence? Why, these morning rides were as
good as a bone. She talked to him, told him her secrets (secrets he
swore on a dog's bible never to reveal!) and desires, and fed him
chicken, and cuddled him. There were times when he realized that old
age was upon him; some of these canters left him breathless and
groggy.
"I've been thinking, boy," the master's voice went on. "New York isn't
so much, after all. I wasn't city born, and there are times when the
flowing gold of the fields and the cool woods call. Bah! There's
nothing now to hold me anywhere. I hope she'll make him happy; she can
do it if she tries. Heigh-ho! the ride this morning has made me
sleepy. To your rug, boy, to your rug."
Warrington stretched himself on the lounge and fell asleep. And thus
the aunt found him on her return from church. She hated to wake him
but she simply could not hold back the news till luncheon. She touched
his arm, and he woke with the same smile that had dimpled his cheeks
when he was a babe in her arms. Those of us who have retained the good
disposition of youth never scowl upon being awakened.
"Aha," he cried, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
"Richard, I wish you had gone to church this morning."
"And watched the gossips and scandal-mongers twist their barbs in Mrs.
Bennington's heart? Hardly."
She gazed at him, nonplussed. There was surely something uncanny in
this boy, who always seemed to know what people were doing, had done
or were going to do.
"I wouldn't have believed it of my congregation," she said.
"Oh, Mrs. Bennington is a woman of the world; she understands how to
make barbs harmless. But that's why I never go to church. It doesn't
soothe me as it ought to; I fall too easily into the habit of pulling
my neighbor's mind into pieces. Gossip and weddings and funerals; your
reputation in shreds, your best girl married, your best friend dead. I
find myself nearer Heaven when I'm alone in the fields. But I've been
thinking, Aunty."
"About what?"
"About coming home to stay."
"Oh, Richard, if you only would!" sitting beside him and folding him
in her arms. "I'm so lonely. There's only you and I; all the others
I've loved are asleep on the hill. Do come home, Richard; you're all I
have."
"I'm thinking it over."
Here the Angora came in cautiously. She saw Jove and the dog saw her;
fur and hair bristled. Jove looked at his master beseechingly--"Say
the word, Dick, say the word, and I'll give you an entertainment." But
the word did not come.
"There's your church-goers, Aunty; always ready to fly at each other.
In order to study humanity thoroughly, one must first learn the ways
of the beast."
"I'm afraid your dog's a traitor."
"A traitor?"
"Yes. Half the time he runs over to the Benningtons' and stays all
night. I don't see why he should."
"Maybe they pet him over there. Perhaps he wants a hand sometimes,
just like human beings when they're lonely. If you petted him once in
a while, one pat for every ten you give the cat, the old boy would be
tickled to death."
"But I'm kind to him, Richard; he has the best meat I can buy. I'd pet
him, too, but I'm afraid of him. I'm always afraid of dogs. Besides,
his feet are always muddy and his hair falls out and sticks to
everything."
"Who is his latest love?"
"Patty Bennington. They go out riding together. I can always tell, for
his stomach is invariably caked with dried mud."
"Patty Bennington? The old dog shows good taste. And I had forgotten
all about Bennington's having a sister. I was thunderstruck when I met
her the other week in New York. I had really forgotten her. She is
charming."
"She is a dear young girl. Ah, Richard, if only you would find some
one like her."
"Marriages are made in Heaven, Aunt, and I'm going to wait till I get
there. But I'll think it over about coming home to stay."
"I'll be so happy!" the old lady cried. "I'm going right out into the
kitchen myself and make one of those cherry pies you used to rave
over."
She disappeared; and Warrington laughed, rose and stretched the sleep
from his arms and legs, and went up stairs to dress. Yes, he would
think it over. There was nothing to hold him in New York, nothing but
the craving for noise and late hours. Why not settle down here? There
would be plenty to do. Besides, if he lived in Herculaneum he could
run over to the Bennington home at any time of day. His cheeks flushed
of a sudden.
