Warrington was up and about at six the next morning. He had never
really outgrown the natural habit of waking at dawn, but he had fallen
upon the evil way of turning over and sleeping till half after nine.
He ate a light breakfast and went out to the stables and moved among
the stalls, talking affectionate nonsense to the horses. A man can not
talk baby-talk, that is the undisputed prerogative of the woman; but
he has a fashion of his own which serves. "Aha, old boy! handsome
beggar!" or--"How's the little lady this morning, eh?" or yet
again--"Rascal! you've been rubbing the hair off your tail!" In the
boxstall Warrington's thoroughbred Irish hunter nozzled his palm for
loaf-sugar, and whinnied with pleasure when he found it. One of the
first things Warrington had done, upon drawing his first big royalty
check, was to buy a horse. As a boy on the farm he had hungered for
the possession of one of those sleek, handsome animals which men call
thoroughbreds. Then for a while he bought, sold and traded horses, for
the mere pleasure it gave him to be near them. Finally he came to
Herculaneum with two such saddle-horses as made every millionaire in
town (and there were several in Herculaneum) offer fabulous sums
whenever they ran across the owner. Next, he added two carriage-horses,
in their way quite equal to the hunters. Men offered to buy these,
too, but Warrington was a property owner now, and he wanted the horses
for his own. In New York one of his wealthy friends had given him free
use of his stables: so Warrington rode, at home and abroad. His
income, ranging from twenty to thirty thousand the year, gave him that
financial independence which neither the clerk nor the millionaire
knew or understood. In the phraseology of the day, he carried his
business under his hat: in other words, he had no business cares or
responsibilities whatever.
Warrington made it a rule to saddle and bridle his own horses; grooms
become careless. One or two men of his acquaintance had gone to their
death for the want of care and a firm buckle. Besides, he enjoyed the
work, and it accustomed the horses to his touch. He saddled his
favorite hunter and led the eager animal into the open. He mounted and
whistled for the dog; but Jove for once did not respond; doubtless he
was out of hearing. Thereupon Warrington started for the Benningtons'
and found Patty already in the saddle. It was not that the dramatist
was blase, but he had come into contact with so many beautiful women
that his pulse rarely stirred out of its healthy, measured beat. But
this morning he was conscious of a slight thrill. The girl was really
beautiful; more than that, she was fresh with youth and gaiety, gaiety
which older women find necessary to repress. She was dressed in a dark
grey riding-habit and wore a beaver cocked-hat.
"Good morning," he said, touching his cap with his crop. "I hope I
haven't kept you waiting."
"Only a moment." The truth is, she wanted to prove to him that there
was one woman who did not keep men waiting. "Shall I pick the going?"
"I'm afraid I've lost track of the good country roads."
"Follow me, then."
They walked their horses to the city limits. You never saw either of
them galloping over brick or asphalt, which quickly ruins the
surest-footed horse; neither did they permit any fox-trotting, which, while
it shows off a spirited horse, decreases his value in the ring. All of
which is to say, these two, like their mounts, were thoroughbreds.
"Where is Jove?" she asked presently.
"The rogue is missing. I dare say he is gallivanting around some
neighbor's back yard. I haven't laid eyes on him this morning. I
believe he realizes that he will see me frequently hereafter, and has
not bothered his head to look me up."
"Frequently?" She turned her head.
"Yes. I am coming home to live. Of course, this is my place of
residence; my voter's bed, as the politicians say, is here in
Herculaneum. But I mean to live here now in deed as well as in
thought."
"I am sure we shall be delighted to have you with us." This was said
gravely. A thought, which she would have repelled gladly, sprang into
being. "I know John will be glad. He's always talking about you and
your exploits at college."
"Our exploits," he corrected, laughing. "Shall we give them a little
exercise now?" he asked, with a gesture toward the long brown road.
She nodded, and they started off at a sharp trot, and presently broke
into a canter. So he was coming home to live? She felt a hot wave of
sudden anger sweep over her, and her hands tightened on the reins. It
was true, then? She loved her brother. What right had this man at her
side to threaten her brother's happiness? Had Katherine Challoner
signified her desire not to leave New York, would Warrington have
decided to return to Herculaneum? Her hands relaxed. What a silly
little fool she was! She, who despised and contemned gossip, was
giving it ready ear. Had she ever found gossip other than an errant,
cowardly liar? Gossip, gossip! Ah, if gossip, when she had made her
round, would not leave suspicion behind her; suspicion, hydra-headed!
