heart, he would have desisted; but good, blind soul, he was on his hobby
and he went on at full speed, telling me what good deeds she had
performed--how she had fetched him to the city; and how she had built up
his church for him--had started and run his school for the waifs--coming
over from her beautiful home in all weathers to make up the fire herself
and have the place warm and comfortable for the little ones--how she
looked after the sick--organized charities for them and spent her money
in their behalf. "They call her the angel of the lost children," he
said, "and well they may."
"Who does?" I asked suspiciously, recalling the title. "Wolffert, I
suppose?"
"Why, all my people--I think Wolffert first christened her so and they
have taken it up."
"Confound Wolffert!" I thought. "Wolffert's in love with her," I said.
"Wolffert--in love with her! Why!" I saw that I had suggested the idea
for the first time--but it had found a lodgment in his mind. "Oh! no, he
is not," he declared, but rather arguing than asserting it. "They are
only great friends--they work together and have many things in
common--Wolffert will never marry--he is wedded to his ideal."
"And her name is Eleanor Leigh--only he is not wedded to her yet." And I
added in my heart, "He will never be if I can beat him."
"Yes--certainly, in a way--as she is mine," said John, still thinking.
"And you are too!" I said.
"I? In love with--?" He did not mention her name. It may have been that
he felt it too sacred. But he gave a sort of gasp. "The glow-worm may
worship the star, but it is at a long distance, and it knows that it can
never reach it."
I hope it may be forgiven to lovers not to have been frank with their
rivals. His humility touched me. I wanted to tell John that I thought he
might stand a chance, but I was not unselfish enough, as he would have
been in my place. All I was brave enough to do was to say, "John, you
are far above the glow-worm; you give far more light than you know, and
the star knows and appreciates it."
XXIII
MRS. ARGAND
I now began to plan how I was to meet my young lady on neutral and equal
ground, for meet her I must. When I first met her I could have boldly
introduced myself, for all my smutted face; now Love made me modest.
When I met her, I scarcely dared to look into her eyes; I began to think
of the letters of introduction I had, which I had thrown into my trunk.
One of them was to Mrs. Argand, a lady whom I assumed to be the same
lofty person I had seen mentioned in the papers as one of the leaders
among the fashionable set, and also as one of the leaders in all public
charitable work. It had, indeed, occurred to me to associate her
vaguely, first with the private-car episode, and then with my poor
client's landlord, the Argand Estate; but the "Argand Estate" appeared a
wholly impersonal machine of steel; her reputation in the newspapers for
charity disposed of this idea. Indeed, Wolffert had said that there were
many Mrs. Argands in the city, and there were many Argands in the
directory.
I presented my letter and was invited to call on a certain day, some two
weeks later. She lived in great style, in a ponderous mansion of unhewn
stone piled up with prison-like massiveness, surrounded by extensive
grounds, filled with carefully tended, formal flower-beds. A ponderous
servant asked my name and, with eyes on vacancy, announced me loudly as
"Mr. Glaze." The hostess was well surrounded by callers. I recognized
her the instant I entered as the large lady of the private car. Both she
and her jewels were the same. Also I knew instantly that she was the
"Argand Estate," which I had scored so, and I was grateful to the
servant for miscalling my name. Her sumptuous drawing-rooms were
sprinkled with a handsomely dressed company who sailed in, smiled
around, sat on the edge of chairs, chattered for some moments, grew
pensive, uttered a few sentences, spread their wings, and sailed out
with monotonous regularity and the solemn air of a duty performed. There
was no conversation with the hostess--only, as I observed from my coign
of vantage, an exchange of compliments and flattery.
Most of the callers appeared either to be very intimate or not to know
each other at all, and when they could not gain the ear of the hostess,
they simply sat stiffly in their chairs and looked straight before them,
or walked around and inspected the splendid bric-à-brac with something
of an air of appraisement.