"Hang it, am I lying to myself about that girl? Is it the knowledge
that she'll be my neighbor that inclines me to live here? I know I
shall miss her if I stay in New York; I'm honest enough to admit that.
God knows I've nothing but honor in my heart for her. Why, I wouldn't
even kiss her hand without old Jack's consent. Well, well; the scene
in the church Wednesday will solve all doubts--if I have any."
The Sunday luncheon passed uneventfully. The aunt said nothing more
about his coming home to stay. She knew her boy; urging would do more
harm than good; so she left him to decide freely.
"Is the pie good, Richard?" she asked.
"Fine! Can you spare me another piece?"
"I'm glad you'll never be too proud to eat pie," she returned.
"Not even when it's humble," laughed Warrington.
"There are some folks roundabout who do not think pie is proper,"
seriously.
"Not proper? Tommyrot! Pie is an institution; it is as unassailable as
the Constitution of the country. I do not speak of the human
constitution. There are some folks so purse-proud that they call pies
tarts."
She looked askance at him. There were times when she wasn't quite sure
of this boy of hers. He might be serious, and then again he might be
quietly laughing. But she saw with satisfaction that the pie
disappeared.
"The world, Richard, isn't what it was in my time."
"I dare say it isn't, Aunty; yet cherries are just as good as ever and
June as beautiful. It isn't the world, Aunt o' mine; it's the plaguy
people. Those who stay away from church ought to go, and those who go
ought to stay away. I'm going down to the club this afternoon. I shall
dine there, and later look up the Benningtons. So don't keep dinner
waiting for me."
"Cheer her up, Richard; she needs cheering. It's been a blow to her to
lose her boy. If you'd only get married, too, Richard, I could die
content. What in the world shall you do when I am gone?"
"Heaven knows!" The thought of losing this dear old soul gave a
serious tone to his voice. He kissed her on the cheek and went out
into the hall. Jove came waltzing after him. "Humph! What do you want,
sir? Want to go out with me, eh? Very well; but you must promise to
behave yourself. I'll have you talking to no poor-dog trash, mind."
Jove promised unutterable things. "Come on, then."
He walked slowly down town, his cane behind his back, his chin in his
collar, deep in meditation. He knew instinctively that Mrs. Bennington
wanted to talk to him about the coming marriage. He determined to tell
her the truth, truth that would set her mother's heart at peace.
Jove ran hither and thither importantly. It was good to be out with
the master. He ran into this yard and that, scared a cat up a tree,
chased the sparrows, and grumbled at the other dogs he saw. All at
once he paused, stiffened, each muscle tense. Warrington, catching the
pose, looked up. A handsome trotter was coming along at a walk. In the
light road-wagon sat a man and a white bulldog. It was easy for
Warrington to recognize McQuade, who in turn knew that this
good-looking young man must be the dramatist. The two glanced at each
other casually. They were unacquainted. Not so the dogs. They had met.
The white bull teetered on the seat. Jove bared his strong teeth. How
he hated that sleek white brute up there! He would have given his life
for one good hold on that broad throat. The white dog was thinking,
too. Some day, when the time came, he would clean the slate. Once he
had almost had the tan for his own. And he hated the girl who had
beaten him off with her heavy riding-crop.
McQuade drove on, and Warrington resumed his interrupted study of the
sidewalk. McQuade thought nothing more about the fellow who wrote
plays, and the dramatist had no place in his mind for the petty
affairs of the politician. Fate, however, moves quite as certainly and
mysteriously as the cosmic law. The bitter feud between these two men
began with their dogs.
At the club Warrington found a few lonely bachelors, who welcomed him
to the long table in the grill-room; but he was in no mood for gossip
and whisky. He ordered a lithia, drank it quickly, and escaped to the
reading-room to write some letters.
Down in the grill-room they talked him over.
"I don't know whether he boozes now, but he used to be tanked quite
regularly," said one.