What signified it that Warrington intended to come home to live? What
signified it that her brother's wife would live across the way? She
was ashamed of her evil thought; presently she would be no better than
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those women who get together to tear
somebody apart. As if Warrington could compare with her big, handsome,
manly brother! It was all impossible. She would punish herself for
even entertaining such a thought as had been hers but a moment gone.
She stole a glance at Warrington. He was riding easily, his feet light
in the stirrups, his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was
breathing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with the smell of
sweet clover and dew-wet earth. It was a good, clean, honest face.
Indeed, it was all impossible. Dissipation writes plainly upon the
human countenance, and it had left no visible sign on Warrington's
face. It may be that dissipation sometimes whimsically neglects to
write at all.
They thundered over a wooden bridge. The spirit of the morning was in
the horses; they began to race. An unexpected curve in the road
discovered a road-builder and his gang of Italians. A low barrier ran
across the road. It was not exactly needed, as they were not digging,
but laying crushed stone. The obstruction was simply for the
convenience of the boss, who desired to work unhampered.
"Shall we?" cried Warrington, mischief in his eyes.
"Yes." There was no fear in this girl.
On they went, in a cloud of dust. The Italians made for the ditches,
but the boss stood in the road and waved his arms in warning.
Presently he, too, ducked.
Hep! and over the pair went, landing clean and sound on the other side
of the barrier. Before the surprised boss could express himself, they
were far down the road. A curse was hurled after them, but they heard
it not. They hadn't hurt the road at all, but the authority of the
boss had suffered. He knew the girl, little snob! He would find out
who the man was, soon enough. And if he had any influence in the City
Hall, as he believed he had, he would make it tolerably warm for
yonder vanishing parties.
He had put up that barrier to signify that the road was closed; very
well, they'd see. Dirt under their feet, huh? All right. How he hated
them all, with their horses and carriages and dances and dinners and
clubs! Bah! He took a flask from his pocket and drank. Then he cursed
the laggard Italians, and mourned that a year and a half must pass
before he could sell their votes again. Bolles contracted for Italian
labor and controlled something more than eight hundred votes. McQuade
sublet various small contracts to him, and in return used the Italians
during elections.
That jump, harmless enough in itself, was to prove a bad inspiration
on Warrington's part. But it is always these seemingly inconsequent
things that bear the heaviest reckoning.
Half a mile onward they drew down to a walk, flushed and breathless.
"Perhaps we oughtn't to have done that," she said doubtfully, working
the numbness from her fingers. "No thoroughfare" had hitherto been
religiously respected by her; this was her first transgression, and
she wasn't entirely satisfied with herself.
"Pshaw! There's no harm done. There was no earthly reason why we
should have turned back to the fork and added two miles to our ride.
Don't let anything like that worry you; we went by too fast to be
recognized. Look! here's a big clover patch. I never pass clover
without wanting to get down and hunt for four-leaves. Shall we?"
She was out of the saddle before the query had left his lips.
"I believe it would be a good idea to arm ourselves against bad luck,"
she replied, gently moving aside the clover heads with her crop.
"You believe in four-leaf clover, then?"
She nodded.
"I do. I also am very careful," he added, "to catch the money-patches
on my coffee."
She laughed. After all, there was something old-fashioned about this
man. "And I never think of plucking a five-leaf. That's bad luck."
"The worst kind of bad luck. I remember, when I was a kid, I never
played hooky without first hunting up my four-leaved amulet. If I got
a licking when I returned home, why, I consoled myself with the
thought, that it might have been ten times worse but for the
four-leaf."
They moved about, looking here and there, while the horses buried
their noses in the wet grass and threatened never to return to the
road again. After a diligent search Patty found a beautiful four-leaf
clover. She exhibited it in triumph.
"You've better luck than I," said Warrington. "We shall have to go on
without my finding one."
"You may have this one," she replied; "and I hope it will bring you
all sorts of good luck."
He took out his card-case and made room for the little amulet.
"It is impossible not to be fortunate now," he said, with a gravity
that was not assumed.
She looked at him dubiously. No, there was no laughter in his eyes; he
was perfectly serious.
They walked the horses over a small hill, then mounted. It was a very
pleasant morning for Warrington. It had been years since he had talked
to a young woman who was witty and unworldly. He had to readjust
himself. He had written down that all witty women were worldly, but
that all worldly women were not witty. But to be witty and
unsophisticated was altogether out of his calculations.
At the Country Club they stabled the horses and wandered about the
golf links. Luncheon was served on the veranda; and presently
Warrington found himself confiding in this young girl as if he had
known her intimately all his life. The girl felt a thrill of
exultation. It flattered her young vanity to hear this celebrity
telling her about his ambitions.
