I CHANGE GARDEN SPOTS
IF I have, by any chance, announced earlier in this narrative that the
valley of the Donau is the garden spot of the world, I must now ask
you to excuse the ebullience of spirit that prompted the declaration.
The Warm Springs Valley of Virginia is infinitely more attractive to
me, and I make haste to rectify any erroneous impression I may have
given, while under the spell of something my natural modesty forbids
me to describe.
If you happen not to know the Warm Springs Valley, permit me to say
that you are missing a great deal. It is a garden spot and--but why
discourse upon a subject that is so aptly handled by the gentlemen who
supply railway folders with descriptive material and who will tell you
in so many words that God's noblest work was done in the green hills
and vales of fair Virginia? Any railway folder will acquaint you with
all this and save me a great deal of time and trouble, besides giving
you a sensible and adequate idea of how to get there and where to stop
when you reach your journey's end, together with the price of Pullman
tickets and the nature of the ailments you are supposed to have if you
take the waters. It is only necessary for me to say that it is a garden
spot and that you don't have to change cars if you take the right train
out of New York City, a condition which does not obtain if you happen
to approach from the opposite direction.
I arrived there early one bright November morning, three days after
landing in New York. You will be rendered unhappy, I fear, by the
announcement that I left Mr. Poopendyke behind. He preferred to visit
an aunt at New Rochelle and I felt that he deserved a vacation. Britton,
of course, accompanied me. He is indispensable, and, so far as I know,
hasn't the faintest notion of what a vacation means unless he considers
employment with me in some such light. At any rate he has never
mentioned a relation in need of a visit from him.
Before leaving New York I had a rather unpleasant encounter with my
publishers. It was in the nature of a luncheon at which I was led to
believe that they still expected me to supply them with the manuscript
of a novel at a very early date. They seemed considerably put out when
I blandly informed them that I had got no farther along than the second
chapter.
"We have been counting on this book of yours for January publication,"
said they.
I tried to explain that the muse had abandoned me in a most heartless
fashion.
"But the public demands a story from you," said they. "What have you
been doing all summer?"
"Romancing," said I.
I don't know just how it came about, but the suggestion was made that
I put into narrative form the lively history of my sojourn on the banks
of the Danube, trusting implicitly to the imagination yet leaving
nothing to it.
"But it's all such blithering rot," said I.
"So much the better," said they triumphantly--even eagerly.
"I do not suppose that you, as publishers, can appreciate the fact
that an author may have a soul above skittles," said I indignantly.
"I cannot, I will not write a line about myself, gentlemen. Not that
I consider the subject sacred but--"
"Wait!" cried the junior member, his face aglow. "We appreciate the
delicacy of--er--your feelings, Mr. Smart, but I have an idea,--a
splendid idea. It solves the whole question. Your secretary is a most
competent, capable young man and a genius after a fashion. I propose
that he write the story. We'll pay him a lump sum for the work, put
your name on the cover, and there you are. All you will have to do is
to edit his material. How's that?"
And so it came to pass that I took myself off that evening for Hot
Springs, secure in the thought that Poopendyke would attend to my
literary estate far more capably than I could do it myself, and that
my labours later on would be pleasantly devoted to the lazy task of
editing, revising and deleting a tale already told....
If you are lucky enough to obtain rooms in the Homestead, looking out
over the golf course, with the wonderful November colourings in the
hills and gaps beyond; over the casino, the tennis courts and the lower
levels of the fashionable playground, you may well say to yourself
that all the world is bright and sweet and full of hope. From my windows
I could see far down the historic valley in the direction of Warm
Springs, a hazy blue panorama wrapped in the air of an Indian summer
and redolent with the incense of autumn.
Britton reminded me that it was a grand morning for golf, and I was
at once reminded that Britton is an excellent chap whose opinions are
always worth considering. So I started for the links, stopping first
at the office on my way out, ostensibly to complain about the absence
of window-screens but in reality to glance over the register in quest
of certain signatures.
A brisk, oldish little man came up beside me and rather testily inquired
why the deuce there were no matches in his room; also why the hot water
was cold so much longer than usual that morning. He was not much of
a man to look at, but I could not fail to note the obsequious manner
in which the two clerks behind the desk looked at him. You couldn't
possibly have discovered anything in their manner to remind you of
hotel clerks you may have come to know in your travels. A half dozen
boxes of matches were passed out to him in the twinkling of an eye,
and I shudder to think what might have happened if there had been a
hot water faucet handy, they were so eager to please.
"Mr. Brewster gone out yet?" demanded this important guest, pocketing
all of the matches. (I could see at once that he was a very rich man.)