"Yes, and they say he writes best when half-seas over."
"Evidently," said a third, "he doesn't drink unless he wants to; and
that's more than most of us can say."
"Pshaw! Sunday's clearing-up day; nobody drinks much on Sunday. I
wonder that Warrington didn't marry Challoner himself. He went around
with her a lot."
Everybody shrugged. You can shrug away a reputation a deal more safely
than you can talk it.
"Oh, Bennington's no ass. She's a woman of brains, anyhow. It's
something better than marrying a little fool of a pretty chorus girl.
She'll probably make things lively for one iron-monger. If the hair
doesn't fly, the money will. He's a good sort of chap, but he wants a
snaffle and a curb on his high-stepper."
Then the topic changed to poker and the marvelous hands held the night
before.
Warrington finished his correspondence, dined alone, and at
seven-thirty started up the street to the Benningtons'. Jove, with the
assurance of one who knows he will be welcomed, approached the
inviting veranda at a gallop. His master, however, followed with a
sense of diffidence. He noted that there was a party of young people
on the veranda. He knew the severe and critical eye of youth, and he
was a bit afraid of himself. Evidently Miss Patty had no lack of
beaux. Miss Patty in person appeared at the top of the steps, and
smiled.
"I was half expecting you," she said, offering a slim cool hand.
Warrington clasped it in his own and gave it a friendly pressure.
"Thank you," he replied. "Please don't disturb yourselves," he
remonstrated, as the young men rose reluctantly from their chairs. "Is
Mrs. Bennington at home?"
"You will find her in the library." Then Patty introduced him. There
was some constraint on the part of the young men. They agreed that,
should the celebrity remain, he would become the center of attraction
at once, and all the bright things they had brought for the dazzlement
of Patty would have to pass unsaid.
To youth, every new-corner is a possible rival; he wouldn't be human
if he didn't believe that each man who comes along is simply bound to
fall in love with the very girl HE has his eyes on.
On the other hand, the young girls regretted that the great dramatist
wasn't going to sit beside them. There is a strange glamour about
these men and women who talk or write to us from over the footlights.
As Warrington disappeared into the hallway, the murmur and frequent
laughter was resumed.
Mrs. Bennington was very glad to see him. She laid aside her book and
made room for him on the divan. They talked about the weather, the
changes that had taken place since the fall, a scrap of foreign travel
of mutual interest, each hoping that the other would be first to
broach the subject most vital to both. Finally, Mrs. Bennington
realized that she could fence no longer.
"It was very good of you to come. I have so many things to ask you."
"Yes."
"My boy's determination to marry has been very sudden. I knew nothing
till a month ago. I love him so, and my whole heart hungers for one
thing--the assurance that he will be happy with the woman of his
choice."
"My dear Mrs. Bennington, Jack will marry a woman who is as loyal and
honest as she is brilliant and beautiful. Miss Challoner is a woman
any family might be proud to claim. She numbers among her friends many
of the brilliant minds of the age; she compels their respect and
admiration by her intellect and her generosity. Oh, Jack is to be
envied. I can readily understand the deep-rooted antagonism the
actress still finds among the laity. It is a foolish prejudice. I can
point out many cases where the layman has married an actress and has
been happy and contented with his lot."
"But on the obverse side?" with a smile that was sad and dubious.
"Happiness is always in the minority of cases, in all walks of life.
Happiness depends wholly upon ourselves; environment has nothing to do
with it. Most of these theatrical marriages you have read about were
mere business contracts. John is in love."
"But is he loved?"
"Miss Challoner has a very comfortable fortune of her own. She would,
in my opinion, be the last person in the world to marry for money or
social position, the latter of which she already has."
But she saw through his diplomacy.
"Perhaps she may desire a home?"
"That is probable; but it is quite evident to me that she wants John
with it."
"There are persons in town who will do their best to make her
unhappy."