"Everything becomes monotonous after a while," he said. "And I have
just begun to grow weary of living alone. Day after day, the same
faces, the same places, the same arguments, the same work. I've grown
tired. I want to live like other human beings. Monotony leads very
quickly into folly, and I confess to many acts of folly. And no folly
is absolutely harmless." He stirred his tea and stared into the cup.
"Why, I should think you ought to be the most contented of men," she
cried. "You are famous, wealthy, courted. And when you return to
Herculaneum, every girl in town will set her cap for you. I warn you
of this, because I've taken a friendly interest in you."
"It is very good of you. Come," he said, draining his cup; "surely you
tell fortunes in tea-cups; tell mine."
"Four-leaf clovers and tea-grounds," she mused. "You strike me as
being a very superstitious young man."
"I am."
She passed the cup back to him. "Pour a little fresh tea in, spill it
gently, turn the cup against the saucer and twirl it three times.
That's the incantation."
He followed the directions carefully, and she extended her hand for
the cup.
"There is always a woman in a man's tea-cup," she began. "There are
two in this one."
"Good gracious!"
"Yes. Do you see that?" pointing to a cluster of leaves.
"Looks like a camel. Am I going to be thirsty?"
"That always indicates scandal," she declared soberly.
"Scandal?" He smiled skeptically.
"Scandal and disappointment. But happily these do not appear as having
permanency."
"Thanks," piously. "Disappointment? I can readily believe that.
Disappointment has always been my portion. But scandal has never
lifted her ugly head."
"We are all far-sighted when scandal is in our immediate vicinity.
This cup says scandal. There is plenty of money about you. See that?
That means an enemy, strong, implacable. Disappointment and scandal
are in his zone, which means he will probably be the cause of all your
trouble. Have you an enemy?"
"None that I know of, save myself. But don't you think something is
the matter with the tea? It seems impossible that those harmless
grounds ... Why, I shan't sleep o' nights after this."
"You are laughing. Yet, this man is there. And here is a lie, too.
It's a very bad cup, Mr. Warrington. I'm sorry."
"So am I," gaily. "By the way, when do you and your mother start for
New York?"
"We leave to-night."
"Good. Do you mind if I take the same train down?"
"Mother and I'll be glad to have you with us."
The servant cleared the table, and Warrington lighted a cigar. A
trolley-car rolled up in front of the club, and several golf
enthusiasts alighted. They knew Patty, and bowed; they weren't quite
certain who her escort was.
At two o'clock they began the journey home. There wasn't much
loitering by the way. Patty had a tea; she must have time to rest and
dress. All told, it was an enjoyable day for Warrington. More than
ever he set his face against the great city and looked with
satisfaction on the hills of his childhood. It would be a pleasant
pastime to sit on Patty's veranda and talk, become, and act like one
of the young people. He was growing old; his youth must be renewed
soon, or he would lose it utterly. This young man had been surfeited
with noise and light, with the sham and glitter of hotels, clubs and
restaurants. He was not to the manner born; thus he could easily see
how palpably false life is in a great city. To those who have lived in
the abnormal glamour of city life, absolute quiet is a kind of new
excitement.
Warrington found that he was a bit stiff from the long ride.
Patty, however, rode nearly every day; so she was but slightly
fatigued. Nevertheless, she was conscious of not wanting to dress for
the tea. But there was a very good reason why she must attend the
function (as applied by the society reporter); they would naturally
discuss her brother's coming marriage, but if she was present, the
discussion would not rise above whispers. She wanted to meet the old
busybodies in the open; she wasn't afraid. As she dressed, she caught
herself doing aimless things, such as approaching the window and
watching the clouds, or thoughtfully studying her face in the mirror,
or patting the rug impatiently, or sighing. She shook herself
vehemently, and went resolutely about the intricate business known as
toilet.
"I simply can't believe it. I know he isn't that kind of man. This
can't be such a wicked world. But if she dares to make John unhappy, I
shall hate her. Why must we hear these things that make us doubt and
ponder and hesitate?"
At the tea the ladies greeted her sympathetically. Sympathy!
Hypocrites! Heads came together; she could see them from the corner of
her eyes. She saw Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, like a vast ship of the line,
manoeuvering toward her. There were several escapes, but Patty stood
her ground.
"You are looking charming, my dear," said Mrs. Haldene.
"Thank you."
"You go to the wedding, of course."
"Yes; mother and I leave to-night for New York. I am so excited over
it. To think of John's being married to a celebrity!"