I became so interested that, being unobserved myself, I stayed some time
observing them. I also had a vague hope that possibly Miss Leigh might
appear. It was owing to my long visit that I was finally honored with my
hostess's attention. As she had taken no notice of me on my first
entrance beyond a formal bow and an indifferent hand-shake, I had moved
on and a moment later had gotten into conversation with a young
girl--large, plump, and apparently, like myself, ready to talk to any
one who came near, as she promptly opened a conversation with me, a step
which, I may say, I was more than ready to take advantage of. I
recognized her as the girl who had been talking to Count Pushkin the
evening of the concert, and whom I had seen him leave for Miss Leigh. We
were soon in the midst of a conversation in which I did the questioning
and she did most of the talking and she threw considerable light on a
number of the visitors, whom she divided into various classes
characterized in a vernacular of her own. Some were "frumps," some were
"stiffs," and some were "old soaks"--the latter appellation, as I
gathered, not implying any special addiction to spirituous liquors on
the part of those so characterized, but only indicating the young
woman's gauge of their merits. Still, she was amusing enough for a time,
and appeared to be always ready to "die laughing" over everything. Like
myself, she seemed rather inclined to keep her eye on the door, where I
was watching for the possible appearance of the one who had brought me
there. I was recalled from a slight straying of my mind from some story
she was telling, by her saying:
"You're a lawyer, aren't you?"
Feeling rather flattered at the suggestion, and thinking that I must
have struck her as intellectual-looking, I admitted the fact and asked
her why she thought so.
"Oh! because they're the only people who have nothing to do and attend
teas--young lawyers. I have seen you walking on the street when I was
driving by."
"Well, you know you looked busier than I; but you weren't really," I
said. I was a little taken aback by her asking if I knew Count Pushkin.
"Oh, yes," I said. "I know him."
This manifestly made an impression.
"What do you think of him?"
"What do I think of him? When I know you a little better, I will tell
you," I said. "Doesn't he attend teas?"
"Oh! yes, but then he is--he is something--a nobleman, you know."
"Do I?"
"Yes. Didn't you hear how last spring he stopped a runaway and was
knocked down and dragged ever so far? Why, his face was all bruises."
I could not help laughing at the recollection of Pushkin.
"I saw that."
"Oh! did you? Do tell me about it. It was fine, wasn't it? Don't you
think he's lovely?"
"Get him to tell you about it." I was relieved at that moment at a
chance to escape her. I saw my hostess talking to a middle-aged,
overdressed, but handsome woman whose face somehow haunted me with a
reminiscence which I could not quite place, and as I happened to look in
a mirror I saw they were talking of me, so I bowed to my young lady and
moved on. The visitor asked who I was, and I could see the hostess reply
that she had not the slightest idea. She put up her lorgnon and
scrutinized me attentively and then shook her head again. I walked over
to where they sat.
"We were just saying, Mr.--ah--ah--Laze, that one who undertakes to do a
little for one's fellow-beings finds very little encouragement." She
spoke almost plaintively, looking first at me and then at her friend,
who had been taking an inventory of the west side of the room and had
not the slightest idea of what she was talking.
"I am overrun with beggars," she proceeded.
Remembering her great reputation for charity, I thought this natural and
suggested as much. She was pleased with my sympathy, and continued:
"Why, they invade me even in the privacy of my home. Not long ago, a
person called and, though I had given instructions to my butler to deny
me to persons, unless he knew their business and I know them, this man,
who was a preacher and should have known better, pushed himself in and
actually got into my drawing-room when I was receiving some of my
friends. As he saw me, of course I could not excuse myself, and do you
know, he had the insolence, not only to dictate to me how I should spend
my money, but actually how I should manage my affairs!"
"Oh! dear, think of that!" sighed the other lady. "And you, of all
people!"
I admitted that this was extraordinary, and, manifestly encouraged, Mrs.
Argand swept on.
"Why, he actually wanted me to forego my rents and let a person stay in
one of my houses who would not pay his rent!"
"Incredible!"
"The man had had the insolence to hold on and actually force me to bring
suit."
"Impossible!"
I began to wish I were back in my office. At this moment, however,
succor came from an unexpected source.
"You know we have bought a house very near you?" interjected the blonde
girl who had joined our group and suddenly broke in on our hostess's
monologue.
"Ah! I should think you would feel rather lonely up here--and would miss
all your old friends?" said Mrs. Argand sweetly, turning her eyes toward
the door. The girl lifted her head and turned to the other lady.
"Not at all. You know lots of people call at big houses, Mrs. Gillis,
just because they are big," said she, with a spark in her pale-blue eye,
and I felt she was able to take care of herself.
But Mrs. Argand did not appear to hear. She was looking over the heads
of the rest of us with her eye on the door, when suddenly, as her
servant in an unintelligible voice announced some one, her face lit up.
"Ah! My dear Count! How do you do? It was so good of you to come."
I turned to look just as Pushkin brushed by me and, with a little rush
between the ladies seated near me, bent over and seizing her hand,
kissed it zealously, while he uttered his compliments. It manifestly
made a deep impression on the company. I was sure he had seen me. The
effect on the company was remarkable. The blonde girl moved around a
little and stood in front of another lady who pressed slightly forward.
"Count Pushkin!" muttered one lady to Mrs. Gillis, in an audible
undertone.
"Oh! I know him well." She was evidently trying to catch the count's eye
to prove her intimate acquaintance; but Pushkin was too much engrossed
with or by our hostess to see her--or else was too busy evading my eye.
"Well, it's all up with me," I thought. "If I leave him here, my
character's gone forever."
"Such a beautiful custom," murmured Mrs. Gillis's friend. "I always like
it."
"Now, do sit down and have a cup of tea," said our hostess. "I will make
you a fresh cup." She glanced at a chair across the room and then at me,
and I almost thought she was going to ask me to bring the chair for the
count! But she thought better of it.
"Go and bring that chair and sit right here by me and let me know how
you are."
"Here, take this seat," said Mrs. Gillis, who was rising, but whose eyes
were fast on Pushkin's face.
"Oh! must you be going?" asked Mrs. Argand. "Well, good-by--so glad you
could come."
"Yes, I must go. How do you do, Count Pushkin?"
"Oh! ah! How do you do?" said the count, turning with a start and a
short bow.
"I met you at the ball not long ago. Miss McSheen introduced me to you.
Don't you remember?" She glanced at the young lady who stood waiting.
"Ah! Yes--certainly! To be sure--Miss McSheen--ah! yes, I remember."
Doubtless, he did; for at this juncture the young lady I had been
talking to, stepped forward and claimed the attention of the count, who,
I thought, looked a trifle bored.
Feeling as if I were a mouse in a trap, I was about to try to escape
when my intention was changed as suddenly as by a miracle, and, indeed,
Eleanor Leigh's appearance at this moment seemed almost, if not quite,
miraculous.
She had been walking rapidly in the wind and her hair was a little blown
about--not too much--for I hate frowsy hair--just enough to give
precisely the right touch of "sweet neglect" and naturalness to a pretty
and attractive girl. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling, her
face lighted with some resolution which made it at once audacious and
earnest, and as she came tripping into the room she suddenly transformed
it by giving it something of reality which it had hitherto lacked. She
appeared like spring coming after winter. She hurried up to her aunt
(who, I must say, looked pleased to see her and gave Pushkin an arch
glance which I did not fail to detect), and then, after a dutiful and
hasty kiss, she pulled up a chair and dashed into the middle of the
subject which filled her mind. She was so eager about it that she did
not pay the least attention to Pushkin, who, with his heels close
together, and his back almost turned on the other girl, who was rattling
on at his ear, was bowing and grinning like a Japanese toy; and she did
not even see me, where I stood a little retired.
"My dear, here is Count Pushkin trying to speak to you," said her aunt.
"Come here, Miss McSheen, and tell me what you have been doing." She
smiled at the blonde girl and indicated a vacated chair.
But Miss McSheen saw the trap--she had no idea of relinquishing her
prize, and Miss Leigh did not choose to try for a capture.
"Howdydo, Count Pushkin," she said over her shoulder, giving the smiling
and bowing Pushkin only half a nod and less than half a glance. "Oh!
aunt," she proceeded, "I have such a favor to ask you. Oh, it's a most
worthy object, I assure you--really worthy."
"How much is it?" inquired the older lady casually.
"I don't know yet. But wait--you must let me tell you about it, and you
will see how good it is."
"My dear, I haven't a cent to give to anything," said her aunt. "I am
quite strapped."
"I know, it's the family disease," said the girl lightly, and hurried
on. "I am trying to do some work among the poor."
"The poor!" exclaimed her aunt. "My dear, I am so tired of hearing about
the poor, I don't know what to do. I am one of the poor myself. My agent
was here this morning and tells me that any number of my tenants are
behind on their rents and several of my best tenants have given notice
that on the expiration of their present terms, they want a reduction of
their rents."
"I know," said the girl. "They are out of work. They are all ordered
out, or soon will be, papa says, poor things! I have been to-day to see
a poor family----"
"Out of work! Of course they are out of work! They _won't_ work, that's
why they are out--and now they are talking of a general strike! As if
they hadn't had strikes enough. I shall cut down my charities; that's
what I shall do."
"Oh! aunt, don't do that!" exclaimed the girl. "They are so poor. If you
could see a poor family I saw this morning. Why, they have
nothing--nothing! They are literally starving."
"Well, they have themselves to thank, if they are." She was now
addressing the count, and two or three ladies seated near her on the
edge of their chairs.
"Very true!" sighed one of the latter.
"I know," said the count. "I haf read it in th' papers to-day t'at t'ey
vill what you call strike. T'ey should be--vhat you call, put down."
"Of course they should. It almost makes one despair of mankind," chimed
in Mrs. Gillis, who, though standing, could not tear herself away. As
she stood buttoning at a glove, I suddenly recalled her standing at the
foot of a flight of steps looking with cold eyes at a child's funeral.
"Yes, their ingratitude! It does, indeed," said Mrs. Argand. "My
agent--ah! your husband--says I shall have to make repairs that will
take up every bit of the rents of any number of my houses--and two of my
largest warehouses. I have to repair them, of course. And then if this
strike really comes, why, he says it will cost our city lines alone--oh!
I don't know how much money. But I hate to talk about money. It is so
sordid!" She sat back in her chair.
"Yes, indeed," assented the bejewelled lady she addressed. "I don't even
like to think about it. I would like just to be able to draw my cheque
for whatever I want and never hear the word _money_--like you, Mrs.
Argand. But one can't do it," she sighed. "Why, my mail----"
"Why don't you do as I do?" demanded Mrs. Argand, who had no idea of
having the conversation taken away from her in her own house. "My
secretary opens all those letters and destroys them. I consider it a
great impertinence for any one whom I don't know to write to me, and, of
course, I don't acknowledge those letters. My agent----"
"My dear, we must go," said the lady nearest her to her companion. As
the two ladies swept out they stopped near me to look at a picture, and
one of them said to the other:
"Did you ever hear a more arrogant display in all your life? Her
secretary! Her interest--her duties! As if we didn't all have them!"
"Yes, indeed. And her agent! That's my husband!"
"But I do think she was right about that man's pushing in----"
"Oh! yes, about that--she was, but she need not be parading her money
before us. My husband made it for old Argand."
"My husband says the Argand Estate is vilely run, that they have the
worst tenements in the city and charge the highest rents."
"Do you know that my husband is her--agent?"
"Is he? Why, to be sure; but of course, she is responsible."
"Yes, she's the cause of it."
"And they pay more for their franchises than any one else. Why, my
husband says that Coll McSheen, who is the lawyer of the Argand Estate,
is the greatest briber in this city. I suppose he'll be buying a count
next. I don't see how your husband stands him. He's so refined--such
a----"
"Well, they have to have business dealings together, you know."
"Yes. They say he just owns the council, and now he's to be mayor."
"I know."
"Did you see that article in the paper about him and his methods,
charging that he was untrue to every one in town, even the Canters and
Argands who employed him?"
"Oh, didn't I? I tell my husband he'd better be sure which side to take.
One reason I came to-day was to see how she took it."
"So did I," said her friend. "They say the first paper was written by a
Jew. It was a scathing indictment. It charged him with making a breach
between Mr. Leigh and Mrs. Argand, and now with trying to ruin Mr.
Leigh."
"And it was written by a Jew? Was it, indeed? I should like to meet him,
shouldn't you? But, of course, we couldn't invite him to our homes. Do
you know anybody who might invite him to lunch and ask us to meet him?
It would be so interesting to hear him talk."
So they passed out, and I went up to make my adieux to our hostess,
secretly intending to remain longer if I could get a chance to talk to
her niece, who was now presenting her petition to her, while the count,
with his eye on her while he pretended to listen to Miss McSheen, stood
by waiting like a cat at a mousehole.
As I approached, Miss Leigh glanced up, and I flattered myself for weeks
that it was not only surprise, but pleasure, that lighted up her face.
"Why, how do you do?" she said, and I extended my hand, feeling as shy
as I ever did in my life, but as though paradise were somewhere close at
hand.
"Where did you two know each other?" demanded her aunt, suspiciously,
and I saw Pushkin's face darken, even while the blonde girl rattled on
at his ear.
"Why, this is the gentleman who had the poor children on the train that
day last spring. They are the same children I have been telling you
about."
"Yes, but I did not know you had ever really met."
"That was not the only time I have had the good fortune to meet Miss
Leigh," I said. I wanted to add that I hoped to have yet better fortune
hereafter; but I did not.
Perhaps, it was to save me embarrassment that Miss Leigh said: "Mr.
Glave and I teach in the same Sunday-school."
"Yes, about the she-bears," I hazarded, thinking of one at the moment.
Miss Leigh laughed. "I have been trying to help your little friends
since; I am glad the she-bears did not devour them; I think they are in
much more danger from the wolf at the door; in fact, it was about them
that I came to see my aunt to-day."
I cursed my folly for not having carried out my intention of going to
look after them, and registered a vow to go often thereafter.
"I was so glad you won their case for them," she said in an undertone,
moving over toward me, as several new visitors entered. A warm thrill
ran all through my veins. "But how did you manage to get here?" she
asked with twinkling eyes. "Does she know, or has she forgiven you?"
"She doesn't know--at least, I haven't told her."
"Well, I should like to be by--that is, in a balcony--when she finds out
who you are."
"Do you think I was very--bold to come?"
"Bold! Well, wait till she discovers who you are, Richard C[oe]ur de
Leon."
"Not I--you see that door? Well, you just watch me. I came for a
particular reason that made me think it best to come--and a very good
one," I added, and glanced at her and found her still smiling.
"What was it?" She looked me full in the face.
"I will tell you some time----"
"No, now."
"No, next Sunday afternoon, if you will let me walk home with you after
you have explained the she-bears."
She nodded "All right," and I rose up into the blue sky. I almost
thought I had wings.
"My aunt is really a kind woman--I can do almost anything with her."
"Do you think that proves it?" I said. I wanted to say that I was that
sort of a kind person myself, but I did not dare.
"My father says she has a foible--she thinks she is a wonderful business
woman, because she can run up a column of figures correctly, and that
she makes a great to-do over small things, and lets the big ones go. She
would not take his advice; so he gave up trying to advise her and she
relies on two men who flatter and deceive her."
"Yes."
"I don't see how she can keep those two men, McSheen and Gillis, as her
counsel and agent. But I suppose she found them there and does not like
to change. My father says----"
Just then Mrs. Argand, after a long scrutiny of us through her lorgnon,
said rather sharply:
"Eleanor!"
Miss Leigh turned hastily and plunged into a sentence.
"Aunt, you do not know how much good the little chapel you helped out in
the East Side does. Mr. Mar--the preacher there gets places for poor
people that are out of employment, and----"
"I suppose he does, but save me from these preachers! Why, one of them
came here the other day and would not be refused. He actually forced
himself into my house. He had a poor family or something, he said, and
he wanted me to undertake to support them. And when I came to find out,
they were some of my own tenants who had positively refused to pay any
rent, and had held on for months to one of my houses without paying me a
penny." She had evidently forgotten that she had just said this a moment
before. "I happened to remember," she added, "because my agent told me
the man's name, O'Neil."
"McNeil!" exclaimed Miss Leigh. "Why, that is the name of my poor
family!" She cut her eye over toward me with a quizzical sparkle in it.
"What! Well, you need not come to me about that man. My counsel said he
was one of the worst characters he knew; a regular anarchist--one of
these Irish--you know! And when I afterward tried to collect my rents,
he got some upstart creature of a lawyer to try and defeat me, and
actually did defraud me of my debt."
This was a centre shot for me, and I wondered what she would think if
she ever found out who the upstart was. The perspiration began to start
on my forehead. It was clear that I must get away. She was, however, in
such a full sweep that I could not get in a word to say good-by.
"But I soon gave Mr. Marble, or whatever his name was, a very different
idea of the way he should behave when he came to see a lady. I let him
know that I preferred to manage my affairs and select my own objects of
charity, without being dictated to by any one, and that I did not
propose to help anarchists. And I soon gave Mr. McNeil to understand
whom he had to deal with. I ordered him turned out at once--instantly."
She was now addressing me.
She was so well satisfied with her position that I must have looked
astonished, and I had not at first a word to say. This she took for
acquiescence.
"That was, perhaps, the greatest piece of insolence I ever knew!" she
continued. "Don't you think so?"
"Well, no, I do not," I said bluntly.