"You will always find those persons; but I am confident Miss Challoner
will prove a match for any of them. There is no other woman in the
world who knows better than she the value of well-applied flattery."
"She is certainly a charming woman; it is impossible not to admit that
frankly. But you, who are familiar with the stage, know how unstable
people of that sort are. Suppose she tires of John? It would break my
heart."
"Ah, all that will depend upon Jack. Doubtless he knows the meaning of
'to have and to hold.' To hold any woman's love, a man must make
himself indispensable; he must be her partner in all things: her
comrade and husband when need be, her lover always. There can be no
going back to old haunts, so attractive to men; club life must become
merely an incident. Again, he must not be under her feet all the time.
Too much or too little will not do; it must be the happy between."
"You are a very wise young man."
Warrington laughed embarrassedly. "I have had to figure out all these
things."
"But if she does not love him!"
"How in the world can she help it?"
She caught up his hand in a motherly clasp.
"We mothers are vain in our love. We make our sons paragons; we blind
ourselves to their faults; we overlook their follies, and condone
their sins. And we build so many castles that one day tumble down
about our ears. Why is it a mother always wishes her boy to marry the
woman of her choice? What right has a mother to interfere with her
son's heart-desires? It may be that we fear the stranger will stand
between us. A mother holds, and always will hold, that no woman on
earth is good enough for her son. Now, as I recollect, I did not think
Mr. Bennington too good for me." She smiled drolly.
Lucky Jack! If only he had had a mother like this! Warrington thought.
"I dare say he thought that, too," he said. "Myself, I never knew a
mother's love. No doubt I should have been a better man. Yet, I've
often observed that a boy with a loving mother takes her love as a
matter of course, and never realizes his riches till he has lost them.
My aunt is the only mother I have known."
"And a dear, kind, loving soul she is," said Mrs. Bennington. "She
loves you, if not with mother-love, at least with mother-instinct.
When we two get together, we have a time of it; I, lauding my boy;
she, praising hers. But I go round and round in a circle: my boy. Sons
never grow up, they are always our babies; they come to us with their
heartaches, at three or at thirty; there is ever one door open in the
storm, the mother's heart. If she loves my boy, nothing shall be too
good for her."
"I feel reasonably sure that she does." Did she? he wondered. Did she
love Jack as he (Warrington) wanted some day to be loved?
"As you say," the mother went on, "how can she help loving him? He is
a handsome boy; and this alone is enough to attract women. But he is
so kind and gentle, Richard; so manly and strong. He has his faults;
he is human, like his mother. John is terribly strong-willed, and this
would worry me, were I not sure that his sense of justice is equally
strong. He is like me in gentleness; but the man in him is the same
man I loved in my girlhood days. When John maps out a course to act
upon, if he believes he is right, nothing can swerve him--nothing. And
sometimes he has been innocently wrong. I told Miss Challoner all his
good qualities and his bad. She told me that she, too, has her faults.
She added that there was only one other man who could in any manner
compare with John, and that man is you."
"I?" his face growing warm.
"Yes. But she had no right to compare anybody with my boy," laughing.
"There isn't any comparison whatever," admitted Warrington, laughing
too. "But it was very kind of Miss Challoner to say a good word for
me." And then upon impulse he related how, and under what
circumstances, he had first met the actress.
"It reads like a story,--a versatile woman. This talk has done me much
good. I know the affection that exists between you and John, and I am
confident that you would not misrepresent anything. I shall sleep
easier to-night."
The portieres rattled, and Patty stood in the doorway.
"Everybody's gone; may I come in?"
Warrington rose. "I really should be very glad to make your
acquaintance," gallantly. "It's so long a time since I've met young
people--"
"Young people!" indignantly. "I am not young people; I am twenty,
going on twenty-one."
"I apologize." Warrington sat down.
Thereupon Miss Patty, who was a good sailor, laid her course close to
the wind, and with few tacks made her goal; which was the complete
subjugation of this brilliant man. She was gay, sad, witty and wise;
and there were moments when her mother looked at her in puzzled
surprise. As for Warrington, he went from one laugh into another.
Oh, dazzling twenty; blissful, ignorant, confident twenty! Who among
you would not be twenty, when trouble passes like cloud-shadows in
April; when the door of the world first opens? Ay, who would not trade
the meager pittance, wrested from the grinding years, for one fleet,
smiling dream of twenty?
"It is all over town, the reply you made to Mrs. Winthrop and that
little, sawed-off, witty daughter of hers."
"Patty!"
"Well, she is sawed-off and witty."
"What did I say?" asked Warrington, blushing. He had forgotten the
incident.
"Mrs. Winthrop asked you to make her daughter an epigram, and you
replied that Heaven had already done that."
"By the way," said Warrington, when the laughter subsided, "I
understand that my old dog has been running away from home lately. I
hope he doesn't bother you."
"Bother, indeed! I just love him," cried Patty. "He's such a lovable
animal. We have such good times on our morning rides. We had trouble
last week, though. A white bulldog sprang at him. Jove was so tired
that he would have been whipped had I not dismounted and beaten the
white dog off. Oh, Jove was perfectly willing to contest the right of
way. And when it was all over, who should come along but Mr. McQuade,
the politician. It was his dog. And he hadn't even the grace to make
an apology for his dog's ill manners."
"May I not ride with you to-morrow morning?" he asked. He had intended
to leave Herculaneum at noon; but there were many later trains.
"That will be delightful! I know so many beautiful roads; and we can
lunch at the Country Club. And Jove can go along, too."
"Where is the traitor?"
"He is sound asleep on the veranda rugs."
"Well, it's long past his bedtime. I must be going."
"Some time I hope you will come just to call on me."
"I shall not need any urging."
They followed him to the door, and good nights were said.
"Oh, Patty, he has lifted so much doubt!" said the mother, as the two
returned to the library. "He has nothing but praise for Miss
Challoner. It is quite possible that John will be happy."
"It is not only possible, mother darling, but probable. For my part, I
think her the most charming, most fascinating woman I ever met. And
she told me she rides. What jolly times we'll have together, when John
settles down in the new house!"
"The new house!" repeated the mother, biting her lips. "How the word
hurts! Patty, why could they not come here? We'll be so lonely. Yet,
it is the law of Heaven that a man and his wife must live by and for
themselves."
Warrington walked home, lightened in spirit. He swung his cane, gave
Jove a dozen love-taps and whistled operatic airs. What a charming
young creature it was, to be sure! The brain of a woman and the heart
of a child. And he had forgotten all about her. Now, of course, his
recollection became clear. He remembered a mite of a girl in short
frocks, wonder-eyes, and candy-smudged lips. How they grew, these
youngsters!
He went into the house, still whistling. Jove ran out into the kitchen
to see if by some possible miracle there was another piece of steak in
his grub-pan. A dog's eyes are always close to his stomach.
Warrington, finding that everybody had gone to bed, turned out the
lights and went up stairs. He knocked on the door of his aunt's
bedroom.
"Is that you, Richard?"
"Yes. May I come in?"
"Certainly."
He entered quietly. The moonlight, pouring in through the window, lay
blue-white on the counterpane and the beloved old face.
"What is it?" she asked.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her hands.
"Aunty, old lady, I'm through thinking. I'm going to come home just as
soon as I can fix up things in New York."
"Richard, my boy!" Her arms pulled him downward. "I knew it when you
came in. I've prayed so long for this. God has answered my prayers.
I'm so happy. Don't you remember how you used to tell me all your
plans, the plots of your stories, the funny things that had come to
you during the day? You used to come home late, but that didn't
matter; you'd always find some pie and cheese and a glass of milk on
the kitchen table--the old kitchen table. I'm so glad!"
"It may be a month or so; for I'll have to sell some of the things.
But I'm coming home, I'm coming home." He bent swiftly and kissed her.
"Good night."