Patty was excited, but this excitement did not find its origin in
anything exultant. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene to mind her own business. There was something
primitive in Patty. Her second thoughts were due to cultivation, and
not from any inherent caution.
Mrs. Haldene smiled and went on. It was a wonderful smile; it never
changed; it served for all emotions, anger, hate, love, envy and
malice. Mrs. Haldene never flew into passions or ecstasies. She was
indeed preserved; and from the puckering taste she left in her wake,
it might be suspected that she was pickled.
Before Patty arrived, two things had been fully discussed: the
Bennington wedding and the report that Warrington was coming home to
live. Shrugs, knowing glances, hypocritical resignation. Too bad, too
bad! Warrington was coming home to live; young Mrs. Bennington would
live across the street. When two and two make four, what more need be
said?
But Patty had her friends, and they stood by her loyally.
New York. Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the calling of cabmen, the
clanging of street-cars, the rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of
the drays, the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hurrying,
rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the smell of coal-gas, of food
cooking, of good and bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches
and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war; monoliths of stone
and iron; shops, shops; signs, signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all
the nations of the world shouldering one another; Jews and Gentiles,
Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble. This is New York. There is
nothing American about it; there is nothing English, French, German,
Latin or Oriental about it. It is cosmopolitan; that is to say, it
represents everything and nothing.
Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted from the train in the
gloomy, smoky cavern called the Grand Central Station and walked
toward the gates. There was sunshine outside, but it was scarcely
noticeable through the blackened canopy overhead.
"There's John!" cried Patty, seizing her mother's arm. "And Miss
Challoner, too!"
A moment later the son was holding his mother in a fond embrace. Mrs.
Bennington gave the actress her hand, who ignored it, put her arms
around the mother and kissed her. There was not the slightest
affectation in the act; it was done naturally and sweetly. Mrs.
Bennington was well pleased. But Patty, Miss Challoner hugged Patty
and whispered: "My sister!" If Patty had any doubts, they disappeared
like summer mists in sunshine.
"I'm a rank outsider," Warrington grumbled.
"Surely you did not expect to be kissed!" Patty retorted.
"A man never gives up hoping. Well, Benedick," to John, "I suppose
you've a nice breakfast waiting for us somewhere."
"That I have!" John thwacked Warrington on the shoulder. "It was good
of you to come down with the folks."
"No trouble at all."
They all followed John, who announced that he had a carriage waiting,
large enough to carry them all comfortably. As they crossed over to
the street exit Warrington covertly glanced at Miss Challoner. She was
radiant; there was color on her cheeks and lips; she was happy.
Heigh-ho! Warrington sighed. She was gone, as completely as though she
had died. He grew angry at the heaviness of his heart. Was he always
to love no one but Warrington? It is fine to be a bachelor when one is
young; but when the years multiply, when there are no new junkets and
old ones grow stale, when scenes change, when friends drop out one by
one, when a younger generation usurps the primrose path of dalliance,
ah! the world becomes a dreary place. The old bachelor is the
loneliest and most pathetic of men.
Once inside the carriage, the women began a light, friendly chatter;
smiles and laughter; little jests about Benedicks, about the servant
question, about coming home late o' nights; antenuptial persiflage.
There was little that was spontaneous; each jest was an effort; but it
sufficed to relieve what might have been awkward silence.
"It's up to you, now, Dick," said John. "Think of the good times we
four could have together!"
"And who'd marry an old man like me?" asked Warrington plaintively.
"Bosh!" said John.
"Nonsense!" said Patty.
"You are a young man," said the mother.
"There are plenty setting their caps for you, if you but knew it,"
said Miss Challoner.
"Aha! I smell a conspiracy!" laughed Warrington. "You are putting your
heads together to get me off your hands."
The breakfast awaited them at Bennington's hotel. This passed off
smoothly. Then Warrington excused himself. He had a business
engagement down town. It was arranged, however, that they were to be
his guests that evening at dinner and a box-party at the summer opera.
On Wednesday, at ten, they were to breakfast in his apartment. From
his rooms they would go straight to the parson's, the "Little Church
Around the Corner."
When Warrington had gone, John turned to his sister.
"Isn't he the finest chap?"
"He isn't to be compared with you," Patty answered.
"Nobody is," said Miss Challoner.
John colored with pleasure.
"Mr. Warrington is a thorough gentleman, and I like him very much,"
said Mrs. Bennington. "I have heard things about him; I can see that
there has been some exaggeration. I shall be very glad to have him for
a neighbor."