"Did he leave any message for me? He didn't? He was to let me know
whether he could play golf with--eh? Playing with Logan, eh? Well, of
all the--He knows I will _not_ play with Logan. See if Mr. Scott is in
his room. Tell him I'd like to take him on for eighteen holes this
morning."
He crossed to the news-counter and glanced over the papers while a
dusky bell-boy shot off in quest of Mr. Scott.
"They all hate to play with the old geezer," said one of the clerks,--a
young one, you may be sure,--lowering his voice and his eyebrows at
the same time. "He's the rottenest player in the world."
"Who is he?" I inquired, mildly interested.
"Jasper Titus," was the reply. "The real old Jasper himself."
Before I could recover from my surprise, the object of my curiosity
approached the desk, his watch in his hand.
"Well, what does he say?" he demanded.
"The--the boy isn't back yet, Mr. Titus," said one of the clerks,
involuntarily pounding the call-bell in his nervousness.
"Lazy, shiftless niggers, the whole tribe of them," was Mr. Titus's
caustic comment.
At that instant the boy, quite out of breath, came thumping down the
stairs.
"Mr. Scott's got rheumatiz, Mr. Titus. He begs to be excused--"
"Buncombe!" snapped Mr. Titus. "He's afraid to play me. Well, this
means no game for me. A beautiful day like this and--"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Titus," said I, stepping forward. "If you don't
mind taking on a stranger, I will be happy to go around with you. My
name is Smart. I think you must have heard of me through the Countess
and your--"
"Great Scott! Smart? Are--are you the author, James Byron Smart?
The--the man who--" He checked himself suddenly, but seized me by the
hand and, as he wrung it vigorously, dragged me out of hearing of the
men behind the desk.
"I am John Bellamy Smart," said I, a little miffed.
His shrewd, hard old face underwent a marvellous change. The crustiness
left it as if by magic. His countenance radiated joy.
"I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Smart, that can never be lifted.
My daughter has told me everything. You must have put up with a fearful
lot of nonsense during the weeks she was with you. I know her well.
She's spoiled and she's got a temper, although, upon my soul, she seems
different nowadays. There _is_ a change in her, by George."
"She's had her lesson," said I. "Besides I didn't find she had a bad
temper."
"And say, I want to tell you something else before I forget it: I fully
appreciate your views on international marriage. Allie told me
everything you had to say about it. You must have rubbed it in! But
I think it did her good. She'll never marry another foreigner if I can
help it, if she never marries. Well, well, I am glad to see you, and
to shake your hand. I--I wish I could really tell you how I feel
toward you, my boy, but I--I don't seem to have the power to express
myself. If I--"
I tried to convince him that the pleasure had been all mine, and then
inquired for Mrs. Titus and the Countess.
"They're both here, but the good Lord only knows where. Mrs. Titus
goes driving every morning. Roads are fine if you can stick to them.
Aline said something last night about riding over to Fassifern this
forenoon with Amberdale and young Skelly. Let's see, it's half-past
ten. Yes, they've gone by this time. Why didn't you write or telegraph
Aline? She'll be as mad as a wet hen when she finds you've come without
letting her know." "I thought I should like to take her by surprise,"
I mumbled uncomfortably.
"And my son Jasper--why, he will explode when he hears you're here.
He's gone over to Covington to see a girl off on the train for
Louisville. You've never seen such a boy. He is always going to
Covington with some girl to see that she gets the right train home,
But why are we wasting time here when we might be doing a few holes
before lunch? I'll take you on. Of course, you understand I'm a wretched
player, but I've got one virtue: I never talk about my game and I never
tell funny stories while my opponent is addressing the ball. I'm an
old duffer at the game, but I've got more sense than most duffers."
We sauntered down to the club house where he insisted on buying me a
dozen golf balls and engaging a caddy for me by the week. Up to the
moment we stepped up to the first tee he talked incessantly of Aline
and Rosemary, but the instant the game was on he settled into the grim
reserve that characterises the man who takes any enterprise seriously,
be it work or play.
I shall not discuss our game, further than to say that he played in
atrociously bad form but with a purpose that let me, to some degree,
into the secret of his success in life. If I do say it myself, I am
a fairly good player. My driving is consistently long. It may not be
difficult for even you who do not go in for golf to appreciate the
superior patience of a man whose tee shots are rarely short of two
hundred and twenty yards when he is obliged to amble along doing nothing
while his opponent is striving to cover the same distance in three or
four shots, not counting the misses. But I was patient, agreeably
patient, not to say tolerant. I don't believe I was ever in a better
humour than on this gay November morn. I even apologised for Mr. Titus's
execrable foozles; I amiably suggested that he was a little off his
game and that he'd soon strike his gait and give me a sound beating
after the turn. His smile was polite but ironic, and it was not long
before I realised that he knew his own game too well to be affected
by cajolery. He just pegged away, always playing the odd or worse,
uncomplaining, unresentful, as even-tempered as the May wind, and never
by any chance winning a hole from me. He was the rarest "duffer" it
has ever been my good fortune to meet. As a rule, the poorer the player
the loader his execrations. Jasper Titus was one of the worst players
I've ever seen, but he was the personification of gentility, even under
the most provoking circumstances. For instance, at the famous "Crater,"
it was my good fortune to pitch a ball fairly on the green from the
tee. His mashie shot landed his ball about twenty feet up the steep
hill which guards the green. It rolled halfway back. Without a word
of disgust, or so much as a scowl, he climbed up and blazed away at
it again, not once but fourteen times by actual count. On the
seventeenth stroke he triumphantly laid his ball on the green. Most
men would have lifted and conceded the hole to me. He played it out.
"A man never gets anywhere, Mr. Smart," said he, unruffled by his
miserable exhibition, "unless he keeps plugging away at a thing. That's
my principle in life. Keep at it. There is satisfaction in putting the
damned ball in the hole, even if it does require twenty strokes. You
did it in three, but you'll soon forget the feat. I'm not likely to
forget the troubles I had going down in twenty, and there lies the
secret of success. If success comes easy, we pass it off with a laugh,
if it comes hard we grit our teeth and remember the ways and means.
You may not believe it, but I took thirty-three strokes for that hole
one day last week. Day before yesterday I did it in four. Perhaps it
wouldn't occur to you to think that it's a darned sight easier to do
it in four than it is in thirty-three. Get the idea?"
"I think I do, Mr. Titus," said I. "The things that 'come easy' are
never appreciated."
"Right, my boy. It's what we have to work for like nailers that we lie
awake thinking about."
We came out upon the eminence overlooking the next hole, which lay far
below us. As I stooped to tee-up my ball, a gleeful shout came up the
hillside.
"Hello, John Bellamy!"
Glancing down, I saw Jasper, Jr., at the edge of the wagon road. He
was waving his cap and, even at that distance, I could see the radiance
in his good-looking young face. A young and attractively dressed woman
stood beside him. I waved my hand and shouted a greeting.
"I thought you said he'd gone to Covington to see her off," I said,
turning to the young man's father with a grin.
"Not the same girl," said he succinctly, squinting his eyes. "That's
the little Parsons girl from Richmond. He was to _meet_ her at
Covington. Jasper is a scientific butterfly. He makes both ends
meet,--nearly always. Now no one but a genius could have fixed it up
to see one girl off and meet another on the same train."
Later on, Jasper, Jr., and I strolled over to the casino verandah, the
chatty Miss Parsons between us, but leaning a shade nearer to young
Titus than to me, although she appeared to be somewhat overwhelmed at
meeting a real live author. Mr. Titus, as was his habit, hurried on
ahead of us. I afterwards discovered he had a dread of pneumonia.
"Aline never said a word about your coming, John," said Jasper, Jr.
He called me John with considerable gusto. "She's learning how to hold
her tongue."
"It happens that she didn't know I was coming," said I drily. He
whistled.
"She's off somewhere with Amberdale. Ever meet him? He's one of the
finest chaps I know. You'll like him, Miss Parsons. He's not at all
like a Britisher."
"But I like the British," said she.
"Then I'll tell him to spread it on a bit," said Jappy obligingly.
"Great horseman, he is. Got some ripping nags in the New York show
next week, and he rides like a dream. Watch him pull down a few ribbons
and rosettes. Sure thing."
"Your father told me that the Countess was off riding with him and
another chap,--off to Fassifern, I believe."
"For luncheon. They do it three or four times a week. Not for me. I
like waiters with shirt fronts and nickle tags."
Alone with me in the casino half an hour later, he announced that it
really looked serious, this affair between Aline and his lordship.
I tried to appear indifferent,--a rather pale effort, I fear.
"I think I am in on the secret, Jappy," said I soberly.
He stared. "Has she ever said anything to you, old chap, that would
lead you to believe she's keen about him?"
I temporised. "She's keen about somebody, my son; that's as far as I
will go."
"Then it must be Amberdale. I'm on to her all right, all right. I know
women. She's in love, hang it all. If you know a thing about 'em, you
can spot the symptoms without the x-rays. I've been hoping against
hope, old man. I don't want her to marry again. She's had all the hell
she's entitled to. What's the matter with women, anyhow? They no sooner
get out of one muddle than they begin looking around for another. Can't
be satisfied with good luck."
"But every one speaks very highly of Lord Amberdale. I'm sure she can't
be making a mistake in marrying him."
"I wish she'd pick out a good, steady, simplified American, just as
an experiment. We're not so darned bad, you know. Women can do worse
than to marry Americans."
"It is a matter of opinion, I fancy. At any rate we can't go about
picking out husbands for people who have minds of their own."
"Well, some one in our family picked out a lemon for Aline the first
time, let me tell you that," said he, scowling.
"And she's doing the picking for herself this time, I gather."
"I suppose so," said he gloomily.
I have visited the popular and almost historic Fassifern farm a great
many times in my short career, but for the life of me I cannot
understand what attraction it possesses that could induce people to
go there for luncheon and then spend a whole afternoon lolling about
the place. But that seems to have been precisely what the Countess and
his lordship did on the day of my arrival at the Homestead. The "other
chap," Skerry, came riding home alone at three o'clock. She did not
return until nearly six. By that time I was in a state of suppressed
fury that almost drove me to the railway station with a single and you
might say childish object in view.
I had a pleasant visit with Mrs. Titus, who seemed overjoyed to see
me. In fact, I had luncheon with her. Mr. Titus, it appeared, never
ate luncheon. He had a dread of typhoid, I believe, and as he already
possessed gout and insomnia and an intermittent tendency to pain in
his abdomen, and couldn't drink anything alcoholic or eat anything
starchy, I found myself wondering what he really did for a living.
Mrs. Titus talked a great deal about Lord Amberdale. She was most
tiresome after the first half hour, but I must say that the luncheon
was admirable. I happened to be hungry. Having quite made up my mind
that Aline was going to marry Amberdale, I proceeded to upset the
theory that a man in love is a creature without gastronomical
aspirations by vulgarly stuffing myself with half a lamb chop, a slice
of buttered bread and nine pickles.
"Aline will be glad to see you again, Mr. Smart," said she amiably.
"She was speaking of you only a day or two ago."
"Was she?" I inquired, with sudden interest which I contrived to
conceal.
"Yes. She was wondering why you have never thought of marrying."
I closed my eyes for a second, and the piece of bread finally found
the right channel.
"And what did you say to that?" I asked quietly.
She was disconcerted. "I? Oh, I think I said you didn't approve of
marrying except for love, Mr. Smart."
"Um!" said I. "Love on both sides is the better way to put it."
"Am I to infer that you may have experienced a one-sided leaning toward
matrimony?"
"So far as I know, I have been singularly unsupported, Mrs. Titus."
"You really ought to marry."
"Perhaps I may. Who knows?"
"Aline said you would make an excellent husband."
"By that she means a stupid one, I suppose. Excellent husbands are
invariably stupid. They always want to stay at home."
She appeared thoughtful. "And expect their wives to stay at home too."
"On the contrary, an excellent husband lets his wife go where she
likes--without him."
"I am afraid you do not understand matrimony, Mr. Smart," she said,
and changed the subject.
I am afraid that my mind wandered a little at this juncture, for I
missed fire on one or two direct questions. Mrs. Titus was annoyed;
it would not be just to her to say that she was offended. If she could
but have known that my thoughts were of the day and minute when I so
brutally caressed the Countess Tarnowsy, I fancy she would have changed
her good opinion of me. To tell the truth, I was wondering just how
the Countess would behave toward me, with the memory of that
unforgettable incident standing between us. I had been trying to
convince myself for a very long time that my fault was not as great
in her eyes as it was in mine.
Along about five o'clock, I went to my room. I daresay I was sulking.
A polite bell-boy tapped on my door at half-past six. He presented a
small envelope to me, thanked me three or four times, and, as an
afterthought, announced that there was to be an answer.
Whereupon I read the Countess's note with a magnificently unreadable
face. I cleared my throat, and (I think) squared my shoulders somewhat
as a soldier does when he is being commended for valour, and said:
"Present my compliments to the Countess, and say that Mr. Smart will
be down in five minutes."
The boy stared. "The--the what, sir?"
"The _what_?" I demanded.
"I mean the _who_, sir."
"The Countess. The lady who sent you up with this note."
"Wasn't no Countess sent me up hyer, boss. It was Miss Tarsney."
Somehow staggered, I managed to wave my hand comprehensively.
"Never mind. Just say that I'll be down in two minutes."
He grinned. "I reckon I'd better hustle, or you'll beat me down, boss."
* * * * *