"A neighbor?" said Miss Challoner.
"Yes. He is coming back to Herculaneum to live."
"That is news to me." The actress stirred her coffee and smiled at
Patty. "I understand you've been riding together. He is really a
splendid horseman."
"He has the dearest old dog," replied Patty.
The day passed quickly for all concerned: the dinner and box-party
left nothing to be desired.
The wedding-breakfast would have provoked envy in the heart of
Lucullus; for Warrington was a man of the world, thoroughly polished;
there was nothing Stoic about him (though, in the early days he had
been a disciple of this cult perforce); he was a thoroughgoing epicure.
Patty was delighted. Warrington guided her about the rooms on a tour
of inspection. He pointed out all the curios and told the history of
each. But the desk was the article which interested her most.
"And this is where you write? Upon this desk plays have grown up?
Won't you give me a single sheet of manuscript to take home with me?"
"I certainly shall."
He pulled out a drawer and found some old manuscript. He selected a
sheet, signed it, and gave it to her.
"I am rich!" the girl exclaimed. "Signed manuscript from a real live
author! I suppose that you receive tons of letters, some praising,
some arguing, some from mere autograph fiends."
"It's a part of the day's work." His face brightened. He searched his
pockets. "Here is one out of the ordinary. It is unsigned, so I feel
no qualms of conscience in letting you read it."
Patty took the envelope with suppressed eagerness. She drew out the
letter and read it slowly.
"Do you receive many like that?" she asked, folding the letter and
returning it.
"Very few; that's why I treasure it. I should like to meet the writer;
but that's impossible. I have read and re-read it fifty times."
"Evidently it was written in good faith." Patty was not very
enthusiastic.
"There's not the least doubt of that. I am glad of one thing: I can't
disillusion her."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, this young woman thinks I must be a paragon of virtues. I'm not;
I'm a miserable impostor. She takes it for granted that I am good and
kind and wise."
"Aren't you?" asked Patty gravely.
"As men go. I always try to be kind; sometimes I am good, and
sometimes I am wise."
"I'm afraid you are one of those young men who try to be bad and
can't. They are hopeless."
Warrington laughed.
"But I am superstitious about that letter. I've carried it in my
pocket for weeks. It's a kind of mentor. Whenever some fool thing
comes into my head, I stop and think of the letter."
"That is good. The writer hasn't wasted her time."
"I love you!" whispered John.
Miss Challoner smiled into his eyes. The smile encouraged him, and he
raised her hand to his lips.
Ah, if it were not for those gloves! Why did he not say something? She
was positive that he had them. To smile and laugh and talk; to face
the altar, knowing that he possessed those hateful gloves! To pretend
to deceive when she knew that he was not deceived! It was maddening.
It was not possible that Warrington had the gloves; he would never
have kept them all this while. What meant this man at her side? What
was he going to do? She recollected a play in which there was a pair
of gloves. The man had thrown them at the woman's feet, and, at the
very altar, turned and left her. But she knew that men did not do such
things in life. She was innocent of any wrong; this knowledge
sustained her.
"A honeymoon in Switzerland: it has been the dream of my life." This
time he drew her arm through his and crossed the room to his mother's
side. "Mother mine, we shall be gone only three months; then we shall
come home to stay."
"I shall miss you so; you have been away so much that I am hardly
acquainted with you."
The woman who was to become her daughter suddenly dropped on her knees
beside the chair.
"Please love me, too. I have been so lonely all my life."
"My daughter!" Mrs. Bennington laid her hand on the splendid head.
"I shall never marry," said Patty decidedly.
"What? Young lady, don't let any one hear you make such a remark. One
of these fine days somebody will swoop you up and run off with you. I
don't know but that I could play the part fairly well." Warrington
laughed.
"Indeed! You'd have a time of it."
"I dare say. But there's the breakfast waiting."
Toasts and good wishes, how easy they are to give!
At the church the women cried a little. Women cry when they are happy,
they cry when they are not; their tears keep a man guessing year in
and year out. But this is no place for a dissertation on tears.
There's time enough for that.
The bride and groom left immediately for Boston, from which city they
were to sail for Europe the following day. In the carriage John drew
his bride close to his heart.
"Mine!" he said, kissing her. "God grant that I may make you happy,
girl."
"John, you are the finest gentleman in the world!"
His hand stole into his coat pocket and gently dropped something into
her lap. She looked down and saw through her tears a crumpled pair of
white kid gloves. Then she knew what manner of man was this at her
side.
"It was not because I doubted you," he said softly: "it was because
they were